His Monsoon Bride

Amrita took a deep breath and re-entered the lion’s den. Before her nerve failed her she announced, ‘Mehtab, I accept your proposal.’ And then she added, ‘But I have one condition.’

‘Anything you want,’ she heard Mehtab say.

She put on a defiant but calm expression. ‘I will continue to work after I get married, and the less you interfere in my work, the better.’

She worked? Mehtab thought, surprised. He had taken her to be a spoilt brat, living off daddy’s money. What was this work? But he knew better than to ask that question now. Instead he said, ‘Of course. You are free to live life as you want.’

‘Well, then, I agree.’

Mehtab saw her bottom lip quivering. He knew this was not what she wanted, and it was far from an ideal situation, but it had to be done. Amrita would understand in time. He might not be the Romeo to her Juliet, but he would give her all that she wanted. She didn’t realise how much this marriage would enhance his image and his career—the family man who had a perfect wife and a perfect business. He wanted to be admired and looked up to in all areas of his life—and Amrita was going to make that happen.

Dear Reader

When I found out that Harlequin Mills & Boon was looking for their second writer from India, a switch went off in my head. Why am I not taking part in the contest? I asked myself. It was five hours to deadline and I told myself that sometimes, to make dreams come true, you need to take a risk. And so I sat down and started writing as if my life depended on it. My original story, about the slightly voluptuous, shy but smart daughter of a millionaire, Amrita, who finds love with the roguish and rude but utterly handsome businessman Mehtab was just a figment of my imagination that even caught me by surprise. Who knew I was capable of such romance? Even though my romance with my husband, Kishore, has remained fresh for five and a half years now. And so I wrote a story about people who fall in love not because they are attracted to each other’s exteriors, but because eventually it’s a heart of gold that matters. I think it was because my own marriage has made me believe in such a love.

But I never expected to win! And so when I first got the call saying my story had been selected in the top three I was stunned. In fact, I was grateful for even that achievement. Then, as they called out my name as the winner at the party thrown for the entrants, I knew that taking that risk and giving it my all had paid off. And what an experience it has been!

Writing a love story for Mills and Boon has been the most creative and fulfilling task I have ever undertaken. It has taught me how to flesh out my characters, how to know that their actions are a result of their past life, and how to see that a person’s past and present shapes their future. From the moment I started writing about Amrita and Mehtab I knew I had to really make them come to life. In fact I had to make the reader feel as if she knew them intimately, and also make her understand why they do what they do.

Amrita, who on the surface seems to have everything, is actually a slightly confused young woman who wants to be independent and free from the shackles of the elite society she belongs to. She is also very headstrong and intelligent, and is a journalist (I guess I had to put a little bit of me in her!). She also faces a problem that many of us in this day and age do. She thinks she is fat just because she isn’t exactly like the models she sees on the pages of a magazine. But we Indian women are uniquely beautiful because of our curves, and eventually Amrita embraces that, as it’s Mehtab who makes her realise how beautiful she really is. She is also pretty fashionable, and opts for clothes that flatter her figure rather than just going along with a trend, and that underlines an aspect of her personality that’s just so spunky.

Mehtab was so named because that name just conjures up the image of a tall, big-shouldered, handsome man, whose grin can turn a woman to mush. He is witty and charming, and can say all the right things so that a girl just doesn’t stand a chance. Mehtab is misunderstood, because his steely, rough exterior hides a man who is fighting the demons of his past. But if you manage to go beyond all that, as Amrita finally does, you will find he is a kind, compassionate man. And he falls in love with Amrita for the real her. That’s because he knows that she has also accepted him, with all his baggage, and that is a sure sign of real love.

Their love story is a good example of how love can be found even when the circumstances are unfavourable. Sometimes life throws curveballs at us, but love really can conquer all. And I hope it makes everyone believe in the fact that true love does exist, and to give up on it would be a shame.

