What Krishnan missed out on in terms of the playboy lifestyle, he made up for with its accoutrements. His car was an expensive sports model, upholstered in luxury fabrics with a top-of-the-range entertainment system on the dash. Jasmine had been in it before, but she never tired of the smell of wealth once the doors were closed—an aroma she rarely encountered in her life.
Krishnan sniffed the air as the key turned in the ignition and the engine started up its moneyed purr.
“What’s that perfume you’re wearing? Or rather, it’s wearing you. I might have to open the windows.”
“It’s cold,” complained Jas as the glass buzzed down an inch, letting in the brisk October air.
“Maybe you could consider wearing something then,” came Krishnan’s unsympathetic reply.
“I am wearing something.” Jas looked down, rather guiltily, at her bare midriff with its delicate gold chains looping from her pierced navel.
“Barely,” he muttered, turning left onto Belgrave Road.
“You don’t think I should be a Bollywood star, do you?”
Krishnan sighed heavily. “Better than being a footballer’s wife, I suppose.”
“It’s nothing like being a footballer’s wife! Do you see them as being on a par?”
“Isn’t it all about the shiny things and the adulation?”
“No! Maybe for the footballers’ wives. But to be a Bollywood star you have to work really hard. You know how many years I’ve been doing Bollywood dance classes! You kno
w the hours I put in.”
“I know you are talented and you work hard, yes. I just think these dreams of riches and fame and all that are a bit…silly.”
“But you dream of riches. Why else would you slave away from six till ten every day of the week?”
“When I get my riches, Jas, I’ll know I’ve earned them.”
“Krish!” She wanted to grab his wrist in that chunky gold watch and wrench it from the steering wheel, force him to listen properly to her, to give her some respect. But that would be a bit dangerous, so she didn’t.
“Besides,” said Krishnan, obviously feeling he’d gone too far and needed to do something to silence the angry rattle of Jasmine’s bangles. “Who will make the mango lassi if you go to Mumbai?”
“I’ll leave you my secret recipe,” said Jas, marginally mollified.
“I hope you do. Those are my biggest earners. The best lassi in town. Half of Leicester will go into mourning if they can’t buy them anymore.”
“Hmm.”
Jasmine folded her goose-pimpling arms and hugged herself as they left behind the urban streets and headed for the open countryside.
Looking sideways at Krishnan, she wondered what he was thinking. His lazy-lidded eyes rarely gave anything away. What did he really think of her? It was true they were different personalities, but so were Kareena and her co-star Shahid in Jab We Met.
Oh, what did it matter? It wasn’t Krishnan’s attention she needed to hook now. It was Ajay Amir’s—Bollywood’s premier heart-throb, the go-to guy for any role requiring a bare-chested scene, the man whose severe and beautiful profile had gazed down at her from her bedroom wall since she had first started watching the movies.
She settled back into a daydream, imagining herself capturing his heart, winning the talent show final, flying with him back to Mumbai where they would be the golden couple, attending every premiere, acting opposite each other in every romantic comedy…
Then they would marry—she conveniently glossed over any awkwardness that might transpire when he found out she was Jasmine Wyatt, not Jasmeena Khan—and on their wedding night…hmm, how would that be?
As the fields and farms flew past the window, Jas placed herself in the centre of a huge four-poster bed, lying naked on its satin sheets while Ajay dripped champagne onto her sheenily moisturised skin, licking up the frothing beads where they fell.
“My Jasmeena,” he murmured, his luscious, full lips kissing their way to her throat. “My goddess. Let me teach you the arts of love.”
She quivered, melting into his touch, parting her legs for him.
“Show me how it is done, Ajay.” Should she pretend to be a virgin? No, he was a man of the world. He wouldn’t fall for that. “My other lovers knew nothing of a woman’s body,” she improvised. “Beneath your hand, I am new.” Segue into song and dance routine based on Madonna’s Like a Virgin. No! This was a sex fantasy, not a script. Scratch the singing.