Beneath The Lies Page 13

  Her eyes lower for less than a second and when she raises them again, they’re flashing fire. “Is it just me or are you usually so cold and abrupt with people?”

  “I am who I am.” My eyes lock onto hers.

  “You are way too arrogant for your own good.”

  “I’m a Duke. We’re allowed to be arrogant,” I say with a slight smirk and a raised eyebrow.

  She rolls her eyes.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Damien and everything points to the fact that working with you will be a good experience for me. And I’m not about to give up without you giving me a proper chance. Like I said earlier, you could end up being amazed.”

  Before I can reply there’s a screech of tires and the car comes to a halt.

  Mike turns to me from the front seat. “Sir, the road ahead is snowed in.”

  “Darn it!” I check my watch and look out the window. “Turn around and take a left from up ahead. The road winds back north and we’ll reach the airfield a few miles down. It’s a longer route but will get us there in an hour or so.”

  Aaliya turns to me. “I’m relieved that you know so much of these highlands. I’d have panicked all by myself.”

  “Although Jonathan lives in the wilds, I do have some idea about the roads around here.”

  I concentrate outside the window where a blizzard is raging, the visibility deteriorating by the minute.

  “It’s getting worse,” Aaliya says after a while. “Do you think we’ll make it?”

  “I surely hope so.”

  We both remain silent after that, watching the road ahead of us. Half an hour later, Mike stops again at another snowed in road where I give him a new set of directions.

  Aaliya

  “If it weren’t storming outside, I’d say it looks beautiful. It’s my first real experience in the snow,” I say, after Mike takes the new route that Damien’s related to him.

  Damien turns to me, a wrinkle creasing his forehead. “Really?”

  “Well, I’ve lived most of my life in Mumbai where the only seasons are warm, wet and hot.”

  “How is it that you never visited up North in India? Don’t the Himalayas have several peaks that have snow all year around?”

  “They do and I have seen them. It was fascinating and bewitching to see the snow-covered mountains. We even climbed a slope so I could touch the snow.” I smile recollecting that incident. “But now, to be witnessing such a storm is quite overwhelming. I didn’t even know that it could thunder and snow together.”

  Damien glances outside. “Thunder-snow is rare but it occurs at times. The weather here in the highlands has a mind of its own, indeed.”

  Earlier in the day, it was just a tad bit cloudy when I landed in Inverness. However, in a short few hours the roads are blanketed with white, the trees are swaying against the heavy wind, the snow is falling in thick clumps and the visibility is getting worse.

  Mike is definitely having a hard time navigating the car through this horrible weather and we are moving at a snail’s pace now.

  Damien’s once again busy on his phone so I gaze outside the window, my breaths clouding the windowpane as I take in the passing sights. A few seconds later, Jonathan’s estate comes into view and then we cross it entirely and are on a different route.

  “Where are we?” I ask Damien. “Seems to me that we’re driving in completely the opposite direction. We just crossed Jonathan’s estate.”

  He lifts his eyes from his phone to look at the road in front. He rubs a finger down his temple.

  “Mike, take a right from up ahead,” he instructs him.

  Damien turns to face me. “You’re correct. We’re going in the opposite direction. I doubt the jet will be able to take off in this storm, that is if we manage to reach the airfield. I’d rather wait out the storm some place warm and cozy rather than be stuck in the car. So, we’re going to my house.”

  “What? Your house?”

  Once again, I had no clue that he has a house here, in the wildest part of Scotland. And he has a private jet? He owns a Goddamn jet! He spoke of that so casually as if it were an everyday occurrence while I could only gape at him, unable to utter a word. In my life, people in magazines like Vogue and Prestige own jets. It’s hard to come to terms with the fact that my husband is so filthy rich.

  We drive a distance onto a narrow road surrounded by nothing but trees, their branches all white.

  When he remains silent, I ask again, “Your house?”

  He still doesn’t reply, just gives me a wry look and turns back to his phone.

