Where the Lotus Flowers Grow (8 page)

“I would have done it if I’d witnessed any employee being mistreated by another. I’m sure you are capable, but I don’t want you to handle anything outside of your job description.”

We looked at each other, the irony of my words hanging in the air. The tension grew thicker than the humidity. She surprised me with a laugh. I found myself laughing as well. What I’d just said was ridiculous considering we were having a quiet dinner for two in my hotel room. Definitely not part of her job description.

“Do you always need to control everything?”

“Not at all. I’m very flexible, actually. For example, just recently I was talked into saving a fountain and convinced to attend a surprise birthday party. So you see, I’m pretty easy going.”

She tilted her head. “Touché.”

“Ah, do you speak French as well? What else don’t I know about you, Lotus Girl? You have a black belt? Maybe you’re a spy engaging in a form of corporate espionage.”

“No, no, and certainly not.”

“Do you really think I’m a bully?”

“Sir, I completely understand your need to rule. It is in your blood, isn’t it?”

“Ouch, is that a barb on the British imperialism of India?”

“Possibly.” Her grin turned sly, fucking sexy.

“Your country has been free since before you were born…way before. Still holding a grudge, then?”

She placed her fingers together to indicate a pinch. “Maybe a small one.”

“And you’re placing all that on my shoulders, yeah?”

Mary shrugged. “You have very broad shoulders. I think they can sustain it.”

“I assure you none of my ancestors made any decisions regarding Her Majesty’s pleasure when it came to this country or any other.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I come from a long line of surly bastards. None were proper enough for Parliament or Her Majesty. As a matter of fact, my grandmother was Scottish, so you could venture to say both our cultures have sustained suffering under the same flag.”

Her mouth crinkled with amusement. “Scottish? Have you ever worn a kilt?”

“No…never.”

Her mouth turned downward.

“Does that disappoint you?”

“Slightly. I think it would suit you.”

I turned on the Sean Connery brogue. “You have a thing for lads in kilts, do you?”

She chewed on her bottom lip, a pretty shade of crimson reddening her cheeks. “There is something…appealing about it. At least based on books I’ve read.”

“Historical novels?”

She nodded, playing with the label on her water bottle. “Highlanders and the lasses they love.”

“And where do you procure such books here?”

“There is a store some distance away. I take the bus there on my days off. Not much selection, but I can usually find something to rent.”

“Rent? Like a library?”

“Sort of. You pay for the book and return it for partial refund. I buy a book in the morning, drink my tea, devour the whole thing in one sitting, and return it at night. You can also purchase books outright, but I never have.” She pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around them.

I almost asked her to shift so I could capture her profile better. “I see. You know, your pronunciation is perfect. You actually sound British sometimes.”

She graced me with a lovely smile, the kind of expression that made men want to freeze the image of beautiful women on canvas, stone, or clay.

“My family lived in England for a few years when I was younger. I was only two, and we moved back when I was eight, but it was where I learned English. I suppose I retained the inflection. My papa studied at Cambridge.”

The pencil fell from my hand. She picked it up.

“I lived in Luton. That’s about an hour from Cambridge.”

She dropped the pencil. We both went to pick it up. Our foreheads bumped on the way back up, like some silly Monty Python bit.

“Sorry,” I said, stroking her hair. God, it did feel like silk. Her body tensed against my touch. I dropped my hand immediately, unsure which I regretted more, starting or stopping the action.

“It’s okay. We were close.”

“And here we are again. In the summers, my mum sold jewelry at different booths and craft fares around Cambridge. Sometimes, I’d go with her. What if we crossed paths before?”

She played with the hem of her sari. “I doubt our circles ever overlapped, sir.”

Yeah, Mary. Not then and not even now. That was what she was telling me.

“Still kind of amazing, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “When I think about my time in England, all I remember are long trains, Dusty Springfield, Cadbury bars, and the cold, wet chill in the air.”

“Dusty Springfield?”

