Do you like friends to lovers?

And Tempt's Chapter One (The Real One)

Mahalo,

I’m writing this edition of The Writer Gal Letter listening to This is How A Heart Breaks by Rob Thomas (which is definitely a Nashit-Pehel song). You’ll know when you read the book. It is hotter than Tartarus here and I’m struggling with my bones actually creaking, which is why I am like seven chapters behind on edits. Sigh #cruelsummer.

On the other hand, I will do a quick tropes rundown in this edition of The Writer Gal Letter before proceeding to Chapter One. If you’d like to read the prologue, it’s in this edition of TWGL.

Just to reiterate, the pre-order price for Tempt will change after release. So grab it now if you want to. Or read in Kindle Unlimited and paperbacks if that is your thing!

I’ll also mention yet again that Tempt is part one of the cliffhanger duet of Nashit and Pehel’s epically angsty friends-to-lovers billionaire romantic suspense story! I am already thinking of Crave and will be writing it soon (you’ll be the first to know when I start) so do not fret that I’ll make you wait endlessly for the next and concluding installment of the Ruthless Billionaires series.

Before I get to the tropes, I have a poll for you.

Here are the tropes in Tempt

• Friends to lovers (with a dash of enemies thrown in)

• Forced proximity

• Unwillingly possessive H

• Hot mess heroine with curves

• Love triangle-ish

• A horse with a huge heart and even better speed (who I really hope you adore! Seriously, Pathaan’s the reason I have written this whole series)

• Small town vibes

• He is nice to no one else but her (seriously, he is mean to most people) so

• Grumpy and sunshine

• Found family x siblings

• Thunderstorm smexy times

• All. The. Angst! (Every Pehel Nashit scene is angsty. I didn’t mean it to be that way but it is)

• Unsuspecting danger and twists lurking in the corners of a huge horse farm

Here’s the extended Tempt sampler edition that I’ve released just for you with an extra chapter JUST for you!

Tempt Chapter One (unedited and subject to change)

Years later…

The end of November

Alipur

India  

You’ve reached Dr. Pehel Bhatnagar. I’m not available right now but if you leave your details, I’ll be sure to get back to you. Have a great day. It could be your last. And, oh, don’t miss your annual physical.

Nashit Kishore Keshav cut end on the call and looked at the steady ringing of the dialtone. Voicemail. Again. He’d been shunted to avoided voicemails and missed calls for the last two months, ever since he’d dropped the bomb of her father’s death on Pehel. Oh, she didn’t confront him directly or even raise her voice because that wasn’t Pehel’s style. Never had been.

But he knew she didn’t want to talk to him. Especially after that horrendous will reading that had sent her brother, Nihaal, down the one road he didn’t think he’d ever be on.

Matrimony.

And now it was Pehel’s turn to walk this road and marry some appropriate man according to the terms of the iron-clad and sadistic will Krishna Bhatnagar had made with Mili Iyer’s law firm.

It didn’t sit well with Nashit.

And ever since he’d understood the terms of the conditions, Nashit had spent a lot of time trying to find a way to find wiggle room so Pehel didn’t have to go through with it. He didn’t give a good shit that the old man, Krishna Sir, had stiffed him on the bequeathment and left him money he’d not need when he was an old, retired geezer.

All that mattered was that Pehel had someone fighting for her.

God knows, the fucking brother was too wrapped up in his own love life and the biggest championship of his career to pay attention to how unhappy Pehel really was.

But Nashit knew.

Nashit clenched the phone again. He unlocked it and fired off a quick message to Pehel.

I know what you’re up to. You cannot avoid me forever. Talk to me, P. Let’s figure this out together.

He knew she read it. Because the two ticks turned blue on the screen. She even started typing something. He sat up straighter. Good. She was beginning to see sense.

Then, she went offline.

Nashit almost growled in frustration.

