Leena Varghese's Blog

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Excerpt

Vivaan caught up with Ira in an alcove in the huge hallway of the house.

“Scurrying away like a thief?” he murmured for her ears alone.

Ira turned around to face him. A waiter appeared out of nowhere and presented a tray with drinks. Vivaan thanked him and declined the offer. As the waiter receded into the glittering hallway, Ira’s eyes skittered around to ascertain that they were alone. There were guests lounging on the seats arranged at the end of the room.

“I am glad you could make it to the engagement, Mr. Rajshekhar.”

OK, so the polite mask was back in place. Vivaan couldn’t help staring at her though. She was stunning. That haughty tilt of her chin told him that he wasn’t getting anywhere near her today. “It’s a grand circus. I am usually not in favour of engagements or weddings for show off.”

How aptly he had described it, thought Ira in dismal clarity. “I bet you wouldn’t be seen dead in an event like this even if it were your own.”

Touché. Vivaan smiled. “You are right. But let’s talk about you. You look like you are being strangled by all the revelry.”

She wanted to laugh and cry. All she needed to do was start a conversation with him and he could turn her into a different woman. But this was not the time to admire his wicked sense of humour. “I get by, Mr. Rajshekhar. The revelry is part of the system, just like all of us. You should know it better than me, since you are no stranger to business relationships.”

Vivaan could have sworn that there was a hint of tears in her voice behind the bravado. “Darling, you know that plastic is not good for health,” he murmured softly. “That fake smile of yours could be toxic in the long run.”

Ira gazed at him spellbound. He could see her bruised heart. It frightened her that she wanted to share her grief with him instinctively, knowing that he would understand. But he was also the kind of man who would demand all of her without giving an inch of himself. He was the kind of man who would not be pinned down by matrimony or even a steady relationship. Even if he were, Ira would never have the good fortune to experience it. Her fate had already been decided.

“Have you checked out the buffet, Mr. Rajshekhar?” she asked politely, changing the subject.

Vivaan’s face lit up in a quirky smile. “Some day, I would like to learn your secret of deflecting a blow without wielding a weapon or a shield... My sweet tormentor... Lead the way...”

Blurb

Vivaan Rajshekhar’s first meeting with the haughty Dr. Ira Deshmukh is like a fantastic figment of his imagination. To his annoyance, he finds that Ira has agreed to be betrothed to another man. Being the proverbial, successful, commitment-phobic bachelor, Vivaan’s views on love and marriage are equivalent to leaping off a cliff, hoping to sprout wings during the free fall.

Despite the fiery attraction she feels for Vivaan, Ira is determined to marry the man her father has chosen, for reasons she cannot reveal. When she reluctantly agrees to work at Vivaan’s charity hospital in a remote village, she doesn’t expect her decision to upend her life.

Seeing that Ira is unhappy with the arranged match that is part of a business deal, Vivaan employs all his wily tactics of persuasion with the intention of convincing her to ditch her overbearing fiancé. His charming attempts at seduction, disarms an old-fashioned but feisty Ira. However, his grand schemes are shot down in flames when he realises that Ira is not easy game. She refuses to have an affair with him, even though she is helplessly drawn to his warm, charismatic personality.

The tug of war tangles them in an ambiguous bond of sterling friendship, unbending restrictions, ridiculous banter, and unrequited passion.

Until Vivaan discovers the truth behind Ira’s stubborn resistance... Would they be able to resolve the deadlock? Or would Vivaan have no choice but to let Ira go?

https://www.amazon.in/BLIGHT-Leena-Va...
Excerpt

“Ms. Sampath, this is your opportunity to prove yourself.” Senior Inspector of Police Sadashiv Mhatre sat back with that subtle statement of declaration that none of my previous efforts in various minor cases were showing any specific progress.

Mhatre had just finished with a meeting with the staff to check the incorporation of the new rules of the pandemic. His three-tiered, steel tiffin carrier sat on top of the pile of official papers, waiting for his perusal.

“Ms. Sampath,” he continued, addressing me in that patronising tone that I had come to detest in the past two years of service as the Inspector of Police under him. “I would expect better results from a capable officer like you who has shown such promise in the academy days, right?”

I nodded, having nothing better to say. The cloth mask on my face had afforded me the privacy of expression since months now. I could smirk behind its sterilised folds without getting noticed. Although, it was true that my simplistic view of the world had been ripped away, leaving me reeling under the lurid colours of a brutally harsh reality in the world of crime. Not that I had expected it to be any better. Just that I had hoped to have been of some use to eradicate some of the filth that had accumulated over the tons of files that were stacked upon the station’s cabinets.

Those were lofty ideals—maybe, too lofty! My tenure had yet to bear fruit as Mhatre had pointed out. He was no harsh taskmaster. Just a prejudiced, lazy one. And my realisation, that my gender was not in any way helpful in bagging the best cases, had been a burr under my skin for months now.

“The Jayesh Prabhakar case is yours,” Mhatre announced finally, albeit with a grimace. “The basic details are in this file.”

I nodded again when he pushed the preliminary FIR details under my nose.

“Personally, I think the matter is redundant.” He sat back after meticulously cleaning his hands with a sanitizer kept on the table. Wiping his hands on a towel he’d hung from the chair nearby, he continued, “But his wife, Mrs. Nita Prabhakar, is insisting that it was a murder. She has called twice with an investigation request. We have to look into the matter in detail because we have received specific orders from above.”

The word ‘above’ seemed to have shifted relevance for me over the last few years. It was more specific now. The word ‘above’ used to have a significantly spiritual connotation earlier. Today, it only means the upper echelons of society, who are not necessarily as spiritual as the former definition required.

The Prabhakars had long-standing ties with several senior bureaucrats in the hallowed political circles. Someone in the world above us mere mortals had decided to pull the proverbial silken strings to get the case noticed.

