Read A Perfect Mismatch Online
Authors: Leena Varghese
A Perfect Mismatch
“Allow me,” she purred softly holding the tangled knot of the tie in her hands. He was so close that she could see the brown orbs of his eyes that quickly masked his surprise. He stood only a few inches away from her looking down with that brooding gaze at her.
Slowly, unable to resist the urge, Zara slid up the knot inexorably tightening the silk noose around his neck without blinking. “Up or down?” she asked softly, slowly becoming aware of the incredible masculine scent of him mingled with some exotic musk aftershave that had her imagination soar with pictures of a dark warrior from the past.
Armaan’s eyes gleamed with the same challenge, letting her tighten the knot further up, until he felt her hands settle unsteadily under his chin. Then he said in a growl that sent goose bumps skittering across her skin. “What do you have in mind? I am game, if you are.”
LEENA VARGHESE
lives in Mumbai with her husband and two boisterous kids. Amidst the cacophony of a tumultuous household and managing her illustration work, she squeezes in the time to give vent to her creative passions such as writing and painting. She loves to experiment with various media including oils, watercolours and pastels.
Leena firmly believes that everyone comes into the world equipped with an umbrella for the rainy days. Anyone can be creative enough to turn lemons into lemonade, topped with iced pragmatism. A life spent in learning and doing new things even when failure stares you in the face, is a life well lived indeed. So trying your hand at just about everything that comes your way is a good idea to keep yourself alive and kicking! Her mantra for happiness is to never be complacent and always keep evolving.
This is Leena Varghese’s debut book for Mills & Boon®!
To M, for being the catalyst …
Like all die-hard romantics, I love happy endings. Even the most hardened cynics (they may gag before admitting it!) harbour a tiny space in their hearts filled with the hope of happy endings. And that is the one reason we all love a good romance. It is the ‘feel good’ factor (the scientifically inclined would resolutely call it oxytocin) that envelops us when we read a love story. However poignant, dark or even violent its contents, it is the firm assurance that things would turn out just fine, that makes us pick up a romance novel.
My story is about two people who have gone through a painful childhood, scarred and mistrustful, unable to let love into their hearts or learn to trust each other. Trust is an integral part of love that keeps it all going. Without trust there is no love. You may love someone deeply but it will eventually wither away if there is no trust mutually. And that forms the crux of every love story.
Every relationship is defined by the personality of the two people it encompasses. Armaan is talented, temperamental, stubborn, fiercely passionate, driven by his inner demons. Only someone equally strong, capable and fearless like Zara could handle an alpha male like
him. They are antagonistic and passionate, downright silly at times and yet, vulnerable. The result is resounding fireworks and sizzling chemistry.
Are they human enough to accept their follies and learn to trust each other with deep abiding faith and immeasurable love? Read on to find out.
Hope you enjoy my debut book as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Love you all.
Leena Varghese
Zara rose from the wrought iron swing and picked up a dry leaf from the cemented floor, twirling it absently between her fingers. The terrace garden at the Malhotra house was lush even in the heat of the afternoon. Delhi at the cusp of summer was beautiful even though it was getting hotter by the day. She was glad that she was going back to her single bedroom apartment soon, her own tiny space of solitude in Gurgaon. She pushed back a thick lock of straight hair and stuffed it into the heavy, silken bun at the nape of her neck.
Things at work were great. A chartered accountant by profession, it had been a triumph for Zara when she landed a plum job in a multinational company five years ago. It had been the beginning of her hard-earned freedom. She had always excelled in academics and worked hard to reach where she was today.
Earning a handsome salary was helpful in many ways.
The little star that Zara put for herself in her mental career graph was satisfying. So was the thought that it had helped her move one level up on the road to emotional freedom. Zara moved out of the oppressively opulent Seth residence, from her aunt, Sudha Seth’s guardianship, into her own cozy little apartment.
Zara was also fortunate that her wish for a house was powered by her inheritance. It was enough to last her a lifetime if she invested it well. But she had been able to access it only after she had turned twenty-one. However Zara could never forget one painful fact that the inheritance lying in the bank in her name, was left to her by her grandfather after her mother’s mysterious disappearance and death. Being Zara’s official guardian for years, aunt Sudha, her mother’s elder sister, had grudgingly provided for her.
Yes, life was good as long as she did not dwell on her tangled roots.
Another draught of warm breeze lifted the strands of her hair. She looked around at the lush garden. The Malhotra house held many memories, some of them painful, even though she had now overcome those childhood years of loneliness. A flash of memory skittered across the surface of her thoughts. Four children playing years ago in this garden … Someone was pulling her pigtails and she was yelling …
Armaan …
The memories waned. She looked at her watch with a sigh, walking about restlessly. She had been out of town and too busy with work to make that obligatory visit last month for her late uncle, Ajay Seth’s death anniversary.
