The Full Moon Bride Page 4

  Oh no, I was doing it again—drooling over a man who was probably laughing at me right now. But a quick peek assured me his face was serious and attentive.

  When we found an ice-cream vendor at the park’s entrance, I turned to Roger. “How about some ice cream?” Although Roger had eaten plenty at my home, I hadn’t eaten any of Mom’s food, and my stomach felt hollow.

  “Sounds good.” Roger was already reading the menu displayed on the side of the ice-cream cart with narrowed eyes. “Chocolate-pistachio. Single scoop,” he said, after carefully perusing the list with the kind of concentration we attorneys reserved for studying complex legal documents.

  “One single chocolate-pistachio cone and one sugar-free cherry ice, please,” I said to the ice-cream seller. I would have loved to sink my teeth into some chocolate-pistachio myself, but the cherry ice was the only thing with a bright red color, no fat, and no carbs.

  When I opened my purse to pay for our purchase, Roger didn’t even make a token effort to pick up the tab. Cheap! I doubted whether he even carried a wallet. For all his earlier chivalry, the guy seemed stingy. And thank goodness I’d remembered to bring my purse, or it could have proved embarrassing.

  Happily licking his ice cream as we strolled toward the small lake with ducks floating on its surface, Roger was quiet for a while, then shot me a quizzical smile. “Why the glum look? Am I that repulsive?”

  Boy, did he have some nerve! Coming to a complete stop, I turned to him, right there in the middle of the park, surrounded by walkers and joggers and dog exercisers. “Look, there’s no need to add insult to injury, okay. I know why you suggested we go for a quiet walk. You’re going to tell me in private, very politely, that I’m too fat and unattractive, aren’t you? So cut out the BS and cut to the chase.”

  A few passersby stared at us, but I didn’t care.

  “What are you talking about?” Roger’s puzzled frown looked genuine enough, making me wonder if his question was indeed innocent or if he was just a gifted actor.

  Marching over to an empty bench located under a Norway maple, I sat down with all the feminine daintiness I could muster. The result was a rather clumsy plop, with the cherry ice landing in my lap. Thank goodness I was wearing dark brown slacks. I hastily cleaned up the icy red mess with my napkins and tossed the ball into the nearby trash receptacle.

  “I’m not impressed by the innocent act, Roger,” I snapped, suppressed annoyance making my voice quiver.

  Joining me on the bench, Roger methodically finished the last of his ice cream and tossed his napkins in the trash, then combed his fingers through his long hair. A sheepish look came over his face. “Actually . . . my name’s not Roger.”

  “What!” My scowl must have been ferocious, because his head jerked back a bit.

  “I apologize. My real name is Rajesh.”

  “Rajesh? Then why did you tell me your name was Roger?” My notorious temper was beginning to do a tap dance in my head.

  “That is something I use for professional reasons.”

  “Why?”

  A long sigh escaped Roger’s full lips. “I’m not exactly your average Indian male.”

  As if I hadn’t noticed? My cursed brain was still singing cute-sexy, cute-sexy. “What does that have to do with lying about your name?”

  “Quite a lot.”

  “I don’t appreciate being lied to.” I slid away from him to the end of the bench to show him just how much I disliked liars.

  “But you’re a lawyer, for Pete’s sake.”

  I was incredulous. “I resent that—the pot calling the kettle black.” Drawing a deep breath, I counted to five. “I realize lawyers aren’t viewed as icons of society, but I happen to be a respectable lawyer with scruples. I do not lie.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you were a liar. I meant you should be used to other people lying to you.”

  “Even so, I don’t tolerate people who pull a fast one on me.” Roger was getting on my last nerve. “So what’s with this Roger alias?” I demanded.

  He winced, showing me he wasn’t used to dealing with girls with fiery tempers. “Friends and teachers started calling me Roger because it was easy and familiar when I was in elementary school, and it stuck. It was a more acceptable name while I was growing up in a mostly white neighborhood and attending an all-white school in a conservative state like Kansas. Americans react better to Roger than Rajesh.”