“By the way, there is no dead body for post-mortem etc,” reminded Mhatre.

I bit into my lip behind my mask lest an expletive spill out in exasperation.

Seeing me unresponsive, Mhatre continued, “I am sorry, Ms. Sampath. It’s just one of those ridiculous cases that I am being forced to consider.”

“Why is there no dead body?” I asked, giving way to my frustration.

“Apparently, the usual protocol of the pandemic ensured that they hurry through the cremation.”

My sigh of exasperation flowed out in a warm breath that spread across my cheeks beneath the mask. “I will look into it immediately, sir,” I assured him with a practiced nod of agreement.

“Good! Mark it as urgent, and report to me in a week’s time. Once the mandatory investigations are over, we’ll have to hand over the file to the senior officials of the crime branch. It’s all just protocol!”

With that conclusion, Mhatre pulled down his mask, clicked open his tiffin carrier with a satisfied sigh. I stood up quickly and gave him the required smart salute, leaving him to his elaborate lunch.

After having quickly gobbled my food, I sat down to read through the report Mhatre had provided.

Head Constable Jamal Siddiqui rushed in and saluted me, before hurrying to the cabinet, looking for some files. “A new case, Madam?” he glanced sideways at me while rummaging through the drawers. He was a burly, intimidating figure with a grizzly bear persona. But he was also a dependable back up that everyone at the station trusted.

My perfunctory smile should have been his answer. He stepped closer and gave a smirk when he saw the file I was reading from. “You will have to learn magic for this one, Madam!” he said in a stage whisper in crisp Marathi. “To conjure the imaginary culprit from thin air.”

I curbed a smile at Jamal’s typically sarcastic observation. He trotted out in a hurry when Mhatre hollered for him.

Blurb

When Inspector Indrani Sampath is handed the Jayesh Prabhakar file, it appears to be a clear case of death due to natural causes. However, Jayesh's wife, Nita, a prominent socialite with the ‘right’ connections, demands an inquiry into the matter.

To Indrani’s dismay, even her colleagues believe that the case was headed towards being shelved with no proof, witnesses, or motive to merit a murder investigation. With the trials of the pandemic complicating matters, Indrani is aware that she has to wrap up the JP case quickly to appease the higher authorities.

Things get murky when an attempt on her life draws Indrani into a dark web of deception and crime through the streets of Mumbai, affirming her instincts that Jayesh Prabhakar’s influence extends beyond the grave.

As Indrani plunges headlong into the chase, she is forced to acknowledge that nothing is what it appears to be. Her intelligence and mettle are both tested as the truth unravels in unexpected ways.

Is the JP case an illusion that camouflages the ugly truth about human nature? Or is it a true murder that can dismantle the foundations of Indrani’s beliefs?

https://www.amazon.in/dp/B08FYPF2KD

EXCERPT

“Is this some new tactic in landing a job without the required qualification?” Shaan said, his temper escalating rapidly.

“A job?” Maya gaped at him in confusion.

“I will repeat this one more time. Are you here for the interview or not?” His patience had hit rock-bottom.

“No, I am not. But I—”

“Then, please leave!” Shaan pounced before she could finish. “I don’t have the time or the inclination for anything remotely polite right now.”

The curt dismissal irked her. “Would you just listen to me?” Looking back at the door as if it might bite her, Maya moved closer to him. “It’s not safe to be here. You must escape.”

“The only danger I see here, is giving in to the very compelling need to throw you out by the ear.”

“You are being unnecessarily rude, Mr—whoever you are!” She didn’t know his name even though she remembered the Yashwardhan logo downstairs.

“And you are trespassing on private property,” Shaan threw back evenly, his brows drawn together, his sleek body tight with aggression. “If you don’t leave right now, I will call the security to escort you out.”

It galled him that through the heated exchange, he could still notice how breathtakingly beautiful she was.

“Your security is out for dinner,” Maya informed him, her focus back on the task.

Shaan glared at her, surprised, watching the sudden change in her expression as if she was looking at something deep within.

“We can verify that.” He reached for the intercom.

“It’s not working,” Maya pointed out quietly.

Swallowing a curse, Shaan stabbed at the button with a finger, only to find her words true. His piercing gaze marked her in cold contemplation. “What is going on here?”

“I came to warn you that you are in danger! Please—”

“In danger from what? Maybe from bursting a vein in my head!”

Alarmingly aware that he was succumbing to an intense physical reaction, Shaan turned swiftly towards the door.

The clicking of the door handle, as if someone was testing it from the outside, startled them both. Shaan remembered that the woman had locked it from the inside. He felt his body tighten against an invisible attack.

“Ah, yes! The security is probably checking the doors.” Controlling his defensive reaction, he reached for the handle.

“No!” Maya stepped in front of him, blocking his way with her hands on his solid chest. “It’s them!” Her overwrought senses screamed in response as her hands connected with the warmth of the steely flesh beneath the fine fabric of his shirt.

“Get out of my way!”

Shaan grabbed her arms, and was about to shove her aside, when there was a thumping sound that seemed like a heaving shoulder against the wood.

With a wild look about her, Maya escaped his grip and raced towards the nearest bookcase. She hauled off the shelf, the first thing that came into her hands. The heavy ledger stayed poised in mid-air in her taut fingers, about to be hurled in any direction.

“Are you crazy?” Shaan thundered. “Don’t you dare tamper with that! Put it down immediately!”

Unfazed, Maya ran to the long row of chairs and lounge sofas. “You better help me with this.”

As Shaan strode towards her with the perfectly justified intention of wringing her neck, the lock and the handle of the door, exploded into dust leaving a gaping hole.

For a stunned moment, they stood like two frozen mime artists in the middle of an act.