  My lips curl and my throat tightens so hard that it’s difficult for me to swallow. I hate his uncaring attitude. Arrogance, I can tolerate, but this inconsiderate behavior I will not.

  I take a deep controlling breath to calm myself because I can’t blow up on him, no matter how much I want to.

  “Unbelievable,” I say in as quiet a voice I can muster. “Did it not occur to you to share the change in plan with me? Or did you not consider it important enough?”

  He finally raises his eyes from his phone to me.

  “Well, the roads are getting impassable and you can see for yourself that the storm is coming down hard. In such circumstances I thought that the best decision would be to remain indoors and stay safe. I’ve a perfectly fine house close by and hence, we retire there and wait out the storm.”

  I scowl. “Damien, I do not like my choices taken away from me.”

  His eyes rest on me, his index finger resting on his upper lip as he takes his time to reply. “Why do you have a problem in waiting out the storm? Would you rather wait in the jet instead, or in this car?”

  “Don’t mock me Damien,” I snap. “You were wrong to not consult me or inform me at least. Accept it graciously and let us move on.” I fold my hands in front of me, my mouth setting in a straight, unmoving line.

  He blinks. “My apologies then. I meant no offense.”

  I lower my chin and consider him. It’s of no good to either of us if I remain mad with him. And I don’t have any choice. We’re going to be stranded here in the snow if we don’t seek shelter soon. I may as well use that opportunity to my benefit and get to know him better.

  “Apology accepted!” I flick my hair away from my face. “Now where’s this house of yours?”

  He stares at me for a few seconds and finally a slight smile eases over his mouth. “You are something else.”

  He turns to look in the front. “Mike, take a turn into the gate on the right.”

  We stop in front of a huge wrought-iron gate. Damien relays a code that Mike enters and the gates open wide.

  The car winds around a long road and a large two-storey mansion comes into view. The car rolls to a stop in front of an arched portico. Damien steps out of the car and holds his hand out to me. I take it and step out, shivering against the chilly wind. The front door opens and an old man with graying hair steps out.

  “Your Grace? This is quite a surprise,” the man says in deference to Damien.

  “Good afternoon, Jeeves,” Damien says and ushers me inside the house. “This is my guest Miss Singh. I hope some of the rooms are ready as usual because we have to wait out the storm.”

  “Of course, Your Grace, Mrs. Perkins and I will make sure that you have everything at your disposal. If you could retire to the golden parlor, I’ll inform Mrs. Perkins to send some refreshments immediately.”

  Damien turns and raises a hand to Mike who is waiting just behind us. “Jeeves, this is Mike. Please ensure that he is shown a room and is made comfortable as well.”

  “Sir, I don’t need…” Mike starts to say but Damien cuts him off. “It’s a huge fucking house, Mike. There’s plenty of room for all of us. Besides, I assure you we’ll be safe here. So, relax and get some rest.”

  A ghost of a smile skates across the huge man’s lips. But it’s gone before I can blink. “Thank you, sir. But I’d like to take a tour of the house and the grounds first.”

&nb
sp; Damien sighs. “Fine, as you wish.”

  Aaliya

  “So, this is your house?” I ask Damien after we are finally settled and alone in the golden parlor. It quite amuses me that a room is given a name, but this makes sense because the entire room is done in vivid shades of dark gold and brown. Right from the curtains to the upholstery, the tapestry, the wallpaper, even the cushions spread across the comfortable sofas, everything is in varying shades of gold. And the woodwork is all mahogany brown. It is warm and quite comfortable.

  “This house is one of my favorites,” Damien says from beside me. He’s seated next to me on the couch. “I inherited this from my Aunt Sylvie after she passed. The land surrounding it borders the Loch Ness and there’s a stunning view from the upper floors. It’s quite peaceful here,” he says with a distant look in his eyes.

  “One of your favorites?” I ask, cocking my head. “How many houses do you own?”