Guilt and worry burned an ulcerous hole in his insides as he imagined Pehel, just like he’d found her at the hospital in Edinburgh. Working herself to the bone in the ER, caring for sick people at the cost of her own health. Knowing her mother was too wrapped up in her own grief and the wonder of having the prodigal son back. Finally. Knowing her brother had never really been there for her, not like brothers should be.

Knowing she wasn’t important enough. And still being the kindest, most generous woman ever.

It was all the time he could give her. Because now he had to begin his day, as he left the comfort of what passed for his office, aka the torture chamber, he used to do the paperwork. Downed his sixth cup of masala chai tea and walked down to the OK Corral.

It was the one closest to the ranch house, which housed all the offices and supplies’ rooms. There was a large crowd at the corral, today. He knew because he had made sure to get the message across.

            This meeting was mandatory. For every farmhand, stable boy, trainer assistant, scrub master, tack person and more. Heck, if he’d been able to, he’d have got all the horses, all three hundred and twelve of them, to attend.

The time, Nashit decided, had come to control the message and the medium.

His men were all gathered, for their evening snack. Most of them, lived on the property. In trailers, or RVs. Or in the two ranch houses, that had been constructed to accommodate all the employees. Each house had its own cook, male, of course. And Bina who was forever sending large amounts of egg curry or fish stew for the men.

Especially as The Season, racing thoroughbreds for the largest purse and glory across Asia, Australia, Europe, and America, started to heat up.

His own quarters were in the back lot of the seventh and last OK Corral. He’d built the stable for his horse, Jimmy Dean and his pickup. It was a small bungalow that was plenty big for a single man with no attachments. He’d made sure to send Sonia to boarding school, so she didn’t have to deal with the daily ugly fallout of having a murderer for a brother.

Although, in the last ten years of him taking over operations at The Farm, the chatter had lessened to the point of white noise.

Now, he gave a shrill whistle. And spoke in a mixture of Bengali and English. “A word if you please.”

****

All of the employees finally stopped talking enough to stand at attention. He could see that he had the attention of almost all the hundred men and women present, and the interest of the older and most loyal employees, like Krishna sir’s left-hand Shiv Kaka, Sunny Qureshi who ran the feed program like a thing of beauty, and Joe – no last name – who was a wiz with the pregnant horses.

“The last few months have been the most uncertain Bhatnagar Farm has seen in the last few years, hasn’t it?” He didn’t wait for a murmur of assent before continuing. “I know there have been rumors of Nihaal and Pehel Bhatnagar, Krishna sir’s children, gearing up to sell The Farm.”

The murmurs increased in volume.

“I know Krishna Sir was a bastard.” He grinned placatingly at Shiv Kaka who was bristling at having his beloved God of a boss being maligned in death. “But he loved this land, loved what happened here from sun up to sundown and loved those creatures we are proud to race and run.”

Nashit pointed in the direction of the North Stables where the horses were making their daily noises, impatient to get their feed on and exercise and move for the day.

The crowd cheered at that.

“I know you are worried for your jobs and positions,” he said quietly. “It’s been a few weeks of unrest and uncertainty, with Nihaal getting married and all the drama that came with it.”

“Why shouldn’t we be worried, Nashit?” One of the newer hands called out, from the relative anonymity of the back. “After all, you’re the executor of the will that ties you to this land. And the heirs are all set up for life. They only care about the money.”

Nashit’s fist clenched as he saw red. He deliberately slowed his breathing down. Trained his brain to listen to the man’s concern instead of simply reacting.

It wasn’t easy.

“Give us one good reason why we should stay and work for The Farm if there won’t even be a farm by the end of the year.”

“Here’s your reason,” Nashit said quietly. Pitching his voice so it would carry to the end of the corral. “As long as I am work at Bhatnagar Farm, I will work this Farm. Period. And since Krishna sir isn’t here anymore, you all answer to me. Not the heirs or any fucking one else.”

“Are we even going to have a racing Season this year, Nashit?” Haroon, lead trainer asked worriedly. “With Krishna Sir’s death and Mukesh’s demise and that fucker cop asking questions of all of us, it is a fair worry.”