Nothing could alleviate the utter terror that gripped Maya when Shaan grabbed her around the waist just in time, and plunged to the floor, ledger and all. They fell behind the rows of plush sofas along the walls in the vast office.

BLURB

The Stranger in My Dreams

“You define yourself with an identity that is as perishable as everything material in this world. Your acquisitions are quite useless to me, Mr. Yashwardhan.”

Shaantanu Yashwardhan has everything that the rest of the world craves for. Born into a privileged family, Shaan leads a charmed life with unlimited wealth at his disposal, and spectacular success in the business world.

However, the night before Shaan’s ascent to his aspirations, he is saved by a mysterious, beautiful woman who arrives just in time to warn him of impending danger. When the night unravels into a deadly chase through the dark streets of Old Delhi, Shaan is compelled to believe that he might lose all that he possesses, including his heart, along with his life.

For Maya Sharma, the labyrinths of her dream world often overlap the reality of her existence. The only constant in her life is uncertainty. Maya is unaware of the full potential of her abilities until she meets Shaan Yashwardhan. And she knows instantly that he’s worthy of everything that she can put at stake to save him from imminent death.

As they plunge into the unknown, cheating death by a mere whisker, they realise that the situation is a game-changer for both of them. For Shaan is not who he believes himself to be…Nor is Maya who she thought she was.

Would Shaan be able to find the true identity of his enemy? Would Maya’s discovery of the secret layers of her own personality lead her to metamorphose into what she was destined to be?

Is it possible for two starkly different individuals to bridge the chasm between their worlds, to find an enduring bond that transcends the realm of dreams?

The Stranger in My Dreams by Leena Varghese



https://www.amazon.in/dp/B08FYPF2KD

For many people around the world, this has perhaps been the most difficult time, especially for those who have lost their dear ones to a disease that is raging without an end in sight. Many have gone from this world without seeing their family a last time, and many more are struggling to make ends meet because of the devastating effects of the unforeseen economic slump.
I don’t want to be reminded of the grim times any more than I already am, being bombarded with it in the news channels. I already know about the fragile unpredictability of life, and how painful it must be for some of us who have experienced death and loss at close quarters.

In such trying times like these, I often wonder with guilt if writing a romance, or any kind of fantastical fiction might be perceived as a frivolous activity not worthy of being read at all. But I am also reminded of why I write romantic fiction in the first place. It is all about the enduring hope that there will be light at the end of the dark night. That one little encouraging thought brings me to the conclusion to publish my story—The Stranger in My Dreams.

My prayers and good wishes go out to everyone who is finding it impossible to sustain hopes and dreams of a better tomorrow. May God bless you all and keep you safe and healthy!

Happy reading!

Leena

A shorter version of this article was posted on Indigo Mustard art website.https://www.indigomustard.com/post/th....
Picture source Pixabay.com.

A couple of years ago, I had the good fortune to watch Tchaikovsky’s renowned classical ballet, Swan Lake, being performed in the Mumbai NCPA Theater. I was transported back to the time when I was a little girl, leaping from the sofa to the floor, and my futile attempts to stand on my toes, pretending to be a prima ballerina. For someone like me whose introduction to ballet was through an old black and white TV in the eighties, it is difficult for me to express how stunning the visual experience of watching a live show was. The thrill of seeing dancers leaping like gazelles, their effortless pointe, and being transformed into graceful swans was such a treat to the eyes and soul that I was tempted to demand an encore. I earnestly wished to stamp those moments upon my memory so that I could paint them. However, my limited repertoire could never capture the sheer magic of Swan Lake and the spectacular musical composition that accompanied it.

Later, unerringly, I kept remembering images of frozen moments in paint on an Edgar Degas canvas, where ethereal ballerinas were immortalised in form and movement years ago. Along with that came questions that have prodded me for answers ever since I was a child using crayons.

Why do we paint, or perform on stage, compose music or write stories? Why are all art forms so deeply inter-related or connected to our collective psyche and, more importantly, what is the true purpose of art and how and why does it affect us at an emotional, intellectual or spiritual level?

Man’s need to record the grand events in history, be it religious rituals or local lifestyles on the walls of ancient caves in the form of petroglyphs thousands of years ago, indicates how indispensable art is to humanity. In medieval India, art was all about finesse and elegance, achieved through miniature paintings that depicted Maharajas and Emperors, showcasing an era of ultimate refinement to exquisite perfection.

Artists all over the world, both modern and traditional have left a huge impact on the way art has been viewed since centuries bringing about revolutionary changes, displaying a plethora of astoundingly beautiful images in harmony and symmetry. It showed us a glimpse of what these greatest minds thought of religions and class systems and human relationships.

Art has influenced me in more ways than I can recall. It’s not just the rich colours that make me feel happy but also the idea of representing a real object in those colours, transforming it into a thing of beauty forever through the artist’s brush. From hyper-realistic portraits and photographic landscapes, to ambiguous abstracts that have endless possibilities and numerous indefinite conclusions, great art challenges the viewer’s notions about the definition of perfection.

I can never get enough of looking at a renaissance painting, be it Da Vinci or Michael Angelo, or Vermeer from the Baroque period. The sheer poetry and movement, the real flesh tones that seem warm to touch, the brilliant inimitable play of chiaroscuro, the opulent robes, the textures and the fine finish! It’s an experience designed to appeal to all your five senses…with just paint!

How can I forget the works of Monet in jewel-like primary colours that capture fleeting atmospheric transition in light and changing seasons on a canvas? My favourite is August Renoir’s The Gust of Wind which is just patches of fluffy clouds and viridian grass on a hillock on a lovely day. You can almost hear and feel the wind playing between the blades of quivering grass, and the clouds might just have been floating idly. It never fails to impress me that mere dabs of colour strategically placed to create an image, apparently imperfect, can create a stunningly perfect effect when you step back and take a second look.

