Curious now, she nodded and automatically fell into place next to him when he started walking again.

“Right. So, I kept thinking how eager you are to start your own business. And I absolutely believe you should go on with that.”

He shot her an intense sideways glance.

“Don’t postpone and procrastinate, this is your chance and you’ve already begun with some important basics. I know you aren’t going to make money with it soon enough and in high enough quantities, but I’m sure you’re not doing it for the money alone anyway. Also, I am pretty certain that if you hung up some posters in the shop or went from door to door with a wagon-load full of yummy cakes, the villagers would love to support you and buy some of your creations.”

He talked himself into a near frenzy.

“Maybe you could ask them to part with their secret recipes and offer to bake those cakes in larger quantities and give it their name in your shop. That sounds like a good incentive to get them involved and interested enough to be willing to pay. In the meantime, because you need cash, here are two more suggestions: Whenever I have garden work or whatever is my duty here, I’ll let you help and give you a share of my payment.”

Seeing her mouth opening wide to protest, he gesticulated wildly.

“No, no, wait, don’t protest, you said you’d hear me out! Sometimes, I do need somebody to help me to finish a job faster or take on a bigger project. There are some major tasks ahead now with autumn starting and you’ll get a chance to work for what I pay you, so you don’t have to feel dependent on me in any way. Your muscles will be sore and your clothes dirty and you’ll know that you worked for the money and aren’t receiving alms. The other thing is: I know that Aunt Grindle would be willing to wait for her rent or charge you a pittance, but I don’t think it’s fair on her and I don’t think you’d feel good about it either. Why don’t you move into my house? I…”

He stopped, clearly caught short by the expression on her face. Hastily putting up both hands, he ploughed on, “What I mean is this: The house is big and as you’ve seen, I only ever use two rooms or so, one being the atelier and one the bedroom that you haven’t seen yet. There are three more rooms that are practically free. You could stay downstairs, so you don’t have to see me all the time or share a bathroom with me. We could turn the house into two separate units, if you want. It’d be like two students sharing a flat. There’s the kitchen, which is much bigger than the one in your guesthouse apartment and could be used more easily than Aunt Grindle’s for your baking plans. And working together on gardening jobs would be easier. I promise, I don’t suggest this to get you in my bed. It’s so much more practical for everyone involved. You’d get to save lots of hard-earned money. You…”

This time, she actively stopped his flow of words, Michael tripping over his own tongue in his hurry to get his point across. She clasped his hands in hers and brought them down, actually entwining her fingers with his. God, how good that felt. How natural, how right.

“Hey, now let me have my say for a minute.”

Scrutinizing her face, his eyes unreadable, he waited. She wasn’t sure whether he was conscious of it that his thumbs were again softly stroking her hands.

“I think you’re absolutely right. Especially what you said about marketing my cakes with the villagers sounds like a good thing to do. And you’re correct, I wouldn’t want to be indebted to Aunt Grindle. She was the first person in years to be honestly kind to me and accept me and support me, you being the second person. So yes, I will move in and I will help you with your garden work. Under one condition.”

She paused and appealed to the courage she felt growing inside her with each day of her new life. His eyes, shining with happiness and something that looked suspiciously like love—though how was she to know, having no previous experience with real love—made it easier for her to continue.

“I want us to be partners in the true sense of the word. If I get to help you with gardening and you pay me for it, I also want you to get involved in my baking business and pay you for it. All the advice and cake testing and support shouldn’t go unnoticed and I have a feeling you’ll be of even more value once the business starts rolling and I need a helping hand with the bigger quantities of cakes and all that.”

She held her breath as he must have held hers before. Please, let him agree. Please, let this decision of hers be the correct one. Please, luck, be on her side!

His eyes had got shinier. With one of those irresistible wide smiles that lit up her world, he gave her hands a firm squeeze.

“Thanks for not yelling at me or running away or telling me I’ve lost my mind,” he said, chuckling.

She laughed, growing serious again within the matter of a second. This moment was too important for her to joke.

“And thank you for being there for me. It means the world to me,” she said, so many more words on the tip of her tongue, holding them back, though she didn’t know why.

