Claiming His Bollywood Cinderella (Mills & Boon Modern) (Born into Bollywood Book 1) Read online

  TARA PAMMI can’t remember a moment when she wasn’t lost in a book—especially a romance, which was much more exciting than a mathematics textbook at school. Years later, Tara’s wild imagination and love for the written word revealed what she really wanted to do. Now she pairs alpha males who think they know everything with strong women who knock that theory and them off their feet!

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  Married for the Sheikh’s Duty

  The Scandalous Brunetti Brothers miniseries

  An Innocent to Tame the Italian

  A Deal to Carry the Italian’s Heir

  Once Upon a Temptation collection

  The Flaw in His Marriage

  Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

  Claiming His Bollywood Cinderella

  Tara Pammi

  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  ISBN: 978-1-474-09864-9

  CLAIMING HIS BOLLYWOOD CINDERELLA

  © 2020 Tara Pammi

  Published in Great Britain 2020

  by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

  All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

  By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

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  www.millsandboon.co.uk

  Note to Readers

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  For Megan—for your endless patience,

  and for helping me make this story sparkle

  while the world was in chaos.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Booklist

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Note to Readers

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Extract

  About the Publisher

  CHAPTER ONE

  VIKRAM RAAWAL WALKED up the steps of Raawal Mahal, his family’s two-hundred-year-old palatial ancestral bungalow. It was the only property his parents had left unsullied by their still-tempestuous marriage of forty years.

  The muggy October afternoon was redolent with the pungent aroma of the jasmine creeper that his grandfather had planted for his wife all those years ago.

  His grandparents had shared a love story that couldn’t be recreated by all the glittering sets and stars of Bollywood. If not for the fact that Vikram had very clear memories of them—Daadu and Daadi sitting side by side listening to ghazals on the gramophone, sharing stories with him and his younger brother and sister, Daadi keeping silent vigil by her husband’s side as he vanished away into nothing...he would have scoffed at even the idea of such a love.

  But he had seen it. He’d been a part of it. He’d found comfort and joy in its shadow. And today, at the age of thirty-six, memories of that love hit him hard.

  He was lonely, he admitted to himself, as he walked through the gated courtyard toward the main bungalow. The strains of an old ghazal played on the gramophone player, sinking sweetly into his veins, slowly releasing the pent-up tension he’d been carrying. He laughed at the mural his younger brother, Virat, had painted on one wall where a profusion of plants and flowerpots sat on an elevated concrete bench.

  The cozy bungalow, full of sweet memories and peaceful childhood associations, was his favorite place in the world. And yet, he had avoided visiting for almost two months, using out-of-country shoots and overloaded scheduling as excuses.

  But here in this place where he was just Vikram and not Vikram Raawal, Bollywood star, and the chairman of the family production company Raawal House of Cinema, he couldn’t lie to himself.

  He hadn’t wanted to expose himself to his daadi’s brand of perceptiveness. He hadn’t wanted her to see how unhappy he’d been of late. How...unsettled in his own skin.

  The raucous burst of a man’s laughter punctured his thoughts. It was Virat.

  For a few seconds, Vikram considered turning around and walking out. His recent argument with his brother had been far dirtier than their usual headbutting over projects for Raawal House. Being called arrogant and dominating by a brother that he loved and respected had...shaken him.

  The laughter came again and Vikram’s curiosity trumped his reluctance. He walked through the grand salon, filled with his grandfather’s trophies and accolades from a career that had lasted close to five decades in Bollywood.

  Vijay Raawal had not only been a celebrated actor and director but had built his career from the ground up after traveling the country with a theater group for years. Started his own production company, and taken the industry in a new direction. Made mainstream films, art projects, and careers of many stars and never once lost his integrity.

  How had his grandfather sustained such a glittering career in such a superficial and cutthroat industry? Had it been simply the unconditional support Daadi had offered him through everything?

  After fifteen years and numerous box office hits in Bollywood, Vikram had suddenly found himself filled with a strange feeling of discontent all of a sudden. But it was more than creative burnout. In a cinematic twist, he’d found himself wanting the same kind of support and affection from som
eone that Daadi had given Daadu while knowing that he wasn’t actually capable of returning it.

  In a crazy moment of impulse, he’d asked his best friend Zara to marry him. Thankfully, Zara had instantly said no. That he had even considered marriage in the first place—even if it was to his oldest and longest friend, showed how unlike himself he was currently feeling.