Art to me is a fierce expression of emotions too. Frida Kahlo, with her eviscerating portrayal of wounded femininity stands out as a shining example. The metaphors and imagery in her art work are brutal and certainly not designed to please or titillate. I cannot but feel disturbed by the women in her paintings, many of them self-portraits, bracketed into boxes of socio-cultural expectations.

Salvador Dali’s sensational, technicolour, surreal landscapes are quests beyond the boundaries of human understanding. When I was young, in my ignorance, I used to find his art ridiculous. It was only many years later that I began to explore the bizarre, disjointed figures and metaphorical meaning behind his body of work that are now considered pure genius and claimed to be largely influenced by Freudian theories on the unconscious mind.

And then I fall into the mind-altering world of tessellation and optical illusions by M. C. Escher to surface from one end of a boggling universe of stairs and doorways, into an abyss where one could undergo transfiguring changes in mere seconds. A lenticular painting can simply render one speechless by its clever, dual personality and shape-shifting that happens right in front of one’s eyes like magic!

However, what brings an ecstatic response from one and all, perhaps, is a drawing done by a child. Tender hands that create innocent, vivid images of a yellow sky, blue grass, or a flying cow, that don’t make sense in an adult’s world. But it melts the heart and compels the hardest critic to proudly display it beneath a fridge magnet or between the pages of a scrapbook of personal memories.

So, what about the world of music and words?

Art through manipulation of sounds has always fascinated me. Both Indian and western classical music have been known to have spiritually uplifting effects on people. The angst-ridden, rebellious world of graffiti art, that boldly desecrates the established structures of human society, could be equated to rap music and hip hop, expressing deep hurt and questions on identity. No one can remain untouched by A. R. Rahman’s top class innovative compositions that merge classical and world music in polyphonic balance.

That the pen wields more power than the sword is not just a platitude, but a time-tested truth. Tagore, Keats, Shelly, Wordsworth, Kafka, Tolstoy, Hugo and Shakespeare all knew the invaluable impact of words. The written word has the immense power to bring about a revolution of ideas and sweeping changes in a redundant system.

Arundhati Roy’s God of Small Things remains foremost in my mind where our fragmented identities and our severed relationships are examined in the minutest detail; that its raw, intense honesty and lyrical prose still brings tears to my eyes.

I must mention here the English Romantic poet John Keats who died at the young age of twenty-five, leaving behind a collection of exquisite poetry on love, life and death. Beauty immortalised through art, and Truth being the only beautiful thing in the world were recurrent themes in his poems. It resonates with everything I believe in and what art should be.

Someone asked me why I write romance. I say, that it supports the highest form of idealism. I call it the ultimate form of beauty. Even though the characters are flawed, they are heroes with admirable traits like courage, integrity and compassion. Those are the highest ideals for me. A lot of me would seep into my creation, even though it is all imagination. My ethics and values would invariably colour my creations, just like it does for artists in every creative field.

As I ponder more about these numerous reasons for creativity, I also wonder why people react to the same piece of art in different ways. Most artists are known for their untitled expressions. They leave it to the viewer’s imagination to interpret at will what they see. A painting is transformed into an artwork in the viewer’s eyes depending on his mood or his personal experiences. An interactive artwork flings open the doors of limitless imagination to the viewer’s discretion.

What looks like a blob of colour to one person may result in a visceral reaction from another, or even appear as the answer to his lifelong quest. Sometimes, a work of art may just be a thing of beauty at a certain stage in our lives, but gains credence as we evolve into mature beings, developing a personal relationship with it, turning it into a masterpiece.

It brings me to the point where I look at a timeless piece of creation in breathless wonder and hope that it would bring peace to a world of chaos and violence around us. I often feel astounded that an oasis of peace and self-awareness is created in that little bubble of time when all the pain and conflict we endure as a human race is suspended to bring us considerable relief and joy. In a life full of trials and tribulations, beautiful art, whether it is a splash of colour on a canvas, the harmonious sounds of a musical instrument, or the inspiring words of a great author, can become a vital source of inspiration to all.

In my humble opinion, true art is a wellspring of imagination. It transports us from the mediocrity of routine and mindless existence and helps us to face the future with renewed hope.

The Heir of Kingsley by Leena Varghese



“From the deepest desires often comes the deadliest hate.” - Socrates

EXCERPT

I left the kitchen in a despondent mood and went to my room. Julie kept intruding in my muddled thoughts. Our relationship had soured considerably due to various factors by the time we had entered our forties. When our daughter Selena moved to the US for higher studies and later a permanent job, the reason for Julie and me to stay together was lost. There was nothing that I could do to mend fences. There were too many grievances buried under the proverbial carpet that I was very fond of hiding things under.

When she died, she left me in a morass of guilty relief and bewildering loneliness. Ten years of my life seemed to play in front of my eyes. I had brushed Julie under my favourite carpet of procrastinations and empty promises until now. Somehow, inexplicably, Kingsley Arches had pulled the rug from under my feet. The memories split open like an over-ripe jackfruit fallen from a groaning tree with a thump. The deluge of images left me gasping in pain.

It was probably a lethal combination of toddy, emotional exhaustion, and my medication that made me drop on the bed like a boulder. I fell into restless slumber instantly. My dreams were chaotic and terrifying that night. I ran after the elusive image of a woman through a maze of corridors in a great big house with no windows. The woman whipped around and charged at me, snarling. It was a dark face with no features except snapping fangs. I shrank back, unable to move, with my feet embedded like tree roots on the floor. The dream merged into another, with someone chasing me with an axe. Mathan’s voice screamed at me to cut open the walls and make windows. I couldn’t breathe, as once more, dark claustrophobia engulfed me. I felt as though someone had yanked a blanket off me on a freezing night.