Without a word, he pulled her in for a big hug. Stepping back although it felt wonderfully comfortable, she asked, “Partners?”

“Partners.”

His voice made it sound as though he had much more on his mind than a business partnership, once again sending her heartbeat on overdrive and making a blush rise to her cheeks.

Grabbing a hold of her hand, Michael turned back and pulled her along, once more filled with so much positive energy that it was palpable in the air around him.

“Let’s not waste a minute. We’ll go get your things and set you up at my place. The quicker this is all solved, the quicker you can face your future.”

(To be continued tomorrow.)

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Grabbing her by the arms rather firmly and speaking in a voice full of intensity, he continued, “I want you to know that you matter to me, that I care for you. I am not Mark. I don’t use women to boost my non-existent self-esteem or pamper my over-grown ego. I love you.”

He took a calming breath.

“And I understand your situation. There is much you don’t know about me, so you have every right to be wary. And I don’t want you to think that I’m using your emotional weakness and need for a supportive shoulder to get into your pants, though believe me, I’m interested in them too.”

For a moment, he was his flirtatious, joking self and she couldn’t help a giggle at his choice of words before it hit her: He had just told her that he loved her! Her eyes opening wide, she stared at him. Without realizing it, she blurted out, “You love me?”

He bent forward and pressed a hungry kiss to her lips that had opened in surprise. He let go of her arms and took some more steps away.

“I do,” he said. “But I will not pressure you with it.”

And before she had the chance to say something—though she was the last person in the world to know what she wanted to say—he turned and looked out of the living-room window. His whole body straightened, his hands flexing into fists and relaxing again. He was obviously trying to return back to normal. She stood rooted to the spot, her heart and head in turmoil. He loved her. Did she love him? He loved her!

Sounding so casual that it had a fake ring to it, he said, “The weather looks perfect for a stroll outside. Shall we walk through the hills and discuss your next steps? I’ve got so many ideas that won’t break free inside this place. I need nature around me now.”

She mentally and physically shook herself. Come on, girl, the world doesn’t stop turning because Michael has told you they love you. Snap out of it already! It registered with her that he had spoken of her next steps and with that, reality and its worries bullied their way back into her brain.

“Shall we?”

He was already at the door. For a moment, she looked at him, noticing with a tinge of embarrassment that the front of his T-shirt was stained a darker green where she had soaked it through with her tears.

Enough crying and longing, there was a life to be lived.

“Let’s go,” she said, surprising herself with the realization that she actually looked forward to going for a walk with him and being surrounded by nature.


Chapter 8  

As soon as they had left the last few houses of the village behind and were strolling through the green hills, Michael grabbed her hand. He continued walking, softly stroking his thumb over her hand. Each stroke sent a jolt of current through Cathy, making her aware again and again of how much she wanted this man, of how much she treasured his affection.

Despite her inner state of confusion, she made an effort to look at all the natural beauty surrounding her, indeed having the feeling that it calmed her down. Some of the trees were already preparing for autumn with their colorful leaves and off and on, a cool breeze ruffled the grass and swept her hair into her face.

They continued in silence. After some time, Michael took to pointing out trees, shrubs and flowers with his free hand, telling her their names and an interesting tit-bit of information about each. What this flower would smell like when she crushed it and rubbed it unto her skin. What time of the year this tree bore flowers and for how long. Where this long blade of grass got its name from. His voice had that casual, professional tone to it that she remembered from their work for Mr. Thackeray’s garden. As had happened then, she found herself listening to him with real interest, trying to save the information for future use, hearing the love he had for his job in every word he uttered.

He bent and plucked a dandelion, holding it in front of her face.

“Make a wish and blow on this. Folklore has it that such wishes come true when they are carried away on the wind and are heard by fairies.”

There was a faint grin on his lips, but his tone was more serious than the suggestion warranted it.

She had so many wishes crowding together in her head, jostling for a place at the front of the queue.

“Am I supposed to say it out loud or is it best kept secret?”

“Make your wish silently. I have always believed that thoughts are more potent in their magic than the spoken word.”

She blinked. What kind of man had beliefs like that? How much was there to him to discover and revel in? How much more to make him so appealing that she could never find it in herself to resist him?

