The Sari Shop Widow (4 page)

His arm tightened around her. “How did
that
happen?”

“It’s been happening for a while. We’ve been expanding our inventory, hoping the increase in Indian weddings and upscale parties would mean more business, but that hasn’t happened. Sales are low. I was too careless to notice and my dad was too optimistic to take it seriously until now.”

“I thought your shop was booming. Every year there are more Indian people moving into Jersey, aren’t there? I see them everywhere.”

“That also means more competition,” she reminded him. “Other stores like ours have mushroomed. Ours was the only exclusive boutique at first, but now there are copycats within a stone’s throw. Dad says if we don’t turn a profit soon, we’ll go bankrupt.” Her voice cracked a little. The tears were hovering close to the surface.

Kip remained silent for a minute or two. “Your dad’s a smart businessman. I’m sure he’ll think of a way,” he said softly.

He sounded warm and sympathetic and Anjali instinctively leaned closer against him. Kip was right. He had a big shoulder to cry on, but she quelled the urge to burst into noisy sobs. It would ruin her makeup and make her eyes look like boiled shrimp. She knew she had a passably attractive face and nice eyes, but she just couldn’t cry prettily like some women.

Kip smelled of his usual spicy cologne and coffee and cigarette smoke—a blended scent that she’d come to like a lot. It was potent and very male. Very arousing. “Yeah, Dad thought of a way all right. It’ll kill us all.”

“He’s hired someone to torch the place?” Kip turned to her with wide, stunned eyes.

“No!” She threw him a horrified frown. “How could you even think that?”

“Well, I figured—”

“You figured wrong,” she retorted, interrupting him. “My dad’s a decent and principled guy. He’d never dream of arson and insurance fraud.”

“I grew up in a rough neighborhood; my thinking’s warped.” Kip squeezed her arm. “I apologize.”

She slumped against him once again. “In some ways it’s worse than torching the place. My rich uncle, Dad’s eldest brother, is arriving next week from India to assess the situation.”

“All the way from India?”

“He’s some kind of business mastermind.”

“Well, that explains it.” Kip chuckled. “A nice, rich uncle—Daddy Warbucks, or is it Uncle Warbucks? I thought rich uncles were a cliché. Most of us don’t have one of those, you know.”

“No, some of us have rich grandfathers who hand down flourishing bars,” she mocked.

Kip’s chuckle turned into a laugh, a rich masculine sound that was both droll and seductive. “Guess I deserved that. So what can Uncle Warbucks do that your father can’t?”

“Dad thinks his brother might have some fresh ideas to save the business and even pump some money into it. Strictly a loan, of course. My uncle’s a notorious Scrooge.”

“Rich
and
stingy?”

“Jeevan Kapadia’s not rich; he’s loaded.”

“Is that what’s getting you down?” He ruffled her hair with his fingers.

“That and everything else. Mom’s going to be impossible to live with as long as my uncle Jeevan is here. The last time he came to stay, she nearly ended up in an institution.”

Kip let out a low whistle. “Mean son of a bitch. Want me to get rid of him for you?”

“Don’t start planting ideas in my head, Kip.”

“I have connections.”

“It sounds awfully tempting, but he’s not
that
bad,” she replied on a laugh, realizing she was feeling a little better. The headache was finally wearing off. Kip’s warm hand traveled from her shoulder to the nape of her neck and made firm, circular motions that she found deeply soothing. “Mmm…that feels great.” She sighed as he continued to rub and knead her skin and follow a downward path all the way to the small of her back. Kip had great hands, large and hard but not too rough. At the moment he was making her purr like a well-coddled kitten.

Suddenly her breath came to a standstill before lurching back into a jerky rhythm. His hand had circled around her rib cage and wound itself about her right breast. She turned her head and looked up at him. Sure enough, he was staring at her with a gleam in his eyes. The tiny diamond in his earlobe glinted in the muted glow cast by the streetlight beyond the wall. “You are one hell of a beautiful woman, Angelface,” he murmured.

Anjali shivered. Lord, but Kip had a way of getting her excited. With his long fingers caressing her through the thin fabric of her silk blouse and lacy bra, and the expression on his face looking like he wanted to devour her whole, it was hard not to surrender to the urge to let him have her.

