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If someone had shot their lovemaking in the darkness of the nook that night and played it like a reel in front of her eyes, Zara would’ve been no less aroused than she was now. She wondered if every person present could read her thoughts. Could see the rising heat in her skin as his gaze held hers.
He blinked and a shutter came down over those eyes. As effortlessly as if he’d called for a curtain to drop. For the shot to end.
The tension dissipated, the not so quiet atmosphere of the set slamming back into her awareness as if someone had turned the sound system on again.
Zara blinked and looked around, wondering if she’d imagined that seconds-long instant connection between them. If the sun and whatever else was wrong with her was making her hallucinate—albeit wickedly erotic things—in the middle of the day.
His long stride ate up the distance between them in two steps and then Virat was hovering over her, forcing her to look up at him. In khaki shorts and a thin white linen shirt that hung loose on his frame and yet gave her a perfect view of the thick slab of muscles in his chest and abdomen, he looked like a tall glass of cold water that she wanted to pour all over herself.
“What shall I do with you, Ms. Khan?”
A shiver warmed her spine as Zara tried not to fidget in her chair. Something in his tone told Zara she hadn’t imagined that sudden flare of intense connection. And that it hadn’t been all on her side.
“What will you do with me, Virat sir?” she retorted, imbuing her tone with the syrupy obedience she’d seen some of the junior artists use when they approached him. It hadn’t escaped her notice that the production manager’s junior assistant—a pretty, peppy girl with wide brown eyes—had been hanging onto his every word and command like he were the God she’d been looking for.
His nostrils flared, but he didn’t betray himself in any other way. “You’ve grown bolder,” he said, a thoughtfulness in his expression.
“You mean after the other night or after all these years?” she taunted.
“Doesn’t matter. I’m just pleasantly surprised by it.”
Zara shrugged. “Apparently, it’s the only way I can keep my errant fiancé’s attention. If I need to be bold and brazen to keep my man from flitting away, then that’s what I’ll be doing.”
A flare of heat licked into life on his face. For an infinitesimal second, his gaze took in the wide swoop of her blouse’s neckline, her long legs in cotton shorts. Like a possessive lover. Like a man who couldn’t wait to touch all he saw.
“How about you bring that boldness into this scene, Ms. Khan?” He didn’t give Zara a second to respond. “You’re freezing up every time you deliver your speech. Your accent...slips sometimes and sounds far too cultured for abaazaariwoman who grew up on the streets. That final confrontation scene is your time to shine, Zara. Either Bhai or Richard’s stealing the show. You’re not pulling your weight at all. Don’t forget that your character is the one yanking on the thread that unravels everything. For all she looks like she’s powerlessly caught between the two men.
“I thought you said you’d rehearsed the intonation before?”
“I’m doing my best, darling,” she replied with a mock pout, knowing that the entire team was still watching. His criticism was justified—shewasslipping up. Maybe because for the first time in her life, Zara’s attention was not on immersing herself in the part.
But on the man who made her feel so much. Too much, it seemed.
She and Virat as a couple were still a source of great fascination to the world. Especially since some of the trashier cable channels had taken to calling the news of their engagement a twisted love triangle featuring Vikram and Zara and Virat.
While that had only brought renewed interest in the biopic—Vikram and Naina, secure in their love, had found it hilarious. But knowing Virat had initially thought she’d swapped one for the other ten years ago made Zara feel tacky and gross.
“Are you, though?” Virat demanded, looking down at her in her chair from his great height. His brown eyes devoured her face, as if he meant to see into her heart.
And Zara realized he was...angry.About something to do with her.
Maybe because she hadn’t simply answered his probing questions that night as he’d demanded. Maybe because the brilliant Virat Raawal couldn’t figure her out. Because, she knew, as well as her heart beating in her chest right now, that he liked people to be predictable and easy to catalog. It worked two ways for him—because it helped him understand human nature and bring it onto the screen in all its myriad forms, and also because it enabled him to maintain a carefully created distance between himself and everyone else.
Satisfaction coursed through Zara, like a cool stream drenching her. He couldn’t pin her down and it was getting to him. She wanted to remain a mystery to him. She wanted to torment him as much as he was doing it to her.
She let her gaze fall to his mouth as he glowered at her, and licked her own lips. Not that she had to fake being all hot and bothered with him around. “I’m just...distracted,jaanu.” She placed her palm on his chest and fluttered her eyelashes.
“That’s clear, Zara. Your mind’s not here.You’renot here.”
“That might be right. Can I tell you something utterly unprofessional?” she murmured in a voice no one else could hear.
His jaw hardened and he let out a pained breath. “What?”
“You were right that night.”
“About what?”
“It had been a long time. Very long. But see, the thing is...” She drew a line from his jaw, down his Adam’s apple to where his white cotton shirt was unbuttoned. “I’ve now realized what I’ve been missing. And I have decided...”