I am so glad I got to write this Mills and Boon story as it has made me a writer I never imagined I could be. And to be able to show the world what a love story set in contemporary India—my city Mumbai—is really like is also another big plus.

I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It’s been a ride!

Take care!

Love

Aastha

AASTHA ATRAY was the winner of the Passions of India competition 2011. Her exciting story and lively characters immediately stood out from the crowd and caught the judges’ eyes. Here is her inspiring story—from entering the competition to becoming a Mills & Boon® author!

His Monsoon Bride

Aastha Atray

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Mom and Dad,

who are the wind beneath my wings.

CHAPTER ONE

AMRITA PIRAMAL could feel the sticky, stern Mumbai sun staring down at her as if he had a personal grudge against her. She put on her sunglasses and rolled down the windows of the cab that was going barely twenty kilometres an hour. She contemplated telling the driver to speed up, but then, she thought, did she really want to reach home so soon? No, she wanted to delay this as long as she could. Her phone had been ringing off the hook. It was Meera, her nanny, who had looked after her since her mother died when Amrita was ten. She knew that Meera was calling to remind her that she needed to be home on time today—it was the day of the party that would decide her father’s fate.

Yes, her father, Manoj Piramal, once the richest man in India and in many ways the pioneer of the telecom boom, had been reduced to his last lakh. His habit of blindly trusting people had finally backfired. A former partner had been sucking the company dry and when he was finally found out, the business was on its last legs. The partner was behind bars now, but that didn’t change anything for her father. If he couldn’t manage to get a few investors on board soon, he would have to declare bankruptcy. That was why today’s party was so important. Her father was trying to win over Mumbai’s elite and charm his way back into the society that spurned him. But Amrita knew it wasn’t going to be so easy.

That was because she knew a thing or two about Mumbai’s elite. She had been one of them all her life. Her father was rich and her mother had been Bollywood’s most glamorous and scandalous leading lady until she died in a horrific road accident. Her mind drifted back to the newspaper headlines the day her mother died—’Scandalous Bollywood Starlet Killed’ and ‘She Loved Many, But Who Loved Her?’

Amrita knew how fickle this society was. How they just changed tack once they knew you didn’t matter. They loved you when you had it all, and if you didn’t, they loved watching you crash and burn. She knew many of the top businessmen, their bitchy wives and their size-zero daughters and womanising sons would be trotting in tonight just to see how bad things had actually got. They wanted to see Manoj Piramal beg. They wanted to see the daughter of Reshma Singh, the notorious adulteress, being reduced to nothing.

It was strange. She was raised in this society and yet somehow she managed to see it so objectively. It could have been because, despite her lineage, she had never really felt a part of it. She never fitted in because she was nerdy and liked to read and eat ice cream on the public beach. It was because she took the local train instead of the chauffeur-driven car. It was also maybe because she didn’t fit the mould of what an heiress should look like. She glanced down at her curvy body and sighed. She was fat—that was what they would all say. She knew obsessing about her weight was silly; she was built just like an Indian woman should be—curvy in the right places. But this society had forgotten what real women looked like, and she hated that she was thinking of herself this way. She knew she was pretty—her dazzling smile and her hazel eyes could mesmerise any man, not that she was interested in any.

There had been her ex-boyfriend, Akshaye, but after he left she didn’t want to even think of a man ever again, at least for a while. A few days ago her father had hinted that maybe it was time for her to get married and she had told him, in no uncertain terms, ‘No way!’ She needed to concentrate on herself and her career. She smiled then, for she loved her job, even though not many people knew what she did. She had refused a post at the city’s leading fashion magazine, Purple, to work at an independent news magazine where she wrote human interest stories that gave her the opportunity to profile ordinary people doing extraordinary things, like the group of girls she had just met.

