Page 44 of The Billionaire’s Fake Fiancée
Of being surrounded by warmth. The heat in the air, sinking into my perspiration drenched skin.
A woman's laughter.
Tinkling of anklets.
Images of my birth country.
I have retrograde amnesia: the psychological impact of a tumultuous event. My adoptive parents had found me wandering in a dazed state on the streets of Bombay, half starved, drugged. Thankfully, there were no signs of abuse.
I had no identification on me. Even the clothes I'd been wearing had not been my own, so there had been no way of tracing where I came from. The Murphys had advertised locally in Bombay, even made TV appearances asking for my family to come forward, but none could conclusively prove I was theirs. And so, they adopted me.
Ma told me it was very much a case of love at first sight for her. That when she'd seen me wandering lost, chased by a group of kids, she'd stepped in and shooed them off. I'd clung to her and cried and not let go. There was no way she was leaving me behind in India.
In the months it took to process my paperwork, I settled in with them, not looking back.
I didn't miss that life.
My amnesia had wiped out all memories. My initial years in the US had been tough as I tried to fit into my new life. But I'd persevered and finally slipped into the role of an American teenager.
Had almost forgotten my earlier life.
Until five years ago.
My adoptive mother took me to an Indian temple for a wedding.
The verses were in a language which shouldn't have made sense to me, except they did. I knew then there was no escape. I could never hide from my past.
One day they'd come back and claim me.
I don't want them to. An irrational fear of losing those who I now considered my real parents made me turn my back on my Indian heritage.
That's when the dreams began. Something inside was unlocked by those chants, and now the images filtered out. Seeping into my dreams, only to disappear when I awoke.
Yet I often wake with the scent of dust and spices stuck to my skin. As if I'd walked off the crowded streets of Bombay, as if I'd been wandering through a temple. The smell of home.
A sense of belonging. Of feeling so right.
In Jace's arms last night, for a second, it had felt perilously close to that.
And that makes me stumble. I almost fall face down. Only to be hauled back and against a hard, male chest. I look up to find Eric holding me. I clutch at his sweaty T-shirt to steady myself.
He's out running too.
"I need to stop daydreaming and notice what's right in front of me sometimes." I chuckle, making to step away.
Eric's hold tightens.
I look up, into his face. His features are intense, brow furrowed, and his dark eyes sparkle down at me. They are dark enough that I can see myself reflected in them. He's still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling. But it's no longer from only the physical exertion. He's aroused. He likes me. Even as that thought dawns on me, I flush, and move away.
This time he loosens his grip on me, but still doesn't let go of my wrist.
"Eric … " I am trying to form the words in a way that doesn't hurt him too much. He saves me from speaking.
"You don't have to do this. You don't have to sleep with him for the money."
The anger in his eyes makes me pull back from him.
Eric's trying to look out for me perhaps, though I don't know why. After all, his loyalty lies with Jace.