She laughed, the kind of laugh only faraway memories brought. “Papa was a fan of rock’n’roll. He amassed a huge collection of records when we lived in Cambridge, but my mother hated them and insisted we couldn’t fit them in our luggage. They got left behind. I used to dance to them as a kid.”

I could almost picture her doing that. It was easy to read between the subtle lines of her dialogue. Dad was “Papa” and Mum was “Mother.”

She shivered, rubbing her arms, although the room was warm. “You came at the right time. It has to be freezing in Luton.”

“I’m sure it is, but I haven’t lived there in ten years. Manhattan is my home now.”

“Of course, you moved there for work. That’s the corporate headquarters, no?”

“I shifted to America at sixteen after Mum died. It’s where my father lived.”

“Lived?”

“He passed a few years ago. I suppose another thing we have in common.”

She twisted a loose strand of her hair. The same strand I’d touched. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. So, your father went to Cambridge?” I wondered how she got here for the thousandth time.

She nodded. “He moved us back before my sister was born. He loved England, but he missed home, and he wanted to teach here.” Her eyes misted over talking about her dad, pride in her voice.

“Did you ever think of going to university yourself? I can make inquiries on your behalf.”

She shook her head rapidly. “No.”

“Mary…”

“I’m not interested, sir.” The sharpness in her tone surprised me. God, she was stubborn. She didn’t have pockets of sorrow—she had landmines. I could feel the blast coming, but I didn’t care to stop it either.

“You’re brilliant. You can do so much with your life. I would like to help you in that regard.”

“I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t need your help.” She stood and headed for the door.

“Stay.”

“Why?”

“Because you want to be here as much as I want you to be here.” I took her hand and held it, staring at her.

Her gaze lowered to our joined hands. She let go. Relief came when she finally sat again. Holding the legal pad higher, I focused back on my work, although the pencil felt shakier in my hand. If she hadn’t let go, I would have pulled her onto my lap and tangled my fingers through strands of ebony silk while my mouth crushed against hers.

Get a grip.

“Do you enjoy your job, Mr. Montgomery?”

“No,” I replied without pause. I had no idea why I was able to answer so quickly. I could barely admit that to myself, let alone tell it to someone else. In fact, I’d never told anyone else.

“Why not?”

I shrugged. “Take me up on my offer and become a therapist, Miss Costa. Look at how many confessions you’re getting out of me.”

“Will I get a straight answer?”

“I don’t care for the bureaucracy of business or making decisions that impact the livelihood of others. Because, at the end of every bottom line, there is a person, a family, a life that is affected. Satisfied?”

“Why do you do it then?”

“Lotus Girl, I swear it’s not complicated. I do it for the money. Money can make up for many things. I understand you don’t share that ideology, but horses for courses as they say.” I didn’t know if I’d ever been this honest with someone. Why stop now? Why not just go completely starkers? “Does that make you think less of me?”

“No, sir, but here is the thing. I do like my job. As you said, I’m fine where I stand.”

“That’s not exactly what I said. And your statement doesn’t offer me any greater insights into your position. You’re wasting your life.”

Her mouth tightened. I thought she’d leave then, or slap me, or some other gesture I deserved. Instead, she cut me with the harsh tone of her words. “That’s an opinion, not a fact. And it’s not exactly a very solid opinion when coming from someone who isn’t passionate about his own life.”

“At least warn me when you’re about to gut me.”

“I should go. It’s late. Unless you actually have any questions involving my job or this hotel?”

Fine, we’d play it her way. I had a whole fucking list of questions. I skipped right to the most important one.

“I’m sure you’re aware this hotel is losing money.”

“I am. Everyone is.”

“Do you have any suggestions or opinions on the matter?”

She looked around the room. “May I be bold and improper, sir?”

“Better than meek and weak.”

Her smiled widened. “The hotel is a fraud.”

“A fraud?”

She stood and knocked on the decorative molding that framed the window. “This is plastic. The floor,” she said, tapping her foot against it, “is not real stone, but a cheap factory-made porcelain imitation. The rug is a mass-produced, made in China, reproduction of a Persian rug.”

“What is your point?”