Nashit bit off an internal curse. “I…”

“And I know you’re in charge but the rumors of The Farm being sold are still circulating. After all, Nihaal or Choti Baby,” Shiv Kaka referred to Pehel by the name all of the employees knew her. “They don’t have the same connection, the same love for the horses and this farm that Sir did. That,” Shiv gave him a small smile of pride. “You have, Nashit.”

“It’s a damn shame, Sir did not promote you to take over The Farm after he passed away. You, most of all, have given your blood and fucking sweat to this place,” Sunny said, chewing on his ever-present Wrigley’s.

Nashit inclined his head at the compliment. “We all have. Every single last one of us. Which is why I am here, in my capacity as Operations Manager of The Farm and the executor of Krishna Sir’s will to promise you that your jobs and positions are absolutely safe.”

Loud cheers greeted his announcement. It went on so long he had to hold up his hand and continue in a louder voice, “And as long as I am Operations Manager they will be. Even if I have to sit on Nihaal and Pehel’s heads and make them see reason.”

The cheers turned rowdy. They started stamping the ground, much like agitated horses.

“Thankfully, thankfully, Nihaal and Pehel have never thought of selling The Farm and have trusted me to continue with our plans unopposed. In fact, both of them are going to be present here, in Alipur, for the duration of this year’s Thoroughbred Racing Season.”

Joe raised his brows in disbelief. “I thought Nihaal would want to be back at the track, prepping for next year’s Formula One season.”

“Nihaal will figure it out. But Pehel will be here.” Nashit was proud that his voice did not falter at mentioning her name and the fact that she would be here. All the time. Every single day.

“But…

“I’m more than happy to address everyone’s individual concerns and sitting down as the day progresses,” Nashit cut off the protestor artfully. Ruthlessly. “But prep for the Season takes priority from today. Bhatnagar Farm will put up Mystic as our number one contender followed by Jigarthanda. These horses are our money makers and future champions. We need them to perform this season because Jigarthanda will be farmed out to stud next season.” He referred to the activity of loaning the Thoroughbred’s sperm to create future champions for ungodly sums of money.

The crowd cheered so loudly the sky rang with their shouts.

“Bhatnagar and Krishna Sir have always been there for us. Leading us through tough times and awful Seasons. Let’s do this for him. Let’s give him a win he will always be remembered for.”

Nashit smiled and raised his hands along with the crowd and allowed their infectious enthusiasm to circulate in him. Washing away a bit of the poison he lived with.

Pride. Legacy. These were words he’d hungered for. Bled for, for The Farm. For Krishna. And for himself. For a boy who’d struggled to finish high school, who’d been called a brute and a bully just because he was tall and built it was a miracle. That he could belong here, with giants larger than him.

And yet, it rankled.

As Nashit walked away from the meeting crowd back toward his office, he heard Sunny’s condemning words again.

You should be running the Farm, Nashit. It’s unfair.

They were the exact same words Binama had said when she’d first heard the terms of her husband’s will. Her tears were gentle and remorseful but they ultimately did him no good.

Krishna’s will was watertight. Nihaal and Pehel were to get married to inherit their share of the inheritance. Nihaal had already married Mili, the fixer from America who’d thrived in her practice here. And he was happy as houses with her.

And Nashit was good where he was. He would never be equal to the heirs of the Farm. That was not in his luck, something all horsemen believed in. And he, like every single of the people who worked at the Farm loved it too damn much to quit.

But now he had a chance. A chance to make his own mark and start his own legacy, his own immortality.  

The Bar One. His own operation. Run right on Bhatnagar land rented from the heirs of the estate.

Was it sneaky and underhanded? Yes. Did he much care? Not enough to quit.

Krishna Bhatnagar had thought him fit to remain in his present position with not even a thank you for his years of service and employment. And he respected his former boss. But he didn’t have to like him for it.