  “Well, it usually takes two to have a favorite. But I have six including this.”

  “Six!” I struggle not to choke. My voice sounds pretty calm and in no way reflects the shock running through me.

  “Apart from this and the mansion in London, I have my own apartment in Belgravia, then there’s the country estate in Hampshire, an apartment in Edinburgh and an estate in the northernmost part of Scotland. The country estate in Hampshire is my favorite though. It’s called Heaven’s Gate and it’s special.”

  “Why’s it special?” I ask, wanting to learn more about this unknown side of him.

  “Because Heaven’s Gate has miles and miles of forest land spread across hills, a beautiful blue lake, several riding paths, horses…” He raises his hands. “I can’t explain how utterly beautiful it is. It’s just…splendid.”

  His love for that land shines in his eyes. Why did he do it? Why did he leave everything he held dear to start a new life? How much has he missed this place? How much of his true self has he kept locked inside all these years?

  What has bothered me the most is the drastic change of personality he made when he came to India. He used to be a daredevil, a rich aristocrat and businessman. But I never saw him behave entitled or arrogant in any way during our time together. He was down to earth and never ever showed by word or deed that he had lived a life of utter luxury. Even in my interactions with him now, his arrogance and nonchalance are clearly visible. So, what made him change that much when he was with me? Was it just me, or was it some life changing event that caused everything—his leaving England and the change in his personality to the calmer and gentler person I knew him to be?

  My questions can be answered by none other than Damien and only once he regains his memory. At times, it’s so bloody frustrating with all these new realizations I’m having about him. It’s like everyday a new question pops in my head for which I have no answer.

  The housekeeper enters with a tray of refreshments. Damien stands up as she enters and gives her a big hug. She pats his cheeks lovingly. She pours us coffee, all the while gushing over Damien. She’s old and matronly and speaks with a thick Scottish accent. I understand that she hasn’t seen him in years. Damien answers all her queries politely and with respect. I smile as he introduces me to her. She places plates of sandwiches, cheese, scones, fruits and cakes on the table in front of us and departs with a cheery smile.

  Damien hands me a plate and we both spend the next few minutes devouring the food.

  “So, tell me what did you think about Jonathan’s project?” he asks me as I sip my coffee, my hunger satiated.

  I place the mug on the table in front of me and shift to the side to face him. “Is it time for my interview now?”

  “If that’s what you want to call it.” He shrugs. “Since we’re stuck here, why don’t we make the most of the situation?”

  “Well, Jonathan’s house is quite impressive and it’ll be a pleasure to work on his new wing, but I assume he’ll be a difficult client.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He has that ‘I don’t care, just do whatever you want’ kind of an approach and then he has some specific demands like Make the parlor walls red, I want low Chinese tables in black.” I make a face. “Well, China is not all about red and black and I definitely do not want that parlor to look like a cheap Chinese restaurant rip off.” My mouth turns down in distaste thinking about that horrible image.

  His eyes narrow a fraction. “Aaliya, when it comes to that, I can handle Jonathan.”

  I raise my chin. “When it comes to that, I can handle Jonathan too.”

  Damien

  Oh, that defiant chin! It intrigues me and in equal parts, fascinates me. Aaliya plays with a strand of her hair as her mouth settles into a sexy pout. The urge to trace those pink lips with my tongue is so strong I have to literally pinch myself to prevent from acting on it.

  Aaliya is something else. No woman I know has demanded an apology from me like she had earlier in the car. My jaw had dropped to the floor hearing her ask for it. It was the second time I had apologized to her. Even when I was just a Lord, women fawned all over me. And now that I’m a Duke, the fawning has changed to awe and adulation. Aaliya’s frank and no-nonsense attitude is a refreshing change.

  I finally put my head back into the conversation I’d started with her and ask, “Did you end up meeting the artists that you wanted to? Dale Adcock and who else was it?”

