“I’m very human, thank you,” she’d replied warily, despite the heady feeling of being thoroughly surveyed by a pair of sexy, roving eyes that had turned warm with appreciation, like liquid emeralds.
“So, what’s your name, pretty lady?”
“Why do you want to know?” she’d challenged him, trying to put as much starch into her voice as possible. She wasn’t about to give her name or anything else to a flirtatious wolf with the most beautifully sculpted body and an incredible smile.
He had chuckled, the sound making Anjali want to reach across the counter and touch his face to see if it was as delightfully raspy as it looked with its late-evening shadow. “I make it my business to find out who comes into my lair.”
There, she was right: he was a wicked wolf. “So you own this…lair?” She’d pretended to throw a casually critical glance around the room. Although she’d liked the warm, polished oak paneling, the friendly atmosphere, the framed prints of the Jersey coast, and the cozy lighting, she’d managed to appear indifferent.
“Yeah, I’m Kip Rowling, lord and keeper of Rowling Rok,” he’d replied and put his hand forward for a handshake.
There was no way to avoid a friendly gesture like that. So with her slim hand placed in his large, hard grasp, she’d aimed a hesitant smile at him. “I’m Anjali Kapadia. Nice to meet you, lord and keeper of Rowling Rok.”
He’d pretended to clutch his heart and gasp, making her giggle. “An-ja-li? As in An-gel-face? I knew it. I knew you were an angel from heaven.”
After the introduction he’d invited her to sit at the bar stool instead of returning immediately to her table and they’d talked for several minutes. He was a delectable surprise, a much-needed one after a very long dry spell with no men and no amusement in her life. Despite her efforts to keep a rein on her emotions, she’d lost a bit of her heart to Kip that night. And given him her cell phone number.
Following the entertaining chatter with Kip, she’d returned to her table, only to be teased mercilessly by her friends about the cute bartender with the kissable mouth and gorgeous eyes. Then, surprisingly, Kip had called her the following week and invited her to his bar once again for drinks. Within a short time she’d found herself visiting him at least twice a week after work.
She always told her parents she was going out with her girlfriends, and they didn’t seem to mind as long as she got home by midnight and was at the store before ten o’clock the next morning. They were naïve enough to believe she was merely enjoying the company of other single women.
Within months of getting to know Kip, Anjali had wound up in his bed. And she wasn’t surprised at all. Kip was that kind of guy—all masculine charm, hard muscle, and the sexual finesse of a male courtesan. He could seduce a woman with a mere lift of an eyebrow.
The first time it had happened she’d been drinking too much. It wasn’t a legitimate excuse but she liked to think it was. It was a lapse in judgment—and it happened more often than her conscience was comfortable with.
Now, as always, Kip led her upstairs to his apartment. It was no more than a small office with an adjoining bedroom and bath—his home away from home. It was a place to do his bookkeeping, to rest, to unwind. His love nest.
At first she’d felt awkward and embarrassed about sleeping with a man who had no sense of morality. He’d made no promises to her and never tried to hide the fact that the comfortable, king-sized bed in that room saw plenty of action. But then she’d realized she was no better, especially when compared with other Desi women her own age.
Some thirty minutes later, feeling somewhat less stressed and wearing the glow of recent sex—scorching, toe-tingling, mind-numbing sex—she kissed Kip good-bye. “Thanks, I feel a lot better.”
He chuckled. “My pleasure, Angelface.”
She descended the stairs and went around the side of the building to the parking lot. As always, after one of her trysts with Kip, she felt a deep sense of shame and guilt sweep over her. She was a sensible businesswoman raised in an orthodox Hindu household, and yet it seemed like she was seeking out cheap thrills.
What was the matter with her? Was it only loneliness that goaded her into a secret liaison with a man like Kip? Or was she a nymphomaniac? How did other women cope with what she was going through?
If she paid heed to her parents’ advice and married a decent man, she could have all the sex she wanted and put an end to the loneliness. She could have love and warmth and a sense of belonging. And yet, lifelong commitment was not what she wanted at this time. Face it, Anjali, she told herself. You’re different from other Indian women. You’re free-spirited and your libido is a tad too active. Learn to live with it.
Slipping behind the wheel of her car, she turned on the ignition. At the moment there were more pressing things to worry about than her seemingly out-of-control libido.
A large asteroid named Jeevan was hurtling toward the United States. And she had to brace herself for the impact.
Chapter 3
By early Monday morning, Usha had the house in order. Every dust bunny and cobweb had been eradicated, the carpets professionally cleaned, and the guest bed had fresh white sheets and pillows and a brand-new blanket and bedspread.
Lunch was prepared and waiting on the stove. The refrigerator was stocked with fresh vegetables and fruit, plenty of milk and yogurt. A glass jar of pure ghee—clarified butter—sat on the kitchen counter, cooling off.
Anjali stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her mother scrub the pan in which she’d made the ghee. The entire house was imbued with its sweet scent.
Poor Mom. She looked like she’d lost weight in the past few days from working like a fiend in both the store and the house before Jeevan-kaka’s scheduled arrival later that morning. Anjali had done her part to help out, but her mother was a perfectionist and preferred to do most of it herself. She also liked playing the martyr.
The June sky looked overcast. It suited the mood in the Kapadia home, except for Anjali’s father. His eyes seemed to glow in anticipation of seeing his brother after a five-year interval.
Probably sensing her presence, her mother turned around to give her a quick glance. “Your father’s whistling,” she sniffed.
“Yes.” Anjali had distinctly heard him whistling a jolly tune upstairs a little while ago. She’d hoped her mother hadn’t heard the buoyant sound, something they weren’t accustomed to hearing from the serious Mohan. Now it only served to make her mother crankier. But at least her dad was in a jubilant mood.
Anjali walked up to the pantry, poured a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of orange juice.
Setting the washed pot in the dish drainer, her mother dried her hands and studied Anjali. “You were out late last night.”
“I…saw my friends after a long time…and we talked.” Since when had lying come so easily to her? After her return from seeing Kip, once again, she’d sneaked up to her room. She had tried to convince herself that she wasn’t hurting anyone. Both Kip and she were single; they were free to enjoy each other with no strings attached. And this was America, where consensual sex between responsible adults was the norm. However, sleep had still eluded her.
“You don’t look all that well.” Her mother’s assessing look lingered on her.
“I’m okay, Mom. You’re the one who looks beat.”
Usha took off her apron and sank into the kitchen chair opposite Anjali’s. “Jeevan-bhai is enough to make anyone weary.”
Anjali poured milk over her cornflakes and added a spoonful of sugar. “Why don’t you eat some breakfast? It’ll make you feel better.”