They lived in slums, in houses no bigger than Amrita’s bathroom. Playing basketball was their only escape. The girls said when they were on the court it was as if nothing else in the world mattered. They smiled in the face of trouble and Amrita wished she could be one of them. But that was not to be. She knew she had to suck it up now and go to that dreaded party, because she had promised herself when her mother died that she would look after her father. She would never let him down, and so she would be the perfect hostess tonight. But she wasn’t going to let those size-zero south Mumbai bimbettes with their couture dresses and labelled handbags win the day. She thought of the new designer dress hanging in her wardrobe and decided she wouldn’t wear that. Instead she would shock them and wear the salwar kameez she bought last week from a small boutique. The yellow colour set off her tanned skin and the purple dupatta was a beautiful lace delight. Let them snicker—she was going to wear what she loved.

The imposing iron gates of her house opened and she could see Meera standing in the doorway. As the car pulled up Meera rushed out to hustle her inside.

‘Amrita, where have you been? I have been calling you. The party is supposed to start in twenty minutes and you aren’t even ready!’ Meera was a small lady with a pleasant face that always seemed to be smiling, even when she was angry.

‘Relax, Meera,’ Amrita soothed, ‘I am here now and I am all yours.’

‘You make me crazy. Chalo chalo, have a bath and wear that new dress.’

‘No. I have a better outfit in mind.’ Amrita smiled because she knew Meera would have a fit when she saw what she was planning to wear. She entered her home, Shanti—it meant peace and it was, for Amrita, the most peaceful place in the world—and headed straight for her bedroom. She loved this house and the thought that she might have to vacate it soon was killing her inside. But she had to be strong. As she slipped on her yellow kurta, purple churidar and purple lace dupatta, she felt beautiful. She finished the look with a bindi and kundan earrings, which were a birthday gift from her father. The emerald and diamonds sparkled and added a glow to her face. She wore gold ballet pumps on her feet and was twirling in front of the mirror when Meera entered.

‘What are you wearing? What happened to the designer dress?’

‘It’s so last season, Meera darling,’ Amrita joked.

‘You will be the death of me, child,’ Meera said exasperatedly, but she nodded in approval. ‘You look beautiful. Those girls won’t know what hit them. A princess who has a heart of gold—you are the best.’

Amrita hugged Meera and took the elevator down. She had to help her father make this party a success. This company was his biggest passion and she vowed to do whatever it took. It had to work.

Mehtab Rathod stood in the middle of the opulent ballroom and smiled. Even after ten years of being at the top of his game, he still felt strangely uncomfortable at these lavish Mumbai dos. He knew this party was probably milking his host dry. He winced at the fact that he was thinking about the cost of this party, when he should be enjoying it. But his upbringing made it hard to ignore such extravagance.

Growing up, he had never even dreamed of seeing a one-hundred-rupee note, and today he was a billionaire. The son of a chawl dweller who worked in Mumbai’s mills in the 1970s, Mehtab had spent his childhood roaming the dirty lanes of Dharavi, Asia’s largest slum, singing cheesy Bollywood songs in the city’s famous monsoon rain. He slept in a room with five siblings and his parents and often dreamt about pots of gold, literally. His father had always pushed Mehtab to make it big. But Mehtab knew he had erred in many ways. There were some incidents in his life he would rather forget, but they haunted him every night in his dreams. His greatest regret in life was that his father never saw him become who he was today, a leader in the real-estate business, whose last property had been sold in a record-breaking deal.

He had to stop thinking about all that. He was rich and he was living the good life. He was alone, though—his parents had passed away and his siblings were married and living their own lives. There was no dearth of women, but he knew that most of them were only interested in his money or his looks. Maybe, one day, he would be out of both, so he preferred to keep a distance. He never trusted anyone. He had too many secrets, and he was never sure who would accept him with all his baggage.