Drawing close to his hand, she closed her eyes. Frowning with concentration, she tried and tried to decide which wish to make. Sucking in a long breath, she opened her eyes again and blew hard at the fluffy white dandelion. Its seeds flew apart and sailed away on the air, like so many tiny parachutes carrying her wish to God knew where.

Straightening up, she looked after them with an almost painful longing.

“Do you think I’ll be lucky? Will the fairies listen to me?” she asked, working hard at keeping her tone casual, and not succeeding.

He smiled his crooked, charming smile that got to her each and every time.

“I would if I were a fairy.”

She heard the flirting in it and it felt like a caress to her.

“Don’t you think it’s my part to be the fairy?” she joked.

His smile widened and his eyes darkened.

“You’d make a wonderful fairy. I can just about imagine you in gauzy, loose clothes and diaphanous wings with flowers in your hair and bare feet, dancing lithely through the fields and making lone wanderers fall head over heels in love with you.”

His voice was a sensual growl deep in his throat. His fingers brushed over the pulse hammering at her throat and strayed sideways, lifting a strand of her hair and twirling it round his index finger.

With her heart beating in her mouth, she made an effort at lightening the mood.

“If you had ever seen me dance, you wouldn’t describe me as a lithe and graceful fairy. I am a clumsy wooden donkey with two left feet.”

“Maybe you’ve had the wrong partner all along,” he said, his voice full of meaning.

She swallowed.

“Maybe,” she conceded.

They looked into each other’s eyes for a long time, frozen in place, their minds full to the brim with possibilities and dreams and obstacles. It was Michael who snapped out of it first, though he let go of her hair with visible reluctance.

“Speaking about partnerships, I have some ideas how you could overcome your financial difficulties. I’m not sure at all that you’ll like them. Promise me you’ll hear me out and think before saying no.”

(To be continued tomorrow.)

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I am a huge fan of Sundari Venkatraman’s books like “The Runaway Bridegroom” and “Meghna”, so I was over the moon when she approached me with a beta-reading request for her latest romance novel “The Madras Affair”. And the book didn’t let me down at all, quite the contrary. I think it’s her best novel yet (though I have a tendency to say that after each of her new releases).

The story started with a glimpse of the present, where everything seemed so positive but with foreshadowing hints that I just knew something big had to be amiss. Sure enough, the next chapter was like a slap in the face.

I suffered alongside Sangita, and I could associate with her plight because the situation here in Sri Lanka is similar to the one in India, though not as severe and tragic. From that chapter on, the author had me hook, line, and sinker. She whisked me away in a maelstrom of emotions, portraying a deeply hurt heroine who had been pressed into a mould and made to obey, and felt like a caged bird to me. But she wasn’t as weak as she could have been, as the encounter with Gautam proved soon enough. And suddenly I had a different image while reading about her dilemma: a raw gem plucked from the depths of mud, with just a bit of sparkle to entice. The more I read about her – and the more she got involved with Gautam and his cajoling and admiration – the more of the gem shone through the rough shell, as if someone were polishing the stone. And once enough colours had broken through, Sangita bedazzled like the most beautiful of gemstones, showing her hidden strength, her awakened passion, and her potential.

Most of it was thanks to wonderful Gautam, a hero I have been dreaming about since. It wasn’t just his mix of India and America that is perfect, but also the way he never gives up. I loved the way he wooed Sangita, and the way he shaped her present and their future throughout the book. He too underwent a change, though much more subtle than Sangita’s immense transformation. I loved and hated the other characters with a passion.

As a beta reader, I look for inconsistencies in the plot, for superfluous scenes and for abrupt developments. I found none in this book. The flashbacks were neither too many nor too few and inserted in the right places.

I can highly recommend this novel to all those who love heroines that are anything but ordinary and refuse to be trampled upon. And to all who love reading about hunky heroes that are not ashamed to show emotions and know how to fight for what they want and what is right. The story is full of sizzle, thrill and insights into the human mind and heart. It’s thought-provoking, sensual and alive not just with the many authentic characters but also with the exotic setting of Madras, which the author clearly seems to love.