  “My family is very Indian in their ways, thank you very much. I’m sure they’d have handled Rajesh perfectly well, much better than Roger, in fact,” I ground out, still fuming. “And Roger Vadepalli sounds a bit silly, by the way.”

  Roger shook his head. “I have to tell you something else. It’s not just the name that’s outside the norm. I generally sport long hair and a beard. I wear wrinkled T-shirts and jeans. I told you I’m not your typical Indian guy with an engineering degree, a nine-to-five job, a 401K plan, and a fat year-end bonus for being a good boy. My dad lectured me and forced me to clean up specifically for this occasion.”

  “I see.” Inwardly I didn’t see at all. So he’d showered and shaved and cut off his locks for his meeting with me. Big deal. It wasn’t enough to diminish my anger.

  Besides, his hair was still too long. And so darn silky-looking. I tried not to let my eyes linger over it.

  “Being a young, modern attorney and all, I thought you might like Roger better than Rajesh, too.”

  “And your parents don’t mind this sort of deception?”

  He shrugged. “They don’t appreciate it, but I convinced them it was only for a few hours. Eventually I was going to tell you and your family the truth. And I just did, didn’t I?” he added with a disarming smile.

  Despite my attempts to hold on to my sense of outrage, Roger’s quirky logic was beginning to get the better of me. It appealed to my odd sense of humor. He was a rare masterpiece, this man with the long legs, soft hair, the Adonis face, and a ridiculous name like Roger Vadepalli. After a long, heavy silence, my lips began to twitch with amusement. “Beard and decrepit togs, eh? No kidding?”

  “No kidding. Here, take a look at this.” Roger dug into his pocket and pulled out a dog-eared photograph of himself.

  A hoot of laughter, loud and unladylike, erupted from my throat. The snapshot looked like a mug shot and the young man in it looked like a hobo, nearly as wild and crazy as the Unabomber. For one brief, uneasy second I wondered if this individual sitting next to me was as twisted as the lunatic who’d terrorized the academic and scientific communities for so many years.

  The outward charm, the lies, and the assumed name. Were they all part of a sick mind? Was it a mistake coming here alone with him? An unconscious shiver shot through me. I slanted a wary look at Roger. “So what’s the catch? Are you so desperate to get my dowry or does someone in your family badly need my father’s cosmetic makeover for free?”

  “Neither,” said Roger, or rather Rajesh, on a chuckle. “My dad owns an engineering consulting company and is rolling in dollars. He employs about sixty people and lives in a huge house. And nobody in the Vadepalli family is quite that anxious for your father’s scalpel.”

  I couldn’t keep my curiosity locked up any longer. “And what do you do for a living, Roger? Work for your father?”

  “No. I don’t like engineering. I’m a writer and producer.”

  Well, that more or less explained the scruffy look. He was the untamed, artistic type. I took a slow, deep breath. My nerves settled a bit. At least he wasn’t a demented genius who built bombs in his basement. “Producer, as in movies?” I asked.

  “As in plays. I have a degree in theater arts.”

  “You mean like Broadway?” Well, now that I’d established he wasn’t a mad scientist, Roger was suddenly beginning to take on fascinating proportions in my view. A young man from a conservative Telugu family working as a drama producer? This surely had to be a first.

  “Not right now, but I’m hoping to get to Broadway som
eday soon.”

  “So where do I fit into this? I’m guessing you don’t need an Indian woman lawyer to play a role in one of your plays?”

  Roger stared at the ducks gliding over the lake in quiet contemplation for a long minute, his cinnamon eyes narrowed. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to compose a suitable reply to my question or a painless way to let me down, or perhaps both.

  The sun was low over the horizon—a giant fireball shimmering over the lake and the ducks, casting golden fingers through the rhododendron bushes and the giant weeping willows skirting the water. Bees buzzed around us. It was nearing dinnertime and many of the walkers were heading for the exit gate, leaving Roger and me sitting more or less by ourselves.

  And still Roger continued to stare into the distance in silence. My patience was wearing out. I’d give him thirty more seconds.