“We should not try to be something we are not. This is Jaipur. You can cross the lake and stay at a real Raj’s palace. Why would you want to stay at a fake one?”

I paused, my grip tightening on the pencil. She’d successfully expressed the very issue that eluded me. “You make a strong point.”

“Thank you, sir. Are you writing this down?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not. You haven’t been taking notes this whole time. What are you doing?”

She held out her hand, gesturing to the pad. I gripped it tighter. “It’s chicken scratch you won’t be able to read.”

“Then why won’t you let me look at it?”

What use was it? We—no, not we—I had crossed so many lines tonight that I might as well have walked a marathon.

I set down the pad. It was a rough sketch at best, but she looked at it as if was a fine work of art. Her finger hovered above the lines, following them in the air. I drew her with her hair down as I imagined it would look, her pouty lips in that carefree sexual smile that rarely surfaced. But whenever it did, my heart jumped, as did another part of my body.

“It’s me?”

“I was paying attention to what you said, but I really wanted to draw you, which is weird considering I haven’t drawn anything in a long time.”

“You’re very good.”

“Hardly, it’s a hobby.” Not even a hobby anymore.

“Have you had any formal training?”

“No.”

“Then you are naturally talented.”

In my head, I snorted at the compliment. “I have professional opinions to the contrary.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was eighteen, I wanted nothing more than to be an artist…a painter. My father had other ideas.”

“So you didn’t do it because of him?”

“Oh no, I wasn’t a docile boy. I rebelled. He threatened to disown me. I’ll have you know I didn’t balk at that idea. I accepted it. Things are always easier when you’re young.”

“What changed?”

“He made a deal with me. It was a fair deal, and I accepted the terms.”

“What deal?”

“He said I couldn’t make a living with the bohemian lifestyle I chose for myself. I disagreed, of course, but he wanted to prove that to me. He offered to pay all my living expenses for six months. After that time, I would have an exhibition. If I made enough to cover what he’d spent, then he’d send me to the art school of my choice. Or to Europe to study with a master. I really wanted that, Mary. I wanted to improve and hone my skills. So I accepted.”

“And?” she asked as if I was withholding a captivating plotline from her.

“And I worked hard those six months. I lived as frugally as I could, intending to prove him wrong. My girlfriend and I moved into this tiny loft and split the rent. I think it was half the size of this room.”

“You didn’t sell enough then?” Her disappointment was almost adorable, except that shortcoming in my life still hurt.

“One. One fucking painting, and to my father no less. A pinch of salt for my wounds. The critics blasted me, and these are New York critics, so they were especially harsh.”

“That made you stop? Because you didn’t make any money?”

“People cannot live on their dreams. I went onto college and business school, the path he’d planned for me.”

“But there were other options. You could have gotten a temporary job and continued to paint. Just because you didn’t make money doesn’t mean you’re not good.”

“It most certainly does mean that. It’s basic commerce. Besides, after I put everything into it and failed so epically, I didn’t have the heart for it. I parted ways with my paintbrush.”

“And the girlfriend?” she asked, a little sharply.

“We parted ways, too.”

She stared down at the picture again. “I look beautiful in this picture.”

“You look beautiful every day.”

“May I purchase this from you, Mr. Montgomery?”

I replayed her request in my head, unsure if I heard correctly. “You can have it. After all, you’re the reason I wanted to sketch in the first place.”

She stood and reached into her blouse. My cock stirred at the sight. But when she pulled out a bill, I almost fell from my chair.

“I have to purchase it.”

“I’m not taking money from you, Mary. Have you gone mad?”

“This isn’t much. It might get you some hard candy at the market, but it’s important I pay for it.”

“Why is it important to you?”

“It’s not important to me, Liam. It’s important to you.” Fuck, she picked now to say my name? As if I could refuse her anything. God, she was clever. “I don’t mean to offend you. But you’ve made it clear you don’t think you’re talented unless there is a monetary value associated with your work. It’s my way, a symbolic way, of showing you that you are.” She held out the note. “Please take it. I really want your sketch, but I won’t accept it unless you let me pay for it.”