The clap of thunder made me jump from the bed. I woke up with my heart in my mouth and tears on my cheeks. I hadn’t wept in years. It had only been a nightmare. I pacified myself. In my efforts to straighten my stiff body, I fell askew in a tangle of numb limbs on the carpeted floor. My inhaler prodded into my thigh at a painful angle. Stuffing it back into my pocket I sat there shivering from reaction. It was cold. My jacket was still on and so were my shoes. Reaching for the switch of the bedside lamp, I found that there was no electricity.

In the middle of my fumbling about, the singing began again.

I knew who it was, of course. Limping to the window, I looked out into the violent night that seemed to be tearing at its own seams. The trees lurched like drunkards. In the middle of all the noise, I could hear the lullaby that wrenched at my senses.

******

BLURB

Nearly on the verge of retirement, Professor James Kingsley inherits the Kingsley Bluemount Arches, a dilapidated plantation bungalow previously owned by his Anglo-Indian uncle, Albert Kingsley. The vast run-down estate in the ethereally beautiful mountains of Munnar is more than just a legacy of ruins.

As James takes over after the death of the old care-taker, Kunju Maria, who had lived on the premises for decades, he begins to feel the suffocating burden of being the heir of Kingsley estate. Kunju Maria’s pervasive presence haunts every corner of his property.

His uneasiness and confusion are magnified when he starts to see the apparition of a young woman even as he sinks into a strange depressive introspection, concerning his own unresolved issues. He is unaware of the danger in his surroundings until he is nearly killed by a freak accident on the estate. As each day becomes a threat to his life, he gets obsessed with the reason behind the mysterious incidents at Kingsley.

James realises quite soon that his hallucinations are not figments of his disturbed mind, but deadly phantoms that have a deeper connection to his past.

Would he succeed in his quest to find the answers to the dark past of Kingsley Bluemount Arches? Or do the apparitions consume him as he grapples with his own lack of faith?

Does James rise out of his diffidence to become the true heir of Kingsley on his journey of self-discovery?

NOTE: This is a revised edition of the book previously published as A SILVER DAWN under Harlequin/Mills&Boon (Harper Collins) in January 2016.

BLURB

Clarissa Milagres Silvera is a talented choreographer who understands the true value of freedom after her world is plunged into darkness. With a violent marriage behind her, that leaves her intensely mistrustful of men, she redefines life and her talent on her own terms.

Leon Rodriguez has never forgotten the stunningly beautiful Clary who could dance like the wild wind once upon a time. However, his proposal of marriage is rejected by Clary who suspects that Leon’s real motive is to acquire the prestigious Silvera property.

Even as Leon patiently woos his stoic love, he must protect her from the sadistic Igor Chekanov, a real estate shark who is stalking her.

Clary refuses to be subdued by any man; valiantly resisting her burgeoning attraction to Leon’s potent charisma, as well as fighting Chekanov’s insidious trap.

Stuck between the two powerful men, her safety is dependent on the best available option. She must marry Leon to escape Chekanov’s ever-increasing threat to her life.

Just when Clary’s growing love for Leon lulls her into a sense of security, Chekanov draws her into a dangerous game of survival where she must outwit the enemy alone.

Will Clary’s handicap become her weakness? Or, will she be able to overcome her biggest fear and win a battle that could very well be her last?

Hope you enjoy reading it!

NOTE: This is a revised edition of the book previously published as A PERFECT MISMATCH under Mills&Boon: Indian Author Collection (Harper Collins) in September 2014.

BLURB

Armaan Malhotra is a celebrity artist, with an aversion to commitment in relationships. Unlike his famous works of art that are filled with colours, he is careful to keep his personal life a blank canvas.

Zara is a spirited, independent young woman who has carved out a niche for herself professionally. Branded as ‘illegitimate’ since her childhood, she hopes to find happiness in a practical marriage some day. Her mother's indiscretion has haunted her all her life, teaching her pragmatism and independence the hard way.

Having known each other as children, Zara finds Armaan arrogant and insensitive in spite of a secret crush she had on him as a teenager. Armaan finds Zara stubborn and defiant even though he feels irresistibly drawn to her. Both detest the sight of each other.

Under pressure from Armaan's mother, Zara and Armaan agree on a short-term arranged marriage. Soon, the undercurrent of tension and fierce attraction blows up into a full-fledged battle on their honeymoon.

Thrown together in an unexpected situation, they are compelled to alter their prejudiced notions about each other as their marriage begins to take on a different hue from what they had wanted.

Could the true colours of love transform their antagonism into deep abiding faith?


***

Dear Reader

Like all die-hard romantics, I love happy endings. Even the most hardened cynics (they may never admit it!) harbour a tiny space in their hearts filled with the hope of happy endings. And that is the one reason we all love a good romance. It is the ‘feel good’ factor (the scientifically inclined would resolutely call it oxytocin) that envelops us when we read a great love story. However poignant, dark or even violent its contents, it is the firm assurance that things would turn out just fine, that makes us pick up a romance novel.

My story is about two people who have gone through a painful childhood, scarred and mistrustful, unable to let love into their hearts or learn to trust each other. Trust is an integral part of love that keeps it all going. Without trust there is no love. You may love someone deeply but it will eventually wither away if there is no trust mutually. And that forms the crux of every love story.

Every relationship is defined by the personalities of the people it encompasses. Armaan is talented, temperamental, stubborn, fiercely passionate, driven by his inner demons. Only someone equally strong, capable and fearless like Zara could handle an alpha male like him. They are antagonistic and passionate, downright silly at times and yet, vulnerable. The result is resounding fireworks and sizzling chemistry.

Would they accept their follies and learn to trust each other with deep abiding faith and immeasurable love? Read on to find out.

Hope you enjoy this revised edition of my debut book A Perfect Mismatch.

Love you all.

