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Her heart stilled at the taut emotion in his voice. Her fingers spread against the wood, almost as if willing the door to disappear so she could touch him.
“He’s vicious,” she whispered. “Nothing like the face that he presents to the world.”
“Neither am I.” The words were a promise. A beat of silence later, he murmured, “Come out. I’ve left something on the doorknob for you.”
She heard him walking away from the door, feeling like he took the warmth with him. Raashi shivered, the chill of the air conditioner wafting over her skin. She washed her face free of makeup and then dabbed it dry not bothering with any of the million serums her sister had packed for her.
She pulled the door open and stepped out, something soft falling on her feet. She glanced down, her gaze snagging on it. Raashi bent slowly to pick up the old, clearly washed into the realm of cloudy comfort, t-shirt. She held it to her, inhaling the clean smell of detergent interlaced with a faint smell of Harsh. Woodsmoke and crisp, winter nights, wrapped into one, luxuriant, fragrant hug.
I left something for you.
She stepped back into the bathroom, whipping off the itchy, revealing negligee and slipping into his t-shirt.
Neither am I.
No, Harsh Kodela was nothing like the face he showed the world.
Forty-One
HARSH
“We’re going to war!” Harsh announced slamming the door to his brother’s study open.
The door banged against the wall behind it, rebounded and almost hit Harsh in the face. He stopped it with one hand, before stepping into the study and glancing around. Surprisingly, there weren’t a million aides milling around. There wasn’t even one.
“Did you hear me?” he demanded, stalking towards Agastya’s desk.
Agastya leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “I heard you.”
“And?” Harsh threw himself into the chair across from Agastya, glaring at his brother.
“And I’m thinking it must have been one hell of a wedding night, if you’re going to war the next day.”
“I’m not.” Harsh leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “We are.”
“And who am I going to war against?”
“Anant Madhavan.”
“Ahh.” Agastya tapped a pen against the open file on his table. “I wondered when we’d get to that.”
“Now.” Harsh smiled, a feral baring of his teeth. “We get to it now.”
“And why am I going to war against him?”
“Because he hurt Raashi.”
Agastya went still, a deadly, viciously precise stillness that everyone who knew him knew to be careful of.
“How?” One word, crisp and furious.
“I don’t know,” Harsh admitted. “But I know he did.”
“Harsh.” Agastya sighed, his pen stopping its rapid tapping. He shut the file and rubbed a hand over his face. “We’re not going after someone unless we have concrete reason to do so.”
Harsh’s gaze roved over the grand, dark wood and marble covered study. It oozed power without any of the pretentiousness that his father’s study had. If ever a room took on its owner’s personality, it was this one.
“If Raashi won’t give you the whole story-“