Rating: 5/5


Buy Links

Amazon.com - 
http://www.amazon.com/dp/819299757X
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http://www.amazon.in/dp/819299757X

Guest post topic: What do you think are the benefits of keeping a journal/writing in a diary?

There are so many reasons why people keep journals or diaries. Some people, trapped in their boring job during the day, itch to release their hidden creativity at night. Others yearn to express their anger or love without actually confronting anyone, and some do it simply to leave behind some sort of legacy.

As for me, I kept a diary at nine years old––a small, blue leather book with a clasp, endlessly unfastened (I had quickly managed to lose its key). I filled it with descriptions of what happened at school as well as what afterschool was like with my two best friends: the fights we had, the hilarious moments we shared, and my crush on one boy who at the time reminded me so much of JFK.  I had also decided that year to add the unofficial middle name ‘Jane,’ so each entry had a “love, Sarah Jane†at the bottom to add to its authenticity...

Then, when I was just shy of twelve, my family and I went to Europe on a summer vacation. My mother suggested that I keep a journal for the trip and I took that assignment seriously. At the end of each day, I made sure all the names of the museums, cemeteries, parks, restaurants, and tourist places we had visited were correctly spelled. For example, the Tower of London was scary, and Buckingham Palace was fascinating, particularly watching the Beefeater guards stand as rigid as statues no matter how many tourists tried to lure them into conversation. Madam Toussaud’s in Paris captivated me, not only because of the likenesses enclosed within its walls, but also the little brochure about the English monarchy they handed out.  Many of those kings and queens later appeared in my journal. I also documented in detail a wonderful canal boat ride we took in pastoral England, where we learned how to open up locks, the names of a myriad of well-known local pubs along the way, and slowly experienced the glorious scenery the countryside afforded, as well as the various lockkeepers’ spectacular gardens entered in competitions every twelve months.

Years later, when my family had gathered for a holiday, I was asked to bring out that journal and it was a treat indeed to read the daily entrances out loud.

“Almost as good as watching a slide show,†one of my uncles exclaimed, and that was certainly true. Since I had forgotten so much of it, revisiting all those places enriched everyone that evening.

But I also grew up with a family filled with prolific letter writers. Typewritten, single-spaced, my mother, father, aunts, and uncles all had reams of these gems, with everyone delighting in giving rich detailed descriptions of locations, events, and philosophical ramblings. Somewhat like a Pandora’s Box, they all contributed to a rich, ancestral history. A history that lived and breathed, and ultimately, I believe, helped shape who I am today.

Diaries/Journals? Definitely treasure troves, forever locked into eternity!

She told him how she was the only child of a typical middle class city family. Of how her mother and father had both worked and never been able to spend much time with their daughter, who turned to books to find company and hide from real life.

She told him how her father worked himself into an early grave, his heart not being able to handle the pressure of a job that demanded all and then some. Of how she had left her mother to go to university, planning to find a job as soon as possible to support both of them. Of how, while she was still studying for her Bachelor in Business Administration and hating it, her mother had remarried and they had lost touch as though they had never been one family.

She told him of how she had found a job as a junior secretary in one of the glittering, glass-windowed high-rises in the financial district. Of how she had felt like an outsider while playing the part expected of her. Of how one day during lunch, Mark Nolan himself—one of the most famous real estate agents, manager of Nolan House & Property and heir to a family fortune—had sat down opposite her and asked her out for a date.

She fought hard at keeping any feelings out of her voice when she told him of how Mark had overpowered her with his charm, his confidence, his position and the promise of what a life with him could be like. After two dates and a load of flattering attention, he had proposed and she had accepted, not minding the age difference of more than ten years, not minding that his snobbish parents terrified her and that she didn’t know how to behave around him, at that time lying to herself that she loved him.

She felt the first tears slide from her eyes when she related how Mark had told her to quit her job, quit her studies and stay at home, enjoying the luxuries of being his wife. Though she hadn’t planned it and it couldn’t be useful to him, she also told him of how after the marriage, Mark had quickly turned abusive on some days while being the impersonation of a perfect husband at other days.