Leena Varghese

Wildflowers in the Rain

EXCERPT

“Let’s walk down the slope and see if the ground levels out. We might find a safer trail.” Aditya looked at the overcast sky, while trying to figure out their exact location on his phone. There was no signal for them to get Google maps.

Everyone switched off their phones to save battery. They quickly shared the food items that included biscuits and chips, half a dozen bananas and some salted peanuts. Water was precious, so they used it sparingly. Unni Maya opened her bundle and handed a medium-sized food packet wrapped in aromatic plantain leaves to Rhea. It contained sautéed lemon rice with mango pickle more than enough for two people.

“Let her keep it,” Aditya said. “She needs it more than us. The journey may tire her out later.”

But Unni Maya only drank sips of water thirstily and refused to eat a morsel.

Rhea kept the food packet back inside Unni Maya’s bundle, which she clutched under her arm allowing the young woman to walk freely. She had serious concerns about the pallor on Unni Maya’s thin face.

The forest was thriving with birds, insects, and other sounds that they were worried about. No one needed to be reminded how dangerous it was now that they were well inside the forbidden boundary.

Aditya moved closer to Rhea. “You don’t seem very convinced about Unni Maya,” he remarked softly lest the others hear him. He dropped on his haunches next to her to clear his shoes of grass and pebbles.

She was surprised that he had gauged her thoughts so easily. “She can’t walk for long.”

The trek began. But it seemed like a futile search without a trail. It was all based on assumption. The only way that seemed easier and safer was downhill. They began walking in a file. Firdaus and Unni Maya walked together. Shashikant was commenting on everything he saw. Murali went ahead looking for a trail and Swamini trotted with mutiny brewing on her face. When Unni Maya sank to the ground once more Swamini scolded her. Rhea rushed to the poor woman’s side and helped her stand again. This time when they started walking again, Unni Maya was waddling. Murali reached up to the overhanging foliage of a tree and broke off a sturdy branch and handed it to her for support. He began walking by her side.

Aditya and Rhea were the last to move in line. He walked so close that her arm brushed against his several times. She was thankful that there was no signal. Dr. Ravidas could not reach her. She could hold on for some more time. In an odd way, she felt safe even though she was in the middle of dangerous territory. She sighed and looked at the group of people.

“Swamini is unpredictable,” Rhea said. The slim figure ahead was grumbling about the stains on her expensive designer boots and periodically hollering at Unni Maya and Firdaus.

“That’s an understatement,” Aditya grimaced as if he had bitten his own tongue. “I bet if she could have her way, she would tether everyone together and ride out of here on someone’s back.”

“I am surprised that you should say that. She’s quite pretty!” she teased, smiling.

That smile was going to be his undoing, Aditya thought. She had such dark drowsy eyes, like a dreamer that a man could happily drown in them.

“Of course, she’s pretty! However, I would be petrified if she got interested in me. She is the kind that mates with her partner and then gobbles him up whole,” he said with a wicked grin.

Rhea looked away, eyes alight with laughter. Realisation dawned rather painfully. It would not help matters if she began to like him any more than was required. She had to make sure that her involvement remained neutral. That brought out the haunted shadows in her beautiful eyes.

Aditya was ready to walk the entire length of the festering green forest if he could just know what she was thinking.

They walked for an hour and by then even Shashikant’s cheery comments were sounding insipid. He kept scratching vigorously, wondering aloud if something had bitten him. The fiery itch had spread upwards to his thighs and he was beginning to feel a little nauseous. But there was no time to take a look inside his pants.

Twice, they made a detour. They had reached a rocky valley with no way around it. It had become quite evident that they were not going to find the road they had left behind.

Unni Maya was trailing behind them. They had to stop many times to help her over uneven ground. Soon, they heard the gurgle of water falling from the overhanging rocks. A clear stream tripped down into the valley below. Somewhere above them among the tall, shadowy trees, monkeys chattered noisily.

It began to rain and they were unable to move further. As the slanting drops fell, the whole valley was covered in mist. The group rushed to find cover under a thick canopy of vine that prevented the fierce deluge of rain from drenching them.

“Oh, great! This is all we need,” Swamini sounded defeated as she dabbed the water from her face with a scented tissue.

Murali tried unsuccessfully to revive his phone, pacing to catch a signal.

“I am starving!” Firdaus whined, clutching her painful back.

“And I think I am dying…” Shashikant’s voice was a slurred whisper.

Everyone looked at him expecting it to be another joke. They were concerned to see him looking ill. No one had paid any attention to him earlier. His face had swollen and his eyes were red and watery. He was scratching away at his leg.

“You should have a bath more often,” Swamini sang with saccharine sweetness.

Rhea moved quickly to his side where he sat huddled on a rock. She rolled up his trouser legs up to his knees. Every inch of his skin was covered in bright red welts.

“This is urticaria. You have a bad allergy, Shashikant. It could be an insect bite or because of a poisonous weed. You need medication.”

“How do you know?” Swamini asked.

“I know. I am a trained…nurse,” Rhea stammered, almost revealing her identity.

Aditya knelt beside Shashikant and examined the welts. “These were caused by some weed. There are no bite marks.”

Rhea immediately opened her backpack and pulled out a box. It was more complex than a mere first-aid kit. She had always carried one since the time she had started travelling alone. She had lived in a permanent state of emergency since then.

Shashikant swallowed the pills that Rhea gave him. Aditya prevented him from falling as he swayed. He took Shashikant behind a tree and helped him change into a pair of comfortable shorts.

“The tablets I have are only for temporary relief. We need to get back to civilization urgently,” Rhea told them.

“Ya allah! We better make it fast then,” Firdaus cried in a strangled voice. Everyone was startled to see her stare at Unni Maya.

The low agonized groan from the pregnant woman stunned everyone. She clutched her belly and slithered down to the ground on her knees.

