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But instead of putting an end to what felt like a mockery of his talent, his choices, and even him, Vikram continued to watch. Still curious to see what else she’d do. Bizarrely hungry for the spectacle the woman was making of him.
No wonder Virat was having the time of his life. In their recent argument, his younger brother hadn’t packed his punches when he’d criticized that action thriller and every other career choice Vikram had made in the last fifteen years with the brilliant wit and rapacious tongue that he was famous for throughout the industry as a top Bollywood director.
It seemed his brother had been sitting on a mountain of complaints that had suddenly blown up in Vikram’s face. The argument had begun after he’d confessed to Virat about his ridiculous proposal to Zara. Virat had unexpectedly gone ballistic about that, then moved on to an old disagreement about their sister Anya’s future, then the script for a film Vikram had rejected last year...and finished with his brother calling him a control freak who just didn’t know when to stop.
The woman hugged the imaginary person to her chest and bent her head, a low growl building out of her petite form. A couple of seconds passed as she buried her head in the stuffed toy’s neck. Just as he’d done to the heroine in that scene. Even the theater hadn’t had this kind of pin-drop silence from the audience that she did.
His chest burned with embarrassment, even the beginnings of anger but there was something else too. He continued to watch, as captivated as the rest of them.
The low growl erupted from the woman’s throat as she let the huge toy roll away from her lap and, in a movement that was creepily close to his own movements, she raised her head, pushed her fingers to the back of her neck, and screamed again in simulated fury and anguish.
She managed to pitch her voice pretty low, sounding almost as a man might. And then, she looked up.
“I will avenge you, Meri Jaan, in this life and the next. I will destroy everyone that harmed you. I will paint the world with the blood of the man that wronged you. I am the destroyer.”
The wretched woman even started humming the soundtrack that followed those horrible lines of dialogue. Who was she?
Applause broke around her. With a familiarity that Vikram found annoying on a disproportionate level, Virat wrapped his arm around the woman and pulled her into a hug against him. Even Daadi laughed.
And then it clicked. This was his grandmother’s new personal assistant. The wonderful Ms. Naina Menon that Daadi couldn’t stop singing praises of. The one who’d been hired by his grandmother around two months ago, after she’d done some work for Virat. Vikram had never met her.
“You could give most of the leading ladies a run for their money, darling,” said Virat.
She shook her head. “Thanks, Virat. But I’m not made for acting. I...this was just—”
Pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, Vikram stepped into the room. “My brother’s right, Ms. Menon.”
The cheerful atmosphere died an instant death. The servants disappeared like rats at the sight of a big cat. Slender fingers pushing away at her unruly cloud of hair in a nervous gesture, the woman turned to face him.
Large, wide eyes alighted on his face, and there was a tremble to that pink mouth. “Hello, Mr. Raawal. I can’t tell you how excited I am to finally meet you.” It should have sounded pandering, syrupy, and yet the sentiment in her words was clearly genuine.
The fascination he’d felt as he’d taken in her plump curves morphed into a rumbling growl inside his chest, not unlike the one she’d just done in imitation of him. “I wish I could say the same of you, Ms. Menon,” he said, his tone betraying nothing but icy disdain.
“I’m sorry if that performance offended you, Mr. Raawal. It was meant to just be a bit of fun...” She looked incredibly young as she visibly swallowed. “I wasn’t mocking you.”
“No? It sounded like you were,” he retorted softly, childishly put out that he was Mr. Raawal while his brother was Virat. Of course, Virat had been charming women since he’d been inlangotis, so it wasn’t much of a surprise. “Youarewasting your talents here. If not the silver screen, you should be on one of those talk shows, making money from doing the caustic commentaries that are all the rage now, mocking every artist, and bringing them down for the world’s glee.”
The moment the words were out of his mouth, Vikram regretted them. Even before he noticed her stricken expression. He’d been called arrogant, blunt, even grumpy, but never cruel, not even by the media that kept looking for dirt underneath the shield of his public persona.
But that had been downright cruel.
She went from laughing and glowing to a pinched paleness that punched a hole in his bitterness.
Virat interrupted. “Bhai, Daadi and I insisted that she—”
“What do you do with that talent?” he cut in, once again disproportionately riled by Virat’s protective stance toward this relative stranger. For some reason, Vikram was far too invested in this woman’s opinion of him.
Ms. Menon continued to stare up at him, big eyes wide, tension swathing her petite frame. He moved closer to her and felt that tug again. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way, but the expression in those eyes, the rapid change from anger to desire to confusion...it made her utterly gorgeous.
God, she only looked about twenty.
“Lost your ability for words now?” he murmured, more to hear her speak again than anything else.
She glared at him. “I don’t understand your question.”
“You’re clearly talented, Ms. Menon. What do you do with it all? I mean, other than making a mockery of others?”
“I was... I was just showing them my mimicry. I even did a few other actors earlier too. Like Big B.”