Lately, however, he had been thinking about the possibility of getting married. Not for love, obviously, but to maintain his social standing. Being a rich Casanova was not a title he relished. He wanted to be known as the complete man—and a man was only complete when he had a family. He needed a woman who was classy and sophisticated, who would be an asset to him and his empire, and wouldn’t expect too much from him emotionally. He needed the perfect little trophy wife and a marriage that would elevate his position among Mumbai’s elite, and obviously it wouldn’t be bad to see somebody when he returned from work every day. But it had to be on his terms.

When he had heard of Manoj Piramal and his daughter Amrita, it had instantly made perfect business sense to him. A marriage to Amrita meant gaining a company and an ideal wife—a wife who knew this society better than he ever could. After all, she was born into it. Yes, this was a perfect plan, and he would execute it with finesse.

The fact that Piramal Industries was in deep trouble had provided Mehtab with the ideal bargaining chip to get Piramal to approve of the marriage. Mehtab only had to tell him that he would turn his flailing company around and he knew Piramal would agree. Men did many things for fame and wealth, and he was sure Piramal was no different.

Mehtab’s earlier conversation with the older man had been fraught with tension. ‘So, Mr Piramal, you know I have the means to turn your company around. Will you accept my offer of help?’

Piramal had looked at him warily. ‘Yes, Mehtab. But you have never been known to do anything unless there is something in it for you.’

At this, Mehtab had laughed wickedly. ‘Oh, you know me so well. All these years, you have always been one step ahead of me. I guess you had experience on your side. I respect that. But now it’s my time to rule. My favourite rival, you work for me now, so I suggest you be nice to me, so I can tell you how it’s going to be.’

Piramal had sighed and just said, ‘What do you want?’

Mehtab had not minced his words. ‘Your daughter as my wife. That’s all.’ Though Piramal had simply walked away, Mehtab knew he would consider it. It could be the wedding of the year and Piramal knew that.

Mehtab smiled gleefully now as he glanced round the buzzing ballroom. This was great. He would get two things he desired for the price of one. He had heard contrary reports about Amrita, though—some said she was extremely smart and refined, while a rich heiress he once dated had bitchily remarked she was fat and clumsy. Where was she? he thought as his reverie was broken by a tall, stunning woman who walked over to him and licked her lips. ‘Wanna dance?’

He flashed her a wicked grin and took her hand. This was a perfect way to while away time while he waited for Amrita to appear. Then halfway to the dance floor he noticed the elevator doors open. The woman who stepped out looked slightly nervous but that just added to her delicate beauty. Mehtab knew at once that this was Amrita. He was shocked by his reaction—she was so unlike the women he had got used to seeing in Mumbai’s swish set. For starters, she was wearing a salwar kameez and she certainly had the curves to fill it out. Her body was like an Indian goddess’s and her face belonged in a painting. Finally, it was time to strike.

Amrita hugged her father and realised how old he had started looking in the past few days. His worry was reflected in his face. She forced herself to smile as he guided her across the room and introduced her to some new faces. She knew most of this crowd, even though she could not admit to liking them. She tried to explain that to her father with a nonchalant, ‘We are all very different,’ but she knew that really it was because none of them looked beyond themselves.

Her father paused in front of a man she had never seen before and said, ‘Amrita, this is Mehtab Rathod of Rathod Real Estate. Surely you have heard of him?’

Amrita sucked in her breath; he was the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. Dressed in a tailor-made suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and muscular torso, he looked more like a model than one of her father’s business associates. His hair was wavy and long enough that she wanted to run her fingers through it. A day’s stubble added to his rugged appeal and he was six feet tall with such strong-looking arms that she suddenly wanted to be held by him. She felt a blush on her cheeks and she realised she was staring at him.

‘You look mesmerising. That’s an unusual choice of outfit for a party like this,’ he purred in his deep voice, and then smiled at her in amusement. Amrita didn’t know if he was making fun of her or complimenting her.

She caught his gaze and replied smoothly, ‘I like to do unexpected things.’

She saw her father look at them warily before he said, ‘Amrita, did you know Mehtab just topped India’s rich list? That would have been me not so long ago. Those were the days, right!’