Not knowing that by now her voice was trembling with her effort not to sob, she told him, “So, that’s why I’m absolutely useless at everything. I never grew up. I never lived. I’m an introverted, talentless bookworm who was forced into studies she didn’t like, a job she didn’t like and later a marriage she wasn’t suitable for. I wouldn’t be good at any normal job now. I only like reading and baking cakes and now it looks like even the latter is something I can’t do. I’m useless. Unlovable.”

She stopped, the last word bordering on a shout, fighting the first sob that wanted to break out. She hadn’t realized that Michael was standing right behind her. His arms came up around her and he pressed her to himself.

“My love.”

His voice was rough with emotion, as though he felt like crying too. It was the push that sent her over the edge. Turning around and sinking against him helplessly, she broke into tears. She sobbed for the years when she had denied herself, the months spent being treated like a thing instead of a human being. For the recent days of freedom with all their joys and woes.

When her crying subsided, awareness of her situation slowly dawned. Michael’s arms were wound tightly around her and it felt so perfectly right. He had tucked her head under his chin, one hand cupping the back of her neck in a protective gesture. The other hand rested against the small of her back, stroking softly and rhythmically. He hadn’t spoken a word, none of those banalities that people were usually bound to mutter, that everything would be all right, or not to cry. His embrace filled her with warmth and care. She felt as though she belonged exactly to this spot, in this man’s arms that were as strong as the person himself appeared to be. Sniffling quietly, she told herself that she should step away now, apologize, say something, do anything. She simply couldn’t.

When he noticed that she had calmed down somewhat, he spoke for the first time in minutes.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Now she did move back an inch, craning backward as well as upward to read his face. The expression on it was so serious bordering on grave. It spoke of pain.

“I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for whining and complaining. It’s my life and my mess and now it’s over anyway and I should forget it,” she stuttered, now earnestly trying to get away from him. His grip around her didn’t loosen, though. He looked at her, stared at her face as if he were seeing it in a new way.

“Don’t say that. I needed to know this. You…we need this to move on.”

“We?”

Her voice shook slightly, her heart beating faster while she waited for him to go on.

“Yes, we,” he said.

And then his mouth was on hers and nothing else mattered.

His kiss was full of love, tender yet at the same time loaded with feeling. When she responded to him, stood on her toes and grabbed a hold of his T-shirt, he increased the pressure of his lips. They were cool and hard against her mouth, but didn’t remind her for one second of other hard, cool lips that had kissed her not so long ago.

The kiss grew more urgent when he realized that she kissed him back. His tongue begged for entrance, and she parted her lips. With a husky moan, he pulled her closer, the fingers of one hand tangling in her hair. When his other hand crept under the hem of her blouse and his fingers brushed over the bare skin of her back, she shivered with desire. How strange that everything else was far away. That she lost herself in this, in him, like she had never lost herself in previous moments of physical closeness. She felt like floating and was glad that he was holding her so tightly because her legs were weak with desire.

When his kiss grew more passionate and he nipped lightly at her lower lip, a hardly audible sound escaped her. It brought him back to his senses, because all of a sudden, he let go of her and took a step back.

She was reeling, one hand rising to her lips, feeling colder and lonelier than ever with the loss of his closeness, warmth and touch.

His eyes were a deep, dark grey with hardly any blue sparks in them and his breathing was going as fast as hers. For a few seconds, they stared at each other. He slowly reached out and brushed his fingers across her wet cheek, wiping away the tears that had such a cleansing effect.

“Cathy, sugar, don’t ever say that again, that you’re unlovable. You’re the loveliest and most lovable person on earth to me. I know that sounds crazy, but ever since I got to know you, I feel like I can’t live without you anymore. I want you by my side. I want to get to know every part of you and want you to get to know me too.”

When she made to say something, he lay a finger across her mouth, his eyes darkening another shade when she kissed it.

“I know you aren’t ready for a new relationship and that I look exactly like the bastard who ruined your life. I’m not like him, I want you to know that. I would never take advantage of you!”

She nodded, overwhelmed. Was this wonderful man professing his love for her or was she dreaming?

(To be continued tomorrow.)

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