  Finally I rose from the bench. “So, which is it going to be, Roger? Am I dark and unattractive? Or way too qualified? Or you’re gay perhaps? Impotent?”

  What he said next wasn’t all that unexpected, but the stark honesty of it left my legs feeling a bit weak. So I sat down again. Despite all the lies he’d told me so far, the man seemed brutally honest in this one answer.

  “None of those,” he replied quietly. “What I need is a rich wife.”

  Chapter 4

  Istared at Roger, my eyes wide. Had I heard correctly? Had he actually come out and admitted what most men wouldn’t? Or couldn’t?

  “Look, I’ll be honest,” Roger explained earnestly.

  “You mean you’ll tell me the truth for a change.” I was still bristling from the chain of lies and the shock of one harsh truth.

  Roger had the grace to blush. “I need to move to New York to pursue my work. I have no money of my own and Dad refuses to help me out unless I do something stodgy and uninspiring like consulting.”

  “Why?”

  “He has no faith in anything that’s remotely related to show business.”

  “How about friends or siblings?”

  “None of my friends are rich. I have only one older sister, Renuka, and she’s married to a regular scrooge. Renu’s husband is comfortable but even more conservative than my dad.”

  “I suppose that’s where I come in?”

  “Well, I was hoping that if you agreed to marry me, maybe I could ask your father, or perhaps even you, to invest in my production.”

  “And you don’t feel any discomfort in that, Roger?”

  “It’ll only be a loan that I intend to repay—every last penny of it with interest. . . .” His voice trailed off on a disheartened note. “Never mind. It’s all so far-fetched and hopeless.”

  Despite my efforts to resist his eccentric charm, I felt myself getting reeled in like the fish that bites the shiny lure. “No, your career doesn’t sound all that hopeless. Tell me more about your work.”

  “You’re sure you want to hear the boring details?”

  “I’m sure.” I watched Roger Vadepalli’s eyes light up as he told me about his play, Mumbai to Manhattan, the story of a young, idealistic diamond merchant named Satish Sharma.

  Satish migrates from Mumbai (originally called Bombay), India, to New York to start a jewelry business. Walking home late one night, he witnesses the murder of a young woman and calls 911. That single fateful incident lands the naïve Satish in a tangled web of drug deals and killings, eventually making him a target for the killer. Meanwhile Satish is befriended by his neighbor, a mysterious and slightly crazy clairvoyant who calls herself a voodoo priestess. Despite his doubts about her mental stability and her motives, she helps him overcome his troubles and achieve his dream of starting a successful diamond business in Manhattan.

  Realizing Roger’s tale was filled with dark secrets and gruesome murders—exactly my kind of macabre drama—I smiled. “Sounds wonderful.”

  Bedroom Eyes looked stunned. “It does? So, you think this might work? Marriage, the drama company?”

  “Whoa, wait a minute. Who said anything about marriage?”

  “But you and I? Our meeting today—” His frown looked perplexed.

  “Don’t take me for granted, Roger Vadepalli.” Some nerve the man had, presuming I’d be so grateful for his largesse that I’d fall at his feet and accept him as my lord and master. I wasn’t that desperate for a man.

  “Pardon me.” He didn’t look all that contrite.

  “Marriage is very premature at the moment. We’ve just met.” I raised a hand to stop him when I saw his lips move. “I realize this was a bride viewing, but that doesn’t mean I subscribe to the meet-once-then-marry philosophy. I want to date the man I’ll eventually settle with. So forget instant marriage.”

  Roger held up both hands, palms facing out. “All right, okay. I understand.”

  “Good. Besides, for all I know, you could be a serial killer.” The teasing note slipped through the seriousness I was trying hard to preserve.

  “Sorry, I got a bit carried away.” His mouth curved in the most attractive way, and his eyes twinkled, turning the cinnamon to liquid copper.

  “But you don’t think I’m too chunky and plain?” I asked, hearing disbelief in my own voice. No matter how outlandish his plans were, the man didn’t have to marry a girl he didn’t like and consequently ruin his personal life, just to fulfill his career dreams.

