Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(27)

He took his time wiping his hands on his smock and obliged her. Her precious surgeon’s hand was unexpectedly delicate in his, but her grip was entirely self-assured, and yet again he pictured her staring at her palms lovingly for hours. His were still smarting from the burns.

“Are your hands okay?” she asked, as if reading his mind.

At least she remembered burning him. He feigned ignorance. “What’s wrong with my hands?” She didn’t need to know that he remembered, too. Or that anything she’d said had meant anything to him.

She cocked her head, confused. “Seemed like you might have burned them at my parents’ house.”

Parents? Great. This just got better and better. She was Ashna’s cousin. Of course that made her Mina Raje’s daughter. Of course he had yelled at his most important client’s daughter in her own home. And she just happened to be the person who could save his sister’s life.

Could everything go any more tits up than that?

“DJ, you burned your hands? Why didn’t you say something?” Ashna took his hands and inspected them.

“They’re fine. No harm done.” That was British for I want to sob like a baby every time I touch something. But Ashna didn’t need to know that. Dr. Raje most certainly didn’t.

“May I take a look?” Trisha Raje said, her expression pinched.

Do you have any idea what these hands are worth?

Yeah, no, she was still not taking a look. Not when she had been okay with his hands being burned because they didn’t do important enough work. Not if he had anything to do with it.

God, he sounded like a petty knobhead. Evidently, something about being called the hired help had stung enough to induce pettiness.

“DJ, let Trisha look. She’s really good at this doctor thing,” Ashna said and Trisha Raje grinned at her as though she had just dropped the deepest curtsy in front of her.

DJ picked up the colander filled with okra and moved to the fryer. “As I’ve already mentioned, my hands are fine. I hope yours are still worth as much as they were last evening.” Definitely a petty bastard.

That made her tilt her head in confusion again. Apparently, you needed no memory at all to get through medical school. Or maybe it was he who needed to have his head examined for remembering every word that had come out of her mouth like some fragile, egotistical half-wit.

Instead of getting stuck in a power struggle over his hands, he should talk to the woman about how to handle Emma. Had Emma spoken to her yet about her asinine plan?

“So what all do you need?” Ashna asked, pulling an aluminum tray out of the oven, effectively distracting Trisha Raje from his attempts at making a giant arse of himself. Holding his tongue was not a problem he usually faced.

She looked at the tray with so much mortification he wondered what she was up to. “Some butter chicken,” she muttered, studying the foil instead of him, much to his relief. “And you said you have saag paneer and black dal?”

“Of course,” Ashna said.

“You’re an angel, Ashi!” She gave Ashna a grateful smile that reminded him of how very wrongly he had judged the humor in her voice before he had met her. Then she looked at him and got all uptight again before clearing her throat and giving Ashna a pointed look she seemed to think the hired help may not be able to interpret. “May I talk to you for a moment? Privately.”

“Sure.” Ashna threw an apologetic smile at DJ. “Do you mind giving us a minute?”

“By all means.” He turned back to the okra, the fresh crispness of the vegetable taking up his attention as he dipped it in batter and gauged how thin a coating would work best. He’d have to do a double fry, of course. He dunked a bunch of lightly battered pieces in the fryer and inhaled. The tang of fresh spices hitting hot oil set things to rights for a few seconds before the pain and worry he’d been suppressing came bubbling up like the oil around the frying vegetables.

He turned around and stared at the door Ashna and Trisha had gone through. He could hear muffled sounds of conversation in the dining room beyond.

He had to speak to Trisha Raje about Emma’s surgery. Surely no doctor would let a patient throw their life away the way Emma seemed to want to. But the idea of speaking to her again made distaste prickle across his skin.

He sighed. His discomfort didn’t matter. Right now, Trisha Raje was Emma’s lifeline, and the fact that she made him feel smaller than he had felt in a very long time was entirely irrelevant.





Chapter Eight


Trisha didn’t know why her cheeks were flaming as she followed Ashna out of the kitchen and into the empty restaurant seating area. Her knees felt oddly wobbly. That was Emma Caine’s supernoble brother? Also, dear God, superhot! And had he just dissed the living hell out of her?

Granted, she hadn’t recognized him immediately. But there had been a chef’s hat on his clean-shaven head last night, and the chef’s robes were not the same as the white T-shirt stretched across his shoulders right now. She shook her head to clear it. Granted, he’d burned himself because of her, but he was at least half to blame for that. And then he’d proceeded to be incredibly rude. What kind of chef was rude to people when they were dying of hunger? Also, didn’t being the person who was going to save his sister’s life count for something?

Ashna turned to her with a raised eyebrow as if to say, What was that about?