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I drew out an exaggerated gasp.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to cook!”
“It has been known to happen before, and I can promise you I haven’t killed anyone yet,” DV replied mildly, before marching towards my tiny kitchen.
I got to my feet and followed him out of curiosity. It was barely big enough to qualify as a kitchen, though. And my pantry was shamefully empty because I ate most of my meals in the community dining room with my friends.
DV opened and shut my cupboards, and finally turned to me in exasperation.
“Is there anything here that I can turn into a meal?”
“Umm, I have instant noodles,” I said with a shrug.
“Let me start over. Is there anything here that I can turn into a meal that won’t burn a hole in both our guts?”
“So picky, Your Highness,” I teased. “That’s all there is. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine, noodles it is,” he said with a heavy sigh.
I still felt miserable about Vishal’s suicide, but my load of misery suddenly felt lighter than it had felt a few minutes ago. And it was all because of this man who liked to sing while he cooked. I leaned forward and tried to identify the song he was singing.
Good God! My big, goofy Maharaja was singing La Vie en Rose. The Edith Piaf version. And not very well. Which meant he sounded like an out-of-tune old French auntie with laryngitis.
This was my punishment for feeding him instant noodles, right? It had to be. No one could sing so badly on purpose. I tried to shut the sound out, and when that didn’t work, I went out into the living room and turned the TV on loud. Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought I heard a snicker from the kitchen. Hmph.
Thirty minutes later, I licked the back of my fork as I stared at DV knowingly.
“You enjoyed that as much as I did. Admit it,” I challenged.
He set his empty bowl on the coffee table in front of the sofa and cocked that darn eyebrow at me again.
“Since I know you couldn’t possibly mean that bowl of liquid fire, I assume you’re talking about what happened earlier. And yes, I did enjoy it as much as you did,” he purred.
Dammit! I walked right into that one.
I felt my face flame as I drew circles in my bowl with my fork to avoid looking at him.
“I meant the noodles,” I replied primly.
“Oh, are we not going to discuss what happened?”
To be honest, I didn’t know what there was to say. Except maybe thank you, andhallelujah!I knew what DV was asking. But right now, all I could think about was the poor dead man, even if he was a creepy stalker.
“Not right now,” I admitted. “But… we could revisit the issue after all this is behind us. If you want to, that is.”
Before DV could reply, there was a sharp rap at the door. I cursed Freddy’s whimsical design choices. Instead of a doorbell, there was a massive knocker with a lion’s head that made quite a racket when it was applied, and in my current state of mind, the sound made me practically jump out of my skin in fright.
“That must be Sam,” said DV calmly.
I wondered what it would take to make him jump in fright. Not even a cannonball exploding next to his head, I realised. He wasn’t the type to be frightened easily. He walked over to open the door while I lounged on the sofa with a glass of wine.
Sona rushed into the room, followed by Samar more sedately. These commando/secret agent types didn’t faze easily. The only time I had seen Samar panic was when my mother had kidnapped Sona. And even then, it hadn’t been anything obvious. It was just the way he had hugged her after he found her that had given him away.
“DV, we need to head out. Make sure the cops investigating Vishal’s death know where we are at,” said Samar.
DV looked torn.
“I can’t leave Tasha right now,” he began, but I interrupted him.