“Eww! What is that?” Swamini backed away from the blood-tinged pool in the grass around Unni Maya’s feet.

Rhea lunged fast, wrapping a supporting arm around Unni Maya before she could collapse. Aditya quickly seated Shashikant on a boulder. He shrugged off his backpack and grabbed Unni Maya by her shoulders to steady her as she gave out her first scream.

Rhea shook her head in hopelessness. “Oh God! All that running about…She is in labour.”

They stood dumbstruck in fear. But it was only a fraction of what Unni Maya felt as she began screaming hysterically.


*****

BLURB

When Dr. Aditya Menon boards a rickety old bus from Bangalore to Cochin after attending his best friend Sri’s cremation, he never expects to find himself stranded in the middle of the Bandipur forest reserve with a group of people he’d never met before.

Little does Aditya know that the answers to the mystery of Sri’s death could be found with the beautiful and enigmatic Rhea Balan who is travelling with him. Or, that the inexorable attraction he feels for her could lead to imminent death.

Rhea Balan had never imagined that life would fling her into the middle of a festering forest where she would have to grapple, not only with the hostile natural environment, but also evade the predators of the human world to stay alive. Someone is watching her every move and she must make sure that no one knows her identity.

Caught in the middle of wilderness and danger, in a situation that could either destroy everything that she holds sacred, or throw her behind prison bars, Rhea must choose. But how can she make a wise choice when she would lose both ways…For Aditya is the kind of man she would not forget in a hurry.

In a race against the vagaries of nature and time, both Aditya and Rhea must find a way to beat the odds before their nemesis catches up with them.


*****

Hi, everyone!

On one of my regular visits to Kerala, years ago, we stopped for a break from the six-hour bus journey on the highway that runs through the Bandipur forest reserve to Wayanad district.

Deep in the thrumming forest, as far as the eye could see, in the shaft of diffused light that penetrated the darkness under the canopy of thick bamboos and profusion of wildflowers, a flock of sunny yellow butterflies flitted over a jewel-like pool of water in a magical circle. It was such a beautiful sight that the elusive scene is stamped on my memory forever.

The story of Aditya and Rhea was born during one of those unforgettable visits. It never ceases to astonish me that we have become so complacent living in an illusory world of comfort and control, without ever thinking of it as being temporary. A person living in a box in a crowded metropolitan city would never survive an unsupervised trip into the wild. But then, I suppose, we are already lost in a concrete, tech-savvy jungle that consumes us everyday bit by bit. I also wonder if the inmates of the forest are any worse than the two-legged predators of the human world. As we move towards an increasingly technology dependent world, do we pause to think about the consequences of our apathy towards the natural world that bears the brunt of our selfishness and greed?

The forest of Bandipur is real. But the places and incidents happening inside the forest are all a product of my fertile imagination. I thoroughly enjoyed writing this one and I hope you enjoy reading it too.

It would really make me happy if you could leave a review on Amazon and Goodreads.

Thank you

All the best

Leena

Hi everyone!

I am happy to announce that my new book, FLAWLESS, is now available on Amazon Kindle. Please do check it out. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

My first attempt as an indie author on Amazon KDP, A Bittersweet Reprieve, was a lovely experience and I am grateful to a lot of readers for writing to me. Thank you so much! It has been very encouraging to find that my writing matters.

Do read the excerpt below from FLAWLESS to find out more about the story.

All the best and God bless!

***

FLAWLESS

EXCERPT

The sensation of being watched was disturbing. Giana stopped abruptly. Toby, who was susceptible to her every mood, began to whimper, raising his little arms to clutch at her.

In a hurry to leave, she was about to turn the bicycle around when a deep voice startled her.

“Are you leaving without granting me a wish?” The voice was vaguely familiar. The tone, definitely slurred.

Giana was struck dumb, shrinking in fear for seconds as her eyes became accustomed to the figure who sat in the shadows. Her hands gripped the handlebars and Toby whimpered again.

“You had placed an order at our cafe...for food delivery,” she blurted, before she could lose her nerve. The gates were not too far. She could escape if she tried.

But the figure didn’t move. “Yes, I did.”

Giana brought out the warm packet and held it out to him as though it had grown teeth to bite her.

“Ah yes...And they sent an angel for door-to-door delivery? Or is it a fairy?”

“Mamma favy!” chirped Toby as if on cue, employing his newly learned word.

A deeply amused chuckle burst from the shadowed figure. “Accompanied by...an elf?”

“To-by eff!” piped Toby, showing off his repertoire again. He promptly plucked a feather from Giana’s frayed, fairy wings and waved it cheerily before blowing it away with a vigorous ‘foo’.

“Elf, it is!” drawled the shadow again.

Giana didn’t blink or smile, keeping her eyes on the motionless figure. She had quietly heard various comments from customers all evening, some amusing, and some downright silly. Fortunately, they were her regular customers. She shoved aside her misgivings and spoke up, firmly, “Here’s the bill.”

“Hmm...Switch on the light on the pillar to your left, please, dear fairy!”

Ignoring the faintly mocking tone, Giana looked up at the column of white pillar and reached for the outline of a switch. Instantly, the portico was bathed in bright yellow from an overhead lamp. Toby blinked and gurgled in delight.

Awestruck for moments, Giana stared at the man in front of her. Maximillian Alexis Martineau sat sprawled in the armchair with all the ease of a lounging black panther. The errant buttons of his black shirt, left open to his waist, revealed a muscled chest and sleek abs that moved with every breath he took. His ruffled, dark hair flopped over his forehead, some sticking up endearingly as if he had been running his hands through them. But there was nothing endearing about the lithe frame that stretched out powerful legs, encased in black trousers in front of him in a casual stance.