Amrita hated seeing her father so sad. She turned to say something when Mehtab said, ‘Sir, it’s all an illusion—this wealth, I mean. Here today, gone tomorrow. Happiness comes from having people to love, like you have your daughter.’

Amrita was filled with surprise. Did this man with that annoying grin just say something so sweet?

Her father smiled but he still looked a bit preoccupied. ‘So true. Mehtab, why don’t you keep my lovely daughter company while I mingle?’

As he walked away Manoj Piramal looked back at his daughter, who was now being led towards the bar by Mehtab. He knew Amrita was not going to like what he was going to propose to her soon—he wanted to ask Mehtab if he would marry Amrita.

When Mehtab had suggested it, Manoj had felt immense anger. But then, as he had given it more thought, he felt drawn to the proposal. He felt guilty even thinking about asking Amrita to do such a thing. But she wasn’t with anybody, and maybe she would like Mehtab. He winced. He knew Mehtab wasn’t Amrita’s type—he was ruthless and Manoj was sure that he would never ever love his daughter. So why was he even thinking of this? But he knew that if there was anyone who could save Piramal Industries, it would be Mehtab, who had proven his brilliant business acumen through the years. He knew he was putting Amrita in a difficult position—maybe the most difficult one in her life—but he could not see any way out. He’d had Mehtab checked out and what he found was worrying—he was a ladies’ man who never dated the same woman twice, and nobody had a clue who the real Mehtab was. Though there were reports he was liked by everyone in his company, especially the ground-level workers, the tales of his ruthlessness when it came to business were endless. Would he be like that with his wife as well? Manoj felt a sense of foreboding at what he was about to do, but he knew he had no other choice.

At the bar, Mehtab grimaced. ‘I find these parties a bit hard to handle, you know. Too many beautiful people for my comfort. They put me on edge.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Amrita said, surprised by his confession. Mehtab didn’t seem like the sort of man who felt uneasy very often. No, he seemed confident and in control. ‘I was born into this and I still feel left out. The perfectly groomed façade takes a lot of time, you know, but take away the expensive clothes, the make-up and the cars, and you won’t have much left.’

‘Yes, yes, it’s all an illusion, one that I have necessarily had to buy into, by the way. But please don’t hate me.’ He smiled and put an arm round Amrita’s waist. ‘Would you like a glass of white wine? Or do you just drink organic tea? Now that would be unexpected.’

Amrita knew he was pulling her leg so she tossed her hair back and smiled. ‘White wine would be good. And you? Will you order a whiskey on the rocks like the rest of your mindless colleagues?’

Mehtab threw his head back and laughed. Amrita laughed too and found herself admiring the deep, throaty sound he made. God, why did she just do that? He stopped mid-laugh and said gruffly, ‘I am not used to women who make me laugh. You have to tell me how you developed such a sharp tongue. It’s refreshing as well as very threatening.’

‘Why do you find it threatening, Mr Rathod? Are you telling me a big, strong man like you can’t win a word duel with little ol’ me? A little friendly competition never hurt anybody.’

Mehtab was enjoying this verbal spar. Most girls he met just giggled at whatever he said and then turned all seductive as he neared for the kill. It was as if women were born to play only two roles—the femme fatale or the damsel in distress. But Amrita was neither, and he found that intriguing. He mentally reminded himself that it was not the time to start admiring Amrita, but time to pursue her. He knew pursuing Amrita would be his greatest challenge yet, but one he would rise to and most certainly enjoy….

‘I don’t find you threatening, Miss Piramal. If anything, you are making me wish I had my special speech writer here to help me with the repartee. Tell me, are all society girls as witty as you, Miss Piramal, or is that a trait only reserved for the daughter of the great Reshma Singh?’ He smirked and saw her flinch instantly at the comparison. But she recovered with the grace of an heiress, he noticed, with just dots of pink on her cheeks belying her anger.