So she did. Somehow she always did—despite the lectures on caution she delivered to herself time and again.

Kip had a breathless effect on her. He was different. At forty-six, a full nine years older than she, he was a suave, practiced lover who knew how to pleasure a woman while pleasing himself in the process. She’d never asked him how many women he’d slept with. As long as he wore protection, what did it matter?

He was her one outlet from long hours of work and the strict, puritanical atmosphere of her home. Her parents would never understand something like the basic, carnal needs of a young woman. All they knew was how not to talk about sex and to satisfy anything remotely sexual within the sanctity of a nice, neat marriage bed concealed behind locked doors.

And Anjali didn’t have that luxury.

She wasn’t in love with Kip, thank goodness. Her feelings for him were based on lust and genuine affection. He was a confirmed bachelor and way too independent for her to think about anything permanent with him. Besides, in her old-fashioned Gujarati environment, Kip would stick out like Mount Everest planted amidst gentle, rolling hills.

And Kip never concealed the fact that he liked women—all colors, nationalities and religious affiliations included. His only criterion seemed to be beauty. As long as he thought a woman looked good, and she was able and willing to put out, Kip was available.

How had she, a second-generation Indian-American widow raised in a conservative family, ended up with a Don Juan like Kip?

She had stepped into Rowling Rok one night with two of her girlfriends on a Ladies’ Night. She’d been wearing one of her own designs, a sleek peach silk dress that did wonders for her complexion and long dark hair.

When she’d gone up to the bar for a refill, Kip had flirted wildly with her. “So, are you an angel descended from heaven or am I dreaming?” he’d asked with a wicked glint of humor in his eyes. They were a rich shade of green she’d never seen before.

“I’m very human, thank you,” she’d replied warily, despite the heady feeling of being thoroughly surveyed by a pair of sexy, roving eyes that had turned warm with appreciation, like liquid emeralds.

“So, what’s your name, pretty lady?”

“Why do you want to know?” she’d challenged him, trying to put as much starch into her voice as possible. She wasn’t about to give her name or anything else to a flirtatious wolf with the most beautifully sculpted body and an incredible smile.

He had chuckled, the sound making Anjali want to reach across the counter and touch his face to see if it was as delightfully raspy as it looked with its late-evening shadow. “I make it my business to find out who comes into my lair.”

There, she was right: he was a wicked wolf. “So you own this…lair?” She’d pretended to throw a casually critical glance around the room. Although she’d liked the warm, polished oak paneling, the friendly atmosphere, the framed prints of the Jersey coast, and the cozy lighting, she’d managed to appear indifferent.

“Yeah, I’m Kip Rowling, lord and keeper of Rowling Rok,” he’d replied and put his hand forward for a handshake.

There was no way to avoid a friendly gesture like that. So with her slim hand placed in his large, hard grasp, she’d aimed a hesitant smile at him. “I’m Anjali Kapadia. Nice to meet you, lord and keeper of Rowling Rok.”

He’d pretended to clutch his heart and gasp, making her giggle. “An-ja-li? As in An-gel-face? I knew it. I knew you were an angel from heaven.”

After the introduction he’d invited her to sit at the bar stool instead of returning immediately to her table and they’d talked for several minutes. He was a delectable surprise, a much-needed one after a very long dry spell with no men and no amusement in her life. Despite her efforts to keep a rein on her emotions, she’d lost a bit of her heart to Kip that night. And given him her cell phone number.

Following the entertaining chatter with Kip, she’d returned to her table, only to be teased mercilessly by her friends about the cute bartender with the kissable mouth and gorgeous eyes. Then, surprisingly, Kip had called her the following week and invited her to his bar once again for drinks. Within a short time she’d found herself visiting him at least twice a week after work.

She always told her parents she was going out with her girlfriends, and they didn’t seem to mind as long as she got home by midnight and was at the store before ten o’clock the next morning. They were naïve enough to believe she was merely enjoying the company of other single women.

Within months of getting to know Kip, Anjali had wound up in his bed. And she wasn’t surprised at all. Kip was that kind of guy—all masculine charm, hard muscle, and the sexual finesse of a male courtesan. He could seduce a woman with a mere lift of an eyebrow.