  “Phil Vickery!” Her entire face lights up as she speaks. “Yes, I met them and I’m delighted that the meetings were quite successful. They’ve agreed to work with me. Bringing the work of these talented artists to India is going to be spectacular.”

  She leans forward to remove her long boots. She unzips each one slowly and I can’t stop staring as every inch of her leg is slowly revealed. A sudden image of those legs wrapped around me as I pound into her fires through my mind. It’s so vivid and real that I have to blink several times to clear it out of my head. Fuck! What is wrong with me? I have to stop thinking like this. She’s a guest in my house and I can’t think of taking advantage of her, no matter how badly my body rebels at that thought.

  Aaliya slowly rotates her stocking clad feet. She rubs her palm against the arch of her feet and winces as she presses each. She looks up and finds me watching her. “Sorry! These boots are new and not yet broken in.”

  I clear my throat. “By all means, please be comfortable.”

  She gives me a grateful smile in return and tucks her legs beneath her, facing me completely.

  “Tell me about your work,” I say.

  “So, we have an architecture and design firm, Alpha Arc. We design and build houses from scratch and we do the interiors as well. In addition, we have a store in Mumbai called ASD, Aaliya Singh Designs, for people who like to instantly shop what they see. That’s my pet project. We contract a lot of our furniture pieces for the store and otherwise also from Italy, Portugal and many times from Turkey as well. We have some of the best names from the industry showcased at the store. Plus, we have a separate section highlighting Indian artists, artisans and Indian antiques. Here, have a look…”

  She gets an iPad from her bag and scrolls through a folder before handing it to me. I sift through the photos of the store and understand that it’s a huge space filled with beautiful furniture settings, exclusive accessories, lights etc. It is indeed impressive. She flips through more photos and shows me images of the houses she’s designed and the interiors she has done. I scroll through pictures, one after the other of tastefully done rooms with just the right amount of lighting and colors that suit the aesthetic of each space. They are all beautiful and inspiring. I have to accept that she is talented. She speaks confidently about her work and I ask her several questions that she replies to easily.

  Our hands brush as I hand the iPad back to her. I hear the catch in her breath, but I force my mind to ignore it.

  “Who is the we?” I ask.

  “We?” Her brows draw together.

  I clarify. “You kept sayin
g we as you described the store and your work.”

  Her eyes dart away from mine before she looks back at me. “It’s a family business.”

  “And who’s in charge of the business?”

  She tilts her head. “Me!”

  “How old are you?”

  “Going to be twenty-nine next month.”

  My jaw slackens. “You’ve achieved so much at such a young age. It’s quite remarkable.”

  “Thank you!” she says with a lift of her shoulders.

  “Now, tell me why you were so enthralled by those doors at Jonathan’s estate?” That question has played at the back of my mind ever since I witnessed her fascination with those damn doors.

  Her eyes sparkle! She scrolls through some pictures and hands me the iPad. It displays a stunning image of an ornate wooden double door crisscrossed with squares. Each square is intricately carved and has a circular carving inside it. The center of each circle has a molded flower with a polished gold center. Each of the doors has a huge circular knocker ring attached to it.

  “This is quite…magnificent.” I face her with a look of awe. “I can imagine these doors gracing the entrance of that new wing in Jonathan’s house. They would look spectacular.”

  “Indeed,” her lips arch into a small smile as she looks at the picture. “I found these doors randomly during a visit to a small city in Rajasthan. They were part of an ancient crumbling mansion and the owners were selling the artifacts housed there. They hadn’t even considered the door until I asked them to sell it to me. They were quite shocked that I wanted it and they sold it to me for literally peanuts. The door was old, broken in places and crumbling. But I knew how magnificent it would be once done. This is how it was when I bought it.”

  She skips through a few pictures and shows me how the door was when she bought it.

  “Shit! It was truly dilapidated and destroyed,” I comment.

  “Yes. The base structure was intact along with the crisscrosses but nothing else remained.”