Her aunt had grumbled about it for days. So Zara had apologized and dropped in at the Seth residence for the weekend. But her aunt was not to be appeased by a mere visit. Zara had reluctantly agreed to accompany her aunt to her best friend Vini Malhotra’s house where she had spent the last four hours.
Sudha was at this moment sitting in Vini’s spacious drawing room downstairs. The visit, as usual, had stretched long. Not wanting to intrude upon their hushed conversation, she had strolled towards the terrace. Her cousin Bani had disappeared much before Zara’s exit from the room.
Startled to hear a thwacking sound near her feet, she found that a dripping mud ball had landed near her shoes. She was too late in moving away as another one slammed into her chest while yet another came sailing through the air, hitting her right under her chin, disintegrating into several muddy clumps on her shirt.
Squeals of delight sounded from behind the water tank. Vini aunty’s grandchildren!
“Hey!” Zara shouted. There was some scampering about and two little imps darted out from behind the tank, flew past her line of vision, and disappeared down the stairs. A wicked grin lit up her face at the sight of the culprits. She scooped up wet mud from the nearby pot and raced after them.
Zara was in the garden just in time to see the kids scoot. Her aim was good, but the kids were faster. The ball of mud left her hands and landed behind the bougainvillea bushes where there was a muffled yelp of disgust completely
unlike the voices of the children. Zara rushed to see what catastrophe she had unleashed.
Her heart lurched when the familiar sensation curled in her tummy. Her mind conjured up the masculine face she had dreamed about as a naïve young girl.
Armaan
!
Armaan Malhotra stared aghast at his artistic efforts lying in the damp grass with futile rage bubbling up inside him. He was furious. His canvas was blotchy with mud and he had to finish the series in a week’s time. The giggling and scurrying he heard from the nearby bushes left him in no doubt that it was one of the children. He strode toward the bush and pulled out Natasha by her pigtails. She yowled like a cat on hot coals screaming for her ‘mommy’. Nishant was only a blur at the end of the garden.
“Who did this?” Armaan was holding Natasha by the scruff of her neck. She knew when her uncle was seriously angry. He would have forgiven anything if it had not been for the ruined canvas.
“Quit harassing the child. It was me.” The voice that spoke behind him was vaguely familiar.
Armaan turned around, dropping Natasha who scooted out of the garden, glad to have the matter out of her hands.
Armaan could have sworn that the short woman, standing defiantly in front of him with her muddy hands on her hips, uncaring for the way it smudged her pair of loose pants and the giant balloon-shirt, was plain crazy! There was mud all over her and part of her chin was smeared with generous streaks of it.
“Zara! What are you doing here?” asked Armaan, curiosity getting the better of him.
Zara had not seen him for a couple of years. Not that the previous times had been very pleasant occasions. It was a disaster, every time she came into his sizzling radius. She had been grateful that this time he had not ventured out of his studio-cum-swanky apartment in the secluded nook of the sprawling garden.
Unfortunately her relief was short-lived. Zara wished she could be comfortable with him. But all she could do was either erupt into flaming temper that usually culminated into an ugly argument, or fester in sullen silence that neither of them was willing to break. It had been the same since they had been children. He made her feel inadequate! And Zara thoroughly disliked not being in control of the situation.
Now, as Zara stood in front of him, she felt suddenly out of breath. Controlling her feelings, she waved her hands expressively. “I am sorry about the canvas. I was on the terrace when the kids began to pummel me with mud patties. I threw one at them and it landed on … Er … I did not see you. The bushes covered my view!” she finished lamely.
Zara cringed as Armaan stared at her as if she had sprouted horns.
Contrary to her belief, Armaan was thinking something altogether different. She had a husky voice, that seemed to slide like warm honey on his senses, Armaan acknowledged grudgingly.
“You were playing with the kids?” The sight of those brilliant, insolent grey eyes fanned by thick lashes arrested his thoughts. Was it the scattered sunlight in the garden that glinted like a thousand diamonds in her eyes? He curbed the distraction in time. All the hard work of the past few weeks was lying in the wet grass and she seemed to be unperturbed by the destruction. “Do you have any idea what you have done?”
Zara felt her heart hammering painfully. She recognized the adrenalin rush, her limbs gearing up for battle … The other, deeper emotions were veiled, especially her reaction to the vast expanse of that torso, in casual t-shirt, the toned biceps and those muscular thighs donned in a fitting pair of denim shorts.
Zara averted her hungry eyes quickly before they connected with his sharp brown gaze. She knew those eyes could light up with rich unbridled laughter when the occasion arose, but right now, they were furious. Quite against her will, her own eyes were disobediently scanning his features, the black hair, long and curly, almost brushing against the nape. The well-groomed moustache and the crisp beard defined his masculine aura giving him a gritty, edgy look. Her flighty imagination conjured up a fantastic pagan god. He was tall, broad, and superbly fit and everything that she could only dream of and never hope to have. She grimaced inward. A meeting with Armaan Malhotra never failed to unnerve her!