  He nodded at Ramu Kaka—his grandfather’s old manservant, as old and comfortingly familiar as the bungalow itself.

  The first thing that hit him as he entered the expansive sitting room was the subtle scent of roses. Every inch of him stilled as he stood over the threshold, his long form hidden from his daadi and Virat by the L-shaped angle of the hall. They were lounging on the divan, while a number of their servants stood huddled by the other door that led to the huge kitchen. Every mouth twitched in varying degrees of smiles.

  In the middle of the room, kneeling on the rug, was a young woman with her face in profile to Vikram. Evening sunlight filtered through the high windows in the room and lit up her silhouette. The first thing he noted was the dark halo of her hair, curly and thick like her very own crown, that swung from side to side every time she moved her head, and huge glittering earrings that reminded him of the crystal chandelier Mama had spent thousands of dollars on in some Italian boutique.

  The earrings swayed enchantingly every time the young woman moved her head. And she did it a lot. His mouth curved.

  Wide eyes, pert nose and a lush mouth moved in constant animation, along with her plump body. Almost anesthetized by seeing size zero bodies on movie sets, he let his gaze return to the voluptuous lines of her body with a curious fascination. A white cotton kurta hugged her breasts, a long chain of glittery beads dancing over them.

  White stones on tiny half-moon gold hoops glinted in a perfect line over the shell of her left ear, winking mischievously in the waning sunlight. With her multihued skirt spread out around her in a kaleidoscope of colors, she was a gorgeous burst of color against a gray landscape.

  Full of life and verve and authenticity he hadn’t seen in a long time.

  A thrilling sliver of excitement bloomed in his gut even as he frowned at the oversized stuffed teddy bear on the floor in front of her. Suddenly, the woman opened her mouth and screamed.

  The cry was deep rather than shrill, perfectly modulated, and eerily familiar.

  Vikram watched in increasing fascination as she extended her arms and bent to scoop up the stuffed toy from the ground into her arms. The gold and silver-colored bracelets she wore on one wrist tinkled at the moment, adding their own background score to the entire scene.

  And then it came to him.

  She was enacting a scene. From a recent movie. His latest action thriller.

  She was...mocking him?

  She was imitating the cheesiest line he’d ever said in front of a camera and she was doing a fantastic job of pinpointing everything he’d hated about the movie and in particular, that scene.

  But instead of putting an end to what felt like a mockery of his talent, his choices, and even him, Vikram continued to watch. Still curious to see what else she’d do. Bizarrely hungry for the spectacle the woman was making of him.

  No wonder Virat was having the time of his life. In their recent argument, his younger brother hadn’t packed his punches when he’d criticized that action thriller and every other career choice Vikram had made in the last fifteen years with the brilliant wit and rapacious tongue that he was famous for throughout the industry as a top Bollywood director.

  It seemed his brother had been sitting on a mountain of complaints that had suddenly blown up in Vikram’s face. The argument had begun after he’d confessed to Virat about his ridiculous proposal to Zara. Virat had unexpectedly gone ballistic about that, then moved on to an old disagreement about their sister Anya’s future, then the script for a film Vikram had rejected last year...and finished with his brother calling him a control freak who just didn’t know when to stop.

  The woman hugged the imaginary person to her chest and bent her head, a low growl building out of her petite form. A couple of seconds passed as she buried her head in the stuffed toy’s neck. Just as he’d done to the heroine in that scene. Even the theater hadn’t had this kind of pin-drop silence from the audience that she did.

  His chest burned with embarrassment, even the beginnings of anger but there was something else too. He continued to watch, as captivated as the rest of them.

  The low growl erupted from the woman’s throat as she let the huge toy roll away from her lap and, in a movement that was creepily close to his own movements, she raised her head, pushed her fingers to the back of her neck, and screamed again in simulated fury and anguish.

  She managed to pitch her voice pretty low, sounding almost as a man might. And then, she looked up.

  “I will avenge you, Meri Jaan, in this life and the next. I will destroy everyone that harmed you. I will paint the world with the blood of the man that wronged you. I am the destroyer.”

  The wretched woman even started humming the soundtrack that followed those horrible lines of dialogue. Who was she?

