Nicola Marsh - A Trip with the Tycoon

‘Tell me one of the favourite things you used to do together.’

‘Watch Bollywood films,’ she said on a sigh, reluctant to talk but surprised by his deeper, caring side, a side too tempting to ignore.

The memory alleviated some of the sadness permeating her thoughts as she remembered many a Sunday afternoon curled up on the worn suede couch in the family room, a plate of jalebis, milk burfi and Mysore pak—delicious Indian sweets made with loads of sugar, milk and butter—between them, as they were riveted to the latest Shah Rukh Khan blockbuster—India’s equivalent to Hollywood’s top A-list celebrity.

They’d laugh at the over-the-top theatrics, sigh at the vivid romance and natter about the beautiful, vibrant saris.

Raised in Melbourne with an Aussie dad, she’d never felt a huge connection to India, even though her mum’s Goan blood flowed in her veins. But for those precious Sunday afternoons she’d been transported to another world—a world filled with people and colour and magic.

‘What else?’

‘We loved going to the beach.’

His encouragement had her wanting to talk about memories she’d long submerged, memories she only resurrected in the privacy of her room at night when she’d occasionally cry herself to sleep.

Richard’s sympathy had been short-lived. He’d told her to get over her grief and focus on more important things, like hosting yet another dinner party for his friends.

That had been three years ago, three long years as their marriage had continued its downward spiral, as her famous husband had slowly revealed a cruel side that, to this day, left her questioning her own judgement in marrying someone like that in the first place.

He’d never actually hit her but the verbal and psychological abuse had been as bruising, as painful, as devastating as if he had.

Ethan must’ve sensed her withdrawal, for he continued prodding. ‘Any particular beach?’

She shook her head, the corners of her mouth curving upwards for the first time since she’d started reminiscing about her mum.

‘It wasn’t the location as such. Anywhere would do as long as there was sand and sun and ocean.’

They’d visited most of the beaches along the Great Ocean Road after her dad had died: Anglesea, Torquay, Lorne, Apollo Bay. She’d known why. The beach had reminded Khushi of meeting her dad for the first time, the story she’d heard so many times.

Her mum had been trying to hold on to precious memories, maybe recreate them in her head, but whatever the reason she’d been happy to go along for the ride. They’d made a great team and she would’ve given anything for her mum to pop into the dining car right now with a wide smile on her face and her hair perched in a plain bun on top of her head.

‘Sounds great.’

‘It’s why I’m spending a week in Goa after the train. It was to be the highlight of our trip.’

She took a sip of water, cleared her throat of emotion. ‘My folks met on Colva Beach. Dad was an Aussie backpacker taking a year off after med school. Mum was working for one of the hotels there.’

She sighed, swirled the water in her glass. ‘Love at first sight, apparently. My dad used to call Mum his exotic princess from the Far East, Mum used to say Dad was full of it.’

‘Why didn’t she ever go back? After he passed away?’

Shrugging, she toyed with her cutlery, the familiar guilt gnawing at her. ‘Because of me, I guess. She wanted me to have every opportunity education-wise, wanted to raise me as an Australian, as my dad would’ve wanted.’

‘But you’re half Indian too. This country is a part of who you are.’

‘Honestly? I don’t know who I am any more.’

The admission sounded as lost, as forlorn, as she felt almost every minute of every day.

She’d vocalised her greatest fear.

She didn’t know who she was, had lost her identity when she’d married Richard. She’d been playing a role for ever: first the dutiful wife, then the grieving widow. But it was all an act. All of it.

She’d become like him, had cared about appearances even at the end when she’d been screaming inside at the injustice of being abused and lied to and cheated on for so long while shedding the appropriate tears at his funeral.

Ethan stood, came around to her side of the table and crouched down, sliding his arm around her waist while tilting her chin to make her look him in the eye with his other hand.

‘I know who you are. You’re an incredible woman with the world at her feet.’ He brushed her cheek in a gentle caress that had tears seeping out of the corners of her eyes. ‘Don’t you ever, ever forget how truly amazing you are.’

With emotion clogging her throat and tears blinding her, she couldn’t speak let alone see what was coming next so when his lips brushed hers in a soft, tender kiss she didn’t have time to think, didn’t have time to react.

Instead, her eyelids fluttered shut, her aching heart healed just a little as her soul blossomed with wonder at having a man like Ethan Brooks on her side.

His kiss lingered long after he pulled away, long after he stared at her for an interminable moment with shock in the indigo depths of his eyes, long after he murmured the words, ‘You’re special, that’s who you are.’

A small part of her wanted to believe him.

A larger part wanted to recreate the magic of that all-too-brief kiss, as for the second time in a week she felt like a woman.

The largest part of her recoiled in horror as she realised she’d just been kissed—again—by the last man she could get close to, ever.

Ethan sprang to his feet and catapulted back to his chair on the opposite side of the table, desperate for space.

She’d done it again.

Left him reeling with her power to undermine his control.

Those damn tears had done it, tugging at nonexistent heartstrings, urging him to kiss her, to comfort her, making him feel, damn it.

He’d been a fool, urging her to talk about her mum. He should’ve known she’d get emotional, should’ve figured he’d want to play the hero and help slay her demons.

‘You’re good at that.’

His gaze snapped to hers, expecting wariness, thrown by her curiosity, as if she couldn’t quite figure him out.

‘At what?’

‘Knowing when to say the right thing, knowing how to make a girl feel good about herself.’

‘Practice, I guess.’

If his offhand shrug hadn’t made her recoil, his callous comment did the trick.

He’d just lumped her in with the rest of his conquests—something she’d hate, something he hated.

But it had to be done.

He needed distance right now, needed to slam his emotional barriers back in place and muster the control troops to the battlefront.

‘Lucky me.’

Her sarcasm didn’t sock him half as much as her expression, a potent mix of disappointment and derision.

He had to take control of this situation before it got out of hand and he ended up alienating her completely, and all because he was furious at himself for getting too close.

‘Before I put you off your food with any more of my renowned comforting techniques, why don’t we finish off this entrée? I’ve heard the lentil curry to come is something special.’

She nodded, her disappointment slugging him anew as she toyed with the food on her plate.

Establishing emotional distance was paramount. He’d come close to losing sight of his seduction goal moments before but steeling his heart was one thing, carrying it through with a disillusioned Tam sitting opposite another.

‘What do you think of the potato bondas?’

An innocuous question, a question designed to distract her from his abrupt turnaround and get them back on the road of comfortable small talk.