The first time it had happened she’d been drinking too much. It wasn’t a legitimate excuse but she liked to think it was. It was a lapse in judgment—and it happened more often than her conscience was comfortable with.

Now, as always, Kip led her upstairs to his apartment. It was no more than a small office with an adjoining bedroom and bath—his home away from home. It was a place to do his bookkeeping, to rest, to unwind. His love nest.

At first she’d felt awkward and embarrassed about sleeping with a man who had no sense of morality. He’d made no promises to her and never tried to hide the fact that the comfortable, king-sized bed in that room saw plenty of action. But then she’d realized she was no better, especially when compared with other
Desi
women her own age.

Some thirty minutes later, feeling somewhat less stressed and wearing the glow of recent sex—scorching, toe-tingling, mind-numbing sex—she kissed Kip good-bye. “Thanks, I feel a lot better.”

He chuckled. “My pleasure, Angelface.”

She descended the stairs and went around the side of the building to the parking lot. As always, after one of her trysts with Kip, she felt a deep sense of shame and guilt sweep over her. She was a sensible businesswoman raised in an orthodox Hindu household, and yet it seemed like she was seeking out cheap thrills.

What was the matter with her? Was it only loneliness that goaded her into a secret liaison with a man like Kip? Or was she a nymphomaniac? How did other women cope with what she was going through?

If she paid heed to her parents’ advice and married a decent man, she could have all the sex she wanted and put an end to the loneliness. She could have love and warmth and a sense of belonging. And yet, lifelong commitment was not what she wanted at this time.
Face it, Anjali
, she told herself.
You’re different from other Indian women. You’re free-spirited and your libido is a tad too active. Learn to live with it.

Slipping behind the wheel of her car, she turned on the ignition. At the moment there were more pressing things to worry about than her seemingly out-of-control libido.

A large asteroid named Jeevan was hurtling toward the United States. And she had to brace herself for the impact.

Chapter 3

B
y early Monday morning, Usha had the house in order. Every dust bunny and cobweb had been eradicated, the carpets professionally cleaned, and the guest bed had fresh white sheets and pillows and a brand-new blanket and bedspread.

Lunch was prepared and waiting on the stove. The refrigerator was stocked with fresh vegetables and fruit, plenty of milk and yogurt. A glass jar of pure
ghee
—clarified butter—sat on the kitchen counter, cooling off.

Anjali stood in the kitchen doorway and watched her mother scrub the pan in which she’d made the
ghee
. The entire house was imbued with its sweet scent.

Poor Mom. She looked like she’d lost weight in the past few days from working like a fiend in both the store and the house before Jeevan-kaka’s scheduled arrival later that morning. Anjali had done her part to help out, but her mother was a perfectionist and preferred to do most of it herself. She also liked playing the martyr.

The June sky looked overcast. It suited the mood in the Kapadia home, except for Anjali’s father. His eyes seemed to glow in anticipation of seeing his brother after a five-year interval.

Probably sensing her presence, her mother turned around to give her a quick glance. “Your father’s whistling,” she sniffed.

“Yes.” Anjali had distinctly heard him whistling a jolly tune upstairs a little while ago. She’d hoped her mother hadn’t heard the buoyant sound, something they weren’t accustomed to hearing from the serious Mohan. Now it only served to make her mother crankier. But at least her dad was in a jubilant mood.

Anjali walked up to the pantry, poured a bowl of cornflakes and a glass of orange juice.

Setting the washed pot in the dish drainer, her mother dried her hands and studied Anjali. “You were out late last night.”

“I…saw my friends after a long time…and we talked.” Since when had lying come so easily to her? After her return from seeing Kip, once again, she’d sneaked up to her room. She had tried to convince herself that she wasn’t hurting anyone. Both Kip and she were single; they were free to enjoy each other with no strings attached. And this was America, where consensual sex between responsible adults was the norm. However, sleep had still eluded her.

“You don’t look all that well.” Her mother’s assessing look lingered on her.

“I’m okay, Mom. You’re the one who looks beat.”

Usha took off her apron and sank into the kitchen chair opposite Anjali’s. “Jeevan-bhai is enough to make anyone weary.”