“Uggghhh!” A shrill, female voice screeched behind them. Her cousin Bani had just sauntered into the scene
with a platter of burger and fries. She pouted her delicate red lips and wrinkled her nose.
Zara and Armaan glowered at each other ignoring the intrusion.
“What now!” Bani drawled sarcastically. Zara felt the usual antagonism bubble up. Her slender cousin leaned nonchalantly on Armaan’s arm with a cozy familiarity.
Zara ignored Bani and said exasperatedly, “Oh come on! It was a mistake and I have apologized. You are an artist! You can make a new one any time.”
There was a snort of disbelief from Armaan. He picked up the fallen canvas, while examining it with an uncompromising scowl, “You think it is easy to accomplish this in a day?” He jabbed a finger at the mud blob that now covered what appeared like a viridian landscape.
“What can I say? It depends on your talent!” Zara replied impishly. “Maybe I could help you.”
Zara knew she was being reckless when she picked up the discarded brush. Dipping it into the palette on the table, she painted a large, childishly simple flower with a smiley face in the middle of the fresh canvas kept on the easel.
There were shouts of outrage from her companions as she curbed a grin, dropped the brush, and walked off with her head held defiantly.
It was evening by the time the elderly ladies said goodbye. Zara could not help but smile at the cacophony that had ensued as she had entered the drawing room after the spat with Armaan. Her apologies were brushed aside by a serene Vini aunty who had shown her the way to the washroom for a change of clothes.
Zara had not encountered Armaan afterwards and was relieved that she did not have to face him again for a long time. The children had been suitably admonished. On their way home, Zara could not help but notice aunt Sudha’s sullen silence that seemed to have no effect on the banal chattering of her cousin Bani. Zara was grateful that for once her aunt was not in a mood for the usual disparaging comments on her niece’s conduct.
Back at the Seth residence that night, her thoughts slid back into her past again. She had always felt like a stranger amidst them. She had to admit that she had never lacked the basic rights that a human being deserved. She had been provided with food, clothing, shelter and a sound education, she thought cynically. Though deep in her heart she had craved for the affection and support of a family, she had long since stopped wishing for the impossible. The only thing that she wanted to know was the whereabouts of her father and the cause of her mother’s death.
There had been hushed whispers about a suicide. But her aunt had always steered clear of explanation since it had already caused enough damage to the family. After a while Zara had stopped probing deeper. The only thing she had, that belonged to her mother, was a faded photograph.
“So what are your plans for the future, Armaan?” Vini was slicing apples and arranging them in the plate. Amidst the chattering, she looked around at her family sitting at the breakfast table. Aparna, her daughter was picking up the plates, lecturing the house help who had forgotten to lay the tablemats. Her kids were ready for school. Armaan relaxed with a newspaper at the end of the table. The kids
hung on his neck for a goodbye bear hug, the previous day’s naughty capers forgotten, and then tumbled out of the house following the chauffeur.
“Armaan?”
Glancing up from the newspaper, Armaan picked up his cup of tea. He had heard the question the first time. He recognized his mother’s deliberately casual tone and sighed in resignation although it did not ruffle his composure as it used to do once. At thirty-four, he was quite at ease with himself.
“I have an appointment at three in the afternoon. My assignment is not finished yet and I have been offered a commission for a large mural in one of the posh new office blocks in Gurgaon. An important exhibition is scheduled for the month end and I still have a load of work to do. A complete series of paintings has been delayed due to unforeseen difficulties so I might be busy for the next six months. I might have to go to Brussels for an art fest by the end of the year. The discussions are still on with an international curator.”
“I was not asking about your professional plans.” His mother had a mildly aggrieved look on her face. He knew better. She could be unreasonably stubborn. He had seen his mother pick up the pieces of her life after her husband’s defection from their fifteen year long marriage. His father had left when he and Aparna were barely in their teens. It had been most painful to accommodate another woman as his father’s wife. Over the years, he had seen his mother stand up to fight for what was rightfully hers. The loss had swept aside all illusions. Armaan could see that another of
those long drawn out arguments was brewing under the surface.
“I was talking about your personal life, Armaan,” she admonished gently.
“Bhai, what she means is, are you getting hitched on not?” Aparna drawled with her eyes up towards the ceiling. Never the one to mince words, his sister had put things into perspective. Not that Armaan had not recognized the meaning behind his mother’s subtle questions.
“You already know that I have no such disastrous intentions.” Armaan said bluntly, picking up the newspaper again.
“I know someone who would be perfect for you.” Ignoring his disapproving look, his mother continued.
Aparna giggled. “Not one of those usual ones, Mom! The last time you introduced bhai to a prospective traditional bride from Patiala he zipped out of the house and disappeared for days, locking himself up in his studio. He has not shaved ever since. Will someone get the shears please?”
“Don’t even think about it! It is a man’s prerogative, whether you like it or not!” he retorted.
“We are digressing from the topic!” his mother complained with a peeved air.
“About prospective brides? This time I might leave the country for good!” said Armaan, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
“I want you married within the next couple of months.”