Nights of Roshan
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
© 2013 Nights of Roshan
Editor: Katriena Knights
Cover Art: Marteeka Karland
Books are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
Contents
The first night…
Neiri flicked her tongue out and peeled off the single hair that had tickled the back of her throat. Resting an arm on the side of the swimming pool, she lifted her goggles to the top of her head and squinted at the hair. Fine. Silver. Flecks of black. The hell? The actual hell? She rolled it between her fingers; the texture felt the same as cat hair. Wincing, Neiri heaved herself out of the pool and sat on the side. The whole building was pet-free. It was in the covenants of her deeds. No pets. Especially cats. Oh, good God, was her throat closing? Antihistamine. Now. Now. Now. Rushing to the changing rooms, Neiri grabbed her sports bag and flung through the belongings for the tablets she kept with her at all times.
So she couldn’t swim at all now? Her leisurely evening swims had become tense, early morning exercise all because of the new owner. Again Neiri cursed the existence of her smart-arsed ex-husband who was dragging out their divorce finances to avoid bankruptcy. All his scheming and planning meant Neiri was stuck in this building. Unable to sell, unable to move until they either went to court for the last time or Adil could smarm his way into an agreement, she was now suffering the indignity of swallowing cat hair in her own pool. Well, the pool inside the building. Everyone else had sold up to the new owner, who’d made an absolute nuisance of himself by converting the top floor of the eight-storey building into his own flat level mansion. She had a brief vision of that blinding grin he flashed almost every time they saw each other. Okay, she conceded. Not that much of a nuisance of himself.
Roshan Ahsani was so ridiculously good looking, the day he’d turned up at her flat with a box of her favourite truffles from Belgium and an apology for the building work, she’d looked up into his face – his genetically perfect, symmetrical, God-touched face – and laughed. Horrified by the reaction, she laughed even harder when a frown furrowed his smooth, dark olive brow. He’d been the one to sit her down while he poured her a stiff drink, showing up her lamentable hostess skills. The drink didn’t really help. She had a giggling fit every time they ran into each other and it was embarrassing every time.
The man was lavish and extravagant but generous with her. She supposed he had to be since she was the one in the way of his establishing Ahsani Towers. But he’d recommended the solicitor she used. He’d wrangled a lower council tax bill (actually he’d lowered all her bills) and beautifully redecorated the basement pool. She had fresh flowers delivered to her flat every single day. The variety and volume of flowers astounded her, and she had no idea what to say to him in thanks.
The building had all the convenience of a hotel and none of the irritations. If she sold up, that would be it. No more cosy little lift chats with Mr Ahsani. No more muted enjoyment of that cologne he wore. Whatever it was, she’d needed to stop trying to rub herself against him like a cat in heat. No more faux arguments about the pool use. Really, it was about putting her bikinied body in his view to convince him otherwise. He gave her leeway on everything, like a favourite uncle. But the pool? His playpen. He’d given her figure a lingering and appreciative glance before he actually tapped her on the nose, as if chiding a naughty kitten and said, “No. Nice try, though.”
The tablet felt stuck in her throat. She poured herself some filtered water and thought about her family. All of them. Sunning themselves in Sharm el-Sheikh for a beachside Christmas while she, since all her assets had been frozen as part of the litigation, had to stay in London, watching people get excited and stressed. A-freaking-lone. Her grandmother had given Neiri good warning.
Marry that man and regret it.
And how.
The next hearing was crammed in between Christmas and the New Year. She needed Adil to give up the flat. Take his name off it, and she could recoup the money she’d lost investing in one of his terrible schemes. As nice as Roshan was to her, she was quite aware that he was buttering her up so he could buy the flat. Of course he didn’t want to share it with her, and she needed to find herself somewhere to live. Somewhere that wouldn’t be anywhere near as nice as the tower, because it was so far out of her financial range, even if she bargained with Roshan for a higher selling price. All the while Adil and his swimwear model child of a girlfriend would carry on living in the Islington town house Neiri had lovingly decorated from top to bottom.
