Page 9 of The Surprise Bollywood Baby

He clasped her jaw in a gentle hold, their foreheads touching, and his harsh exhales coated her sensitive lips. And into the soft silence came his curse—filthy and full of an emotion Zara couldn’t name. It snapped her out of the miasma of desire clouding her rationality. His anger at himself was a slap against her senses.

She stepped sideways, tottered on her heels, and he immediately shot out a hand to steady her. She raised a confused gaze to his, her body still made of pleasure currents. After ten years of drought, his touch, his kiss, his body was a haven she didn’t want to give up so abruptly. “Virat?”

“Congratulations,shahzadi.That was a smashing engagement kiss, don’t you think? If I had known you’d morph into such a wonderful actress, I’d have hired you ages ago for one of my projects.”

Zara poked him in the chest, anger washing over her. “I wasn’t acting. And neither were you.” She also had no idea why she wasn’t simply taking the out he was giving her. Laughing away the kiss. “I won’t let any man shame me for my desires or my dreams. And do you know who taught me how freeing it could be to truly embrace oneself? You.

“Maybe you need a reminder, Virat. Maybe you do need saving from yourself.”

She didn’t wait to hear his answer. Holding her head high, Zara walked away from him, wondering what the hell she had started tonight.

Zara leaned against the giant statue of an elephant covered in shimmering mosaic tiles and watched the laughing gaggle of young women surrounding the beautiful bride and grinning groom in the center of the courtyard of the palatial hotel where Vikram and Naina’s three-day wedding was underway.

The architecture of the centuries-old palace restored into a luxury hotel had been one delight after the other since she and Virat had arrived together two days ago.

As expected, the world had exploded with the news of their engagement and that kiss had gone viral in a matter of hours. Both she and Virat had been besieged by the press at the awards show—where he’d triumphantly declared that the Queen had accepted his proposal of marriage—and afterward at the post-awards party. Social media had lit up with gossip about them, just as they’d wanted.

When they returned to the biopic’s shoot in a few days, they already had more than one interview lined up—to talk about themselves and the movie, to present a united front with Vikram, her and Virat in front of the world.

Of course, the one thing neither had foreseen was the effect it would have on Naina and Vikram. Zara and Virat had barely arrived at the venue when they’d both been cornered by the bridal couple, demanding to know what the hell was going on.

While she’d stood there flustered, Virat had smoothly taken over the entire conversation. His corded arm around her shoulders, the rogue had pulled her in and whispered, “What can I say, Bhai? She can’t stay away from me.”

Vikram had stared at them intently before Naina had pulled him away. Whatever magic she’d weaved on her bridegroom—and perceptive Naina had always known Virat and Zara had shared history—Vikram had looked slightly mollified. Still, he’d added, “Don’t hurt her, Virat.”

At which, her fake fiancé had thrown his head back, laughed uproariously and then muttered, “Have you given Zara the same warning, Bhai? Maybe I’m the one that needs protecting from her.”

Zara had been happy to get away from all the perceptive looks flying around. Not that the lonely, foolish part of her had minded being caught up between two men who had always meant so much to her. Not that she and Vikram had ever been together, however.

It was only when she and Virat had fallen apart that her career had taken off and she’d built a platonic friendship with Vikram.

If their mother, Vandana Raawal, had anything to say about the entire matter—and Zara was sure the older woman did—Zara wasn’t going to give her half the chance to come at her again. The last thing she wanted to remember was how the older woman had confronted Zara a decade ago. How she’d used all of Zara’s insecurities against her to make her leave Virat.

When you threw me away for greener pastures...

That bitter comment of Virat’s still bothered her as Zara picked up the hem of her heavy, custom-designed dark green velvetlehenga—one of Anya Raawal’s superb creations—and walked into the evening’s festivities.

Tonight the expansive courtyard glittered with a thousand tiny lights dotted along white-stoned pathways. Small blue pools sparkled with colorful flowers anddiyas—lit lanterns—floating across the water. Divans with plush velvet pillows had been scattered around while uniformed staff passed out lassi, cocktails and chai.

And in the center of it all sat Naina, dressed in an off-whitekanchivaramsilk sari with a heavy pearl necklace and matchingjhumkas, her unruly curly hair pulled back into a bun with a jasminegajrawound around it. The young bride was dressed the simplest of them all and yet there was a radiance about Naina that shone bright, as if she was the sun in the sky making every other star dim in comparison.

A bittersweet pang made Zara’s chest feel tight as she caught a look between Naina and Vikram, sitting on opposite divans, surrounded by prettily dressed sisters and cousins teasing them as part of another fun ritual. There was nothing but pure adoration, nothing but the deepest form of love in that look.

Once upon a time, Virat had looked at her with that open affection and she had basked in it. Had come out of the shell she’d built around herself during her disastrous marriage.

She laughed when music broke out over cleverly hidden speakers and Vikram dragged his shy fiancée into a slow beat. Zara joined in the group surrounding them, even as her heart felt heavy in her chest. Today, of all days, it was hard to pretend that the past didn’t still have its talons sunk into her, hadn’t made her build a cage around her heart.

Hard to act as if she was only the successful, bold-as-brass actress and businesswoman the world knew her to be and nothing more. Hard to lie to herself that sometimes she wasn’t achingly lonely. Like now, being surrounded by so much love and happiness.

Heat prickled across her skin, and she looked up. Like a magnet seeking its true north, she found him—the man who had always been able to look straight into her heart.

Virat was standing on the open terrace right in front of her. Fading sunlight gilded the strong planes of his face with a glowing outline. In the off-white Nehru-collar kurta, he looked like a king surveying his kingdom. His gaze devoured her—from the gold dupatta falling off her shoulders to the sleeveless velvet blouse with its low, square cut, to her kohl-lined eyes and her ruby-red lips.

A current arced between them, even across the distance and the beat of the music and the laughter surrounding her. The memory of their kiss awakening the hunger and heat that had flared so easily between them. It had been so real that she’d seen the staggering shock of it in his eyes.

Long into the night, after she’d returned to her flat, she’d run her fingers over her lips again and again. As if she could catch and bottle the essence of him. As if she could find the imprint of his hunger and his hardness on herself.

That kiss had been like stepping back into the past. Like finding the pieces of the soul she’d scattered behind her somewhere on the climb to stardom, in her fight to prove to herself that her marriage hadn’t completely broken her.

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