  Applause broke around her. With a familiarity that Vikram found annoying on a disproportionate level, Virat wrapped his arm around the woman and pulled her into a hug against him. Even Daadi laughed.

  And then it clicked. This was his grandmother’s new personal assistant. The wonderful Ms. Naina Menon that Daadi couldn’t stop singing praises of. The one who’d been hired by his grandmother around two months ago, after she’d done some work for Virat. Vikram had never met her.

  “You could give most of the leading ladies a run for their money, darling,” said Virat.

  She shook her head. “Thanks, Virat. But I’m not made for acting. I...this was just—”

  Pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, Vikram stepped into the room. “My brother’s right, Ms. Menon.”

  The cheerful atmosphere died an instant death. The servants disappeared like rats at the sight of a big cat. Slender fingers pushing away at her unruly cloud of hair in a nervous gesture, the woman turned to face him.

  Large, wide eyes alighted on his face, and there was a tremble to that pink mouth. “Hello, Mr. Raawal. I can’t tell you how excited I am to finally meet you.” It should have sounded pandering, syrupy, and yet the sentiment in her words was clearly genuine.

  The fascination he’d felt as he’d taken in her plump curves morphed into a rumbling growl inside his chest, not unlike the one she’d just done in imitation of him. “I wish I could say the same of you, Ms. Menon,” he said, his tone betraying nothing but icy disdain.

  “I’m sorry if that performance offended you, Mr. Raawal. It was meant to just be a bit of fun...” She looked incredibly young as she visibly swallowed. “I wasn’t mocking you.”

  “No? It sounded like you were,” he retorted softly, childishly put out that he was Mr. Raawal while his brother was Virat. Of course, Virat had been charming women since he’d been in langotis, so it wasn’t much of a surprise. “You are wasting your talents here. If not the silver screen, you should be on one of those talk shows, making money from doing the caustic commentaries that are all the rage now, mocking every artist, and bringing them down for the world’s glee.”

  The moment the words were out of his mouth, Vikram regretted them. Even before he noticed her stricken expression. He’d been called arrogant, blunt, even grumpy, but never cruel, not even by the media that kept looking for dirt underneath the shield of his public persona.

  But that had been downright cruel.

  She went from laughing and glowing to a pinched paleness that punched a hole in his bitterness.

  Virat interrupted. “Bhai, Daadi and I insisted that she—”

  “What do you do with that talent?” he cut in, once again disproportionately riled by Virat’s protective stance toward this rela
tive stranger. For some reason, Vikram was far too invested in this woman’s opinion of him.

  Ms. Menon continued to stare up at him, big eyes wide, tension swathing her petite frame. He moved closer to her and felt that tug again. She was pretty in a girl-next-door way, but the expression in those eyes, the rapid change from anger to desire to confusion...it made her utterly gorgeous.

  God, she only looked about twenty.

  “Lost your ability for words now?” he murmured, more to hear her speak again than anything else.

  She glared at him. “I don’t understand your question.”

  “You’re clearly talented, Ms. Menon. What do you do with it all? I mean, other than making a mockery of others?”

  “I was... I was just showing them my mimicry. I even did a few other actors earlier too. Like Big B.”

  “Ahh...so you’re one of those critics who makes fun but has never done a minute’s worth of creative work themselves or shared it with the world? It’s so easy to hide on the sidelines and mock the person out in the public arena, no? Can I ask why you pinpointed that particular scene?”

  Her spine straightened and she charged forward. The scent of roses filled his nostrils and he felt a thrill run down his spine. God, she was gorgeous when she was all riled up.

  “First of all, I’m not ill-equipped to make such comments. Not when I’ve studied film history all through college. Secondly, are you sure you want to know why I picked that scene to reenact?”

  “I’m a big boy, Ms. Menon. I assure you I can take it.”

  “Can you though? When you’ve turned a minute of comedy into a huge insult to your own ego?” He didn’t answer and the resolve tightened in her face. “Fine, here’s my honest opinion, for what it’s worth.

  “You cater to the lowest denomination of the mass population with these action blockbusters, and you offer a warped image of what a hero should be with your revenge and destroy plotlines. You perpetuate the same tired old trope of being the macho guy who’s a ‘true man’ just because you can supposedly beat up more guys than anyone else. That movie was not only gratuitously violent but offensive on every level to women, from your leading lady to your blind sister to even your overdramatized female best friend. They only exist in the film to make you their savior.”