He was disturbingly male and so was his appraisal of her. A bottle of liquor held negligently in his hand, he slid to one side to get a better look at the apparition of the woman with the little boy.

“Hello...Giana?” questioned Max with a sloping, beautiful smile. But the utter bleakness in his dark, chocolate eyes was terrible to behold.

Giana could not breathe for long moments as they assessed each other. She knew what she was looking at. She saw it in her own reflection in the mirror at times. The grief that was etched on his face seemed to dilute her fear. His pain snagged at Giana’s heart as if it were her own. Her chest felt suddenly constricted by the way his intense look was hooked on her. No doubt he was drunk to the brim but the sense of awareness that hummed between them was more pronounced tonight than the other night. And he remembered her name!

“So...you are doubling up as a fairy tonight? Doesn’t your husband mind you going out alone, delivering food to strangers?” asked Max in a slurred tone.

The tilt of her chin went higher, noted Max, as Giana answered a tad haughtily, “We are divorced.”

Max stared at her, stupefied and relieved to hear that bit of information! What sane man would relinquish such an exquisite creature? She looked so young! And to be a mother at that age seemed like a big responsibility on her delicate shoulders. Shoulders that were now defensively stiffening with resentment in response to his personal question. Max knew that he had overstepped the line. But it was irresistible. He was too much of a man, not to have noticed how beautiful she was.

He leaned forward to retrieve his wallet from his pocket, picked out two crisp notes, and held them out to her.

“Come closer.”

The command was soft and Giana was seriously worried now. Nevertheless, she stood the bicycle on the stand and stepped on the smooth tiles to take the money and hand over the packet with the bill.

She hadn’t seen him at the cafe since the unpleasant scene with Carol and had strangely regretted it. Some part of her had wanted to apologise for her mother’s churlish behaviour. She couldn’t let go of this opportunity.

“I wanted to apologise to you...about the other day, Mr. Martineau,” she stated, softly, tucking away the money in her purse with trembling hands. Instead of looking at him, her eyes remained stuck to his booted feet.

“What for, dear fairy?” he asked, smiling in lazy assessment of her curvaceous figure, slowly raising the bottle of whiskey to his mouth and taking a deep swallow.

“My mother was rude to you. She didn’t mean it though. It wasn’t about you Mr. Martineau...” her words faded away awkwardly.

“I know what it was all about. Don’t let her bully you!” He leaned forward slightly. “And you can call me Max…fairy,” he pronounced, standing up unsteadily, taking another swig from the bottle.

“Mak favy!” piped Toby, in reply to that request.

Alarmed by the sudden movement from the man who stood up to his intimidating height, Giana took several steps backwards. But she realised that Max wasn’t looking at her now but at Toby. She whirled around to find her son nearly toppling out of the cycle basket in his effort to reach for the bit of candy soldier that had fallen to the ground. She rushed to hold him and was unnerved to see that Max had followed her.

Fright made her stay rooted to the ground. However, Max’s attention was riveted to Toby. He reached out to touch the child’s face, gently kissing the top of his curly head. Toby touched Max’s stubbly cheek in return, pinching a bit of skin between his tiny forefinger and thumb. Unlike his mother, he seemed quite thrilled and curious by the sudden appearance of the big stranger in front of him.

With sticky hands, Toby offered a shiny feather to Max who accepted it with grave humility. Giana could not control the inexplicable lump in her throat. The contradictory mix of tenderness and some nameless grief cut Max’s beautiful face into harsh lines.

He turned to Giana abruptly. Something flashed in his eyes. They stared at each other as if bound by threads, tenable and steely. As if in a trance, Max raised his hand to the wisps of curly hair that brushed her cheek. He marvelled at its texture, sliding his fingers down her cheek with the cluster of hair against it. It was as though he couldn’t believe that she was real.

Giana stood frozen in shock at the violation of her personal space. The touch of his fingers on her skin was like fire. But she couldn’t move. Max seemed to sense her terror, suddenly becoming aware of his actions. Tucking the strands behind her ear, he stepped back abruptly.

Jarred by the unbearable exquisiteness of the gesture, Giana began to tremble. She stepped away skittishly and turned the bicycle, clambering upon it in clumsy haste.

“Goodnight, Mr. Martineau!” she called breathlessly, without looking back as she rode away.

“Goodnight, dear fairy!” growled Max under his breath, almost to himself.

To which Toby chirped back, “Bu-bye, Mak favy!”

***

BLURB

Giana Francois does not nurture fanciful dreams like the young women of her age. Her elopement and broken marriage with Ricky Bartholomew had led to a series of tragic events that changed her life forever. Her reckless behaviour has cut a deep rift in her relationship with her mother.

Now, her two-year old son, Toby, is the centre of her world. Giana works at her mother’s cafe in the beautiful, seaside town of Pondicherry. Her reputation as the bad girl shadows her every step, making her tread with caution. Underneath the placid surface is the terrible guilt of having brought shame to the family.

When Giana meets a brooding stranger, late one night at the cafe, her first reaction is to avoid him. But Max Martineau is not a man to be dismissed as easily. When their paths cross inadvertently, Giana realizes that Max is a kindred spirit. He reflects what she has suppressed for a long time…all that she longs for...But she is afraid to reach out and claim that dream for herself.

As their friendship blossoms tentatively like a delicate flower in a blizzard, Giana finds a safe harbour in Max.

To Max, Giana represents sublime grace and companionship. But he refuses to admit that he needs her to be whole again even though he is irresistibly drawn to her. Even as his attachment to Toby and Giana grows deeper, he is fighting a losing battle with the dark memories that rise from his own private hell.

Neither of them acknowledges that they belong together…Until Giana’s past surfaces to hound her.

Max must relinquish his past to protect Giana from hers, and claim her as his own…

FLAWLESS
Cover design by https://marilcha-illustrations.com
***