  He shook his head. “Not at all. My last girlfriend was also a big girl.”

  I couldn’t help the shocked gasp. “You don’t say!” His honesty about my size stung a bit, but I had asked for candor, hadn’t I? “So how many girlfriends have you had?”

  “A few.”

  A few could mean anywhere from two to ten. It was best not to delve into that. “So what happened to your last girlfriend, the big one? Did she dump you?”

  “No, I ended our relationship. She took it hard, but I couldn’t do that to my folks, you know, marrying a non-Indian girl. Being an Indian dude has its obligations.”

  “Yeah, I know how that feels,” I said, recalling my obligations to my family. “But don’t your parents expect you to marry a pretty girl?”

  A wicked grin spread across Roger’s striking face. “They’ll be happy to get an Indian daughter-in-law, period. Every girl I’ve met so far has rejected me.”

  “Why?” He was one of the most attractive Indian men I’d seen.

  “They all wanted a nice, clean-cut doctor or engineer or some other respectable professional with a healthy income. I obviously didn’t fit the mold.”

  I could see some Indian girls wrinkling up their noses at an unkempt and unemployed writer-producer with no real prospects. “How many girls?”

  “Exactly a dozen. I suppose you’ll be the thirteenth,” he said with a resigned sigh. “Thirteen is never a good number. I told Dad this wholesome new image wouldn’t work any better than my destitute look, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  Just like Roger had done earlier, I watched the ducks floating over the sun-kissed water. For some reason the bees were buzzing more loudly now—maybe they’d found a piece of candy or something lying around, or it could be Roger’s cologne.

  I wasn’t sure what to say to Roger. Sure, he was cute and likeable. He was probably quite bright, too. But did I want to marry a jobless guy? I was a well-paid lawyer working for a classy firm in Manhattan. I had standards to maintain.

  But I was undecided. Why did he have to be so darn attractive? If he were ugly as a warthog, it would have been simple. “Like my mother said, it’s a full moon tonight, with potential,” I finally said and rose from the bench. “Come on, let’s go see a movie and discuss a few possibilities, Roger.”

  We headed back to our house so we could pick up my car and go to the movies. The walk back was much less stressful than the earlier stroll. At least now Bedroom Eyes and I were talking. I was no longer afraid of him. He even had both hands thrust in his pockets in that relaxed way men seem to have.

  Mr. Shah was nowhere in sight, thank goodness. Everybody else we ran i
nto was a stranger to me. Absently I scratched my neck.

  “Contact dermatitis,” pronounced Roger.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your hives. I noticed them earlier. The gold border on your sari might have irritated your skin. It’s called contact dermatitis.”

  “I know what it’s called, but how do you know that?” Roger’s knowledge of things was fascinating, but I hadn’t realized he’d noticed all that much about me. What else had caught those dreamy eyes? The wet patches under my arms? The tiny mole on my upper lip? The funny shape of my right middle toe?

  “I was a pre-med student a long time ago,” he replied.

  “So how did you end up in theater arts?”

  “The theater’s more appealing than slicing up cadavers.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said with a shudder. Cadavers had never appealed to me, either. Our house came into view and we crossed the street.

  “We could take our rental car,” Roger offered, referring to the white Chevy Malibu parked on the street in front of our house.

  The offer was unexpected, but I considered it for a second. The idea of making him pay for something, even if it was only half a gallon of gas, sounded great. But I was afraid the Vadepallis were probably debating the idea of staying at our house, and having no car would give them the perfect reason to accept Mom’s invitation. I was against that notion.

  Having the Vadepallis in our home overnight was unsettling. I had no idea how things would go with Roger, and I didn’t want to establish any sort of relationship with these strangers. Besides, I’d discovered they were rich. They could afford a hotel room. “No, let’s take my car,” I said. “I know the roads and it’s faster that way.”

  When we reached the house, I found the elders cozily settled in the family room, watching television. The volume was extremely loud for Pamma’s benefit. Oh dear, in the hour or so since Bedroom Eyes and I had left for the park, things had obviously progressed from the formal living room to the more informal family room.