Dammit. She squeezed her eyes shut until they stopped stinging. The swim should have calmed her, and instead her allergies were up and so were her shoulders. She wrapped her hair in a towel and shoved her arms through the fluffy sleeves of her robe. Going back in the pool didn’t even register in her thinking. No thank you to any more cat hairs. Making an official complaint tickled in her brain, but she didn’t want to start any more wars. Although, she was more than tempted to wait down here and catch Roshan Ahsani throwing bags of black and white kittens into the pool and making them race each other, in some twisted animal Olympics. Cat hair. Was nothing sacred? To think, her ancestors used to worship those things…
Roshan focused on the bicep curls he was counting in his head, rather than on his mother’s voice. Three hundred on each arm was normally a walk in the park. His current weakness was biologically based, and he didn’t know if his body had sent out some sort of warning beacon, but everyone seemed overly interested in his breeding or lack thereof.
“
Chele
,” his mother cooed over the telephone. “Please.”
“No.”
“It’s our turn.”
“I said no. I am not having those furballs, those hawked-up, phlegm-coated, chewed-up pieces of hair in my building. It’s not our turn. It’s always our turn because they’re too lazy to arrange things themselves. Tell them to find somewhere else.”
His mother rode over his refusal. “But I already promised.”
Roshan placed the barbell on the floor and rested his hands on his narrow hips. He despised their scheming. It fundamentally ran against his natural instincts – their natural instincts – and yet, they wanted a meet. A gathering to do what? Celebrate surviving extinction one more year? They were dying out. No manner of meets or planned fertility parties with people he was related to by blood would resolve that. They needed a
sed
. A traditional festival; true to their pagan origins. And to be fair, they really needed to stop interbreeding. Having a party and disrupting his mental stability would not ease any concerns that tigers were being wiped out.
“That’s not my problem.”
She changed tactics. “Your Aunt Leilani’s daughter has had her braces removed.”
Roshan picked up a towel and patted off the sweat from his chest. “So?”
“Well it won’t hurt now if she pleasures you and something gets caught…”
God help him
. “Bye, mum.”
He ended the call. A throbbing ache began behind his left eyeball. He liked his mother. Not just loved her. He actually liked her, too. But if she ever said anything like that again, he’d simply have to kill her.
Swimming
, his tiger commanded.
Now. Now. Now.
He tapped in the code to the security cameras to see where his lone building companion was located. Neiriouri Halabi seemed to be in his playpen again. As much as the old Roshan would have happily told her to do one, a new, enlightened Roshan had other ideas. He watched her tuck in the lapels of her robe, folding them higher about her neck.
No one would ever call that woman sweet or pretty or cute. Faces like hers compelled artists and musicians to attempt to recreate the sensations she caused simply by existing. He was not a being given to worship, but that face? Definitely could change his mind. She stepped into the lift, depriving him of further admiration.
He threw the towel around his neck and tugged at the edges. It only took a moment’s thought before he put the call through.
“Send over that file. I know what I said, but I pay you to change my mind. Email. In the next minute.”
This time last year, he had been meditating, sitting at the base of one of his family’s temples, his tail swishing across the stone floor like a metronome to keep his thoughts clear. The need for regular solitude was part of his beast. And he heard it. The call. A chant that echoed the very beat of his heart. Every single tiger was taught, every single one of them, at one stage or another, that in their lifetime they would be called in prayer, in faith to protect. To watch over those who needed it. And it would be nothing less than their ultimate duty to honour that call. Once he heard it, he shifted to his human form and made arrangements to follow that call.
As soon as he touched down in London, everything fell into place. The building, the architect, right down to Neiriouri Halabi being unable to sell her flat. He’d handed her the right solicitor, spoken to the owner of her dental practice for leeway, made sure she would still be paid for full time despite only being there part time. He cut her bills, expunged her mortgage and barely saved her engagement ring from auction, just because he knew she’d regret it. And it all would have remained crisply dutiful had he not engaged with the infuriating woman. Now when he meditated, her barely covered figure would wander into his mind and demand, “Did you not see what I was wearing today? You really should take another look. Admire properly.”
His beast took the same view. “We really should spend more time with her. With nothing on. A little pinning, a little mating, maybe a little bit of teeth. But that’s it. Regularly.”
Private investigators had collated a file with his legal team to push her into selling. It hadn’t crossed his mind to look. Until now. Once he did, his compulsion for all things Operation Save Neiriouri became clear. Clearer than his trouser beast wanting to play with her…
His parents had had the decency to procreate outside of their bloodlines. And with Neiriouri’s help, so, at last, would he.
