practically ignored her when their paths had crossed while Richard had been around, his head always buried in financial statements and yearly projections, and that had been fine with her.
He made her uncomfortable and it had nothing to do with the fact that they didn’t really know each other. The shift had happened when they’d met to sort out Ambrosia’s ownership, those two times when she’d noticed things: like the way he cracked pistachio nuts way too loudly, flipping them in the air and catching them in his open mouth, how much he loved Shiraz Grenache and sticky date pudding and the North Melbourne Football Club.
Trivial things, inconsequential things that meant little, but the fact that she’d noticed and remembered them annoyed her.
As for that kiss…she picked up a pillow and smothered a groan, hating how it haunted her, hating how she’d dreamed of it, hating how the dream had developed and morphed into so much more than a kiss, leaving her writhing and panting and sweat-drenched on waking.
She didn’t want to remember any of it, didn’t want to remember his expertise, his spontaneity, his ability to dredge a response from her deepest, darkest soul, better left untouched.
But she did remember, every breathtaking moment, and while her head had slammed the door on the memory of her temporary insanity, her body was clamouring for more.
Now this.
Him being here, all suave and charming and too gorgeous for his own good, was making her nervous. Very nervous.
She didn’t need anyone in her new life, least of all a smooth tycoon like Ethan Brooks.
As for her wayward thoughts lately in the wee small hours of the morning when she lay sleepless, staring up at the ceiling and trying to regain focus to her meandering life, she’d banish them along with her anger at Richard.
Wondering what would’ve happened if she’d gone for Ethan rather than Richard that fateful night she’d entered Ambrosia four years earlier was a waste of time.
Now was her chance to put the past to rest and concentrate on her future.
CHAPTER THREE
‘TELL me you’re not working.’
Ethan pointed at the small blue notebook tucked discreetly under her linen serviette—obviously not discreetly enough.
Ignoring him, Tamara sliced a vegetable pakora in two and dipped it in the tamarind sauce, her taste buds hankering for that first delicious taste of crispy vegetables battered in chickpea flour and dunked in the sour, piquant sauce.
‘Fine, I won’t tell you.’
He shook his head, laughed, before helping himself to a meat samosa from the entrée platter between them.
‘You’re supposed to be on holiday.’
‘I’m supposed to be getting back to work soon and I need the practice.’
Resting his knife and fork on his plate, he focused his too-blue gaze on her.
‘You’re an expert critic. One of Australia’s best. Skills like that don’t disappear because you’ve had a year or so off.’
‘Two years,’ she said, quelling the surge of resentment at what she’d given up for Richard. ‘Despite the last six months at Ambrosia, I’m still rusty. The sooner I get back into it, the easier it’ll be.’
She bit down on the pakora, chewed thoughtfully, knowing there was another reason she had her trusty notebook within jotting reach.
The minute she’d opened her compartment door to find Ethan on the other side in charcoal casual pants and open-necked white shirt, his gaze appreciative and his smile as piratical as always, she’d had to clamp down on the irrational urge to slam the door in his face and duck for cover.
It had been her stupid thoughts earlier of what if that had done it, that had made her aware of him as a man—a gorgeous, charming man—rather than just her…what was he? A business acquaintance? A travelling companion? A friend?
She didn’t like the last two options: they implied a closeness she didn’t want. But they’d moved past the acquaintance stage the moment he’d kissed her and there was no going back.
She didn’t want to have these thoughts, didn’t want to acknowledge the sexy crease in his left cheek, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes that added character to his face, the endearingly ruffled dark hair that curled over his collar.
She’d never noticed those things before or, if she had, hadn’t experienced this…this…buzz or whatever the strange feeling coursing through her body was that made her want to bury her nose in her notebook for the duration of dinner and not look up.
That might take care of day one, but what about the rest of the week as the Palace on Wheels took them on an amazing journey through Rajasthan?
Ethan was Richard’s friend, reason enough she couldn’t trust him, no matter how much he poured on the charm.
She’d fallen for Richard because he’d been safe and look at the devastation he’d wreaked. What would letting her guard down around a powerful, compelling guy like Ethan do?
Inwardly shuddering at the thought, she reached for the notebook at the same instant that he stilled her hand. Her gaze flew to his, her heart beating uncharacteristically fast.
He’d touched her again. First that hug on the station and now this. Though this time her pulse tripped and her skin prickled as determination flared in his eyes, while fear crept through her.
Fear they’d somehow changed the boundaries of their nebulous relationship without realising, fear they could never go back, fear she could lose focus of what she wanted out of this trip and why if she was crazy enough to acknowledge the shift between them, let alone do anything about it.
‘This is the first holiday you’ve taken in years. Don’t be so hard on yourself.’
He squeezed her hand, released it and she exhaled, unaware she’d been holding her breath.
‘You’ll get back into the swing of things soon enough. Once I coerce the super-talented Indian chef to leave the Lake Palace and work at Ambrosia, critiquing his meals will keep you busy for months.’
‘You’re too kind.’
She meant it. He’d never been anything other than kind to her, helping her with Richard’s business stuff, arranging a special table for her at Ambrosia away from the ravenous crowd so she could sample the food and write her critiques in peace.
But kind didn’t come close to describing the hungry gleam in his eyes or the subtle shift that had taken place between them a few moments ago—dangerous, more like it. Dangerous and exciting and terrifying.
He screwed up his nose, stabbing a seekh kebab from the entrée platter and moving it across to his plate. ‘You know, kind ranks right up there with nice for guys. Something we don’t want to hear.’
‘Fine. You’re a cold, heartless businessman who takes no