So yes, Nashit had misgivings about the way The Bar One was being set up. But he was not going to stop. Not when this was the only dream he could make real. Unequal as he was.

He unlocked his phone as an email notification slid onto the screen. And lady luck finally smiled on him.

Subject line: You’ve been waiting for this one, hoss. It contained a four minute video attachment. And an empty text box.  

Nashit smiled. No one called him hoss, save one man. A man with the most connections in the horseflesh industry. The man who’d been rumored to sell one to even Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. Nashit immediately sent the email to his computer.

He took off running back to the torture chamber and clicked download on the attachment even before he sat down on the chair.

****

The video was shot on a phone so it shook a little in the beginning. Right as the announcer of the local race spoke in a distant Western accent, drawling on every single word. But the words were an echo to the visual.

The camera was trained on one single horse standing on the extreme left of the flaps. It stood to the extreme left, number fifteen, if Nashit was counting right.

There was arrogance in its posture, pride in its gait. It stood, as if merely waiting to begin the damn race and finish it. Confident, no, conscious of its win.

It was solid black, seventeen hands, a silky black with a mane weaved with beads found only in the mountains of Afghanistan. Probably an Arabian, Nashit concluded as he saw the jagged white scar on the horse’s wedged forehead. It was the shape of a small bolt of lightning, and as the rider draped the green colors of whichever ranch owned the jockey and horse, over the flanks, he understood which horse this was.

His horse agent had spoken of one horse for the upcoming season. With a single name, Pathaan. Because he’d been found in the wilds of Afghanistan. A truly rare combination of horse – an Arabian Thoroughbred.

Arabians were the oldest breed of horse on the earth, dating 4500 years or so ago. And Thoroughbreds whose longer forelegs meant they could get up to forty-five miles an hour in a single burst of speed and energy were descended from these creatures. But, where an Arabian was known for speed and endurance, they didn’t reach the unholy speeds required to win Derby races.

But, if his agent was right, then what he was looking at was a true Arabian Thoroughbred. An anomaly in the horseflesh world.

Nashit touched the screen as he looked at the beads in the horse’s mane again. Yeah, they were black and nut brown. A pathaani, Afghani, charm.

The horse stood away from all others, sure of its win, even before the race began was the one they were all talking about. Nashit jolted when the announcer said the sire of number fifteen was unknown, although he looked to have Thoroughbred blood.

This was an unwelcome glitch to their plans. Any racing expert knows that lineage matters in a sport like Thoroughbred racing. It was a sport for the purebreds, horses who have at least three Arabian Sires. Anything less, would be considered tainted and unfit. Who knows what genes mixed in his blood.

Only, extremely sure and capable owners took a chance with unknowns or rogues as they were called. Krishna Bhatnagar had been one of them.

The announcer yelled, “Five, four, three, two…..GO!”

The gunshot that followed, was deafened by the noise of sixty-four hooves starting to thunder down a quarter mile grass track, that was fashioned after the Kentucky Derby, the crown jewel of all horseracing all over the world.

The announcer was giving drab commentary, sharing all this along with details of the pack leader. A horse named Mr. Romeo who was sired by the grandson of Secretariat, the most famous and legendary of horses in racing history. The jockey wore gold and red, Agar Champion Farm’s colors.

Mr. Romeo was indeed leading for the first five seconds of the race. The jockey spurred him on and he responded by sprinting ahead of everyone else. The others followed him.

It was delirious to see.

And then, slowly, stealthily, one dark horse, broke out of the pack thundering on. The crowds were cheering crazy.

It joined Romeo at the lead. Now there were three of them racing in the front of the others. Romeo inched forward, and the other horse did too. Just as soon as Romeo pulled ahead, number fifteen would join it.

The midnight black mane of the horse was flying, as it sprinted forward. Abreast of Romeo, the pack leader, where the rider was shouting for her to RUN! The crowds were yelling too.

The third horse fell behind. It was the last three hundred feet, and only the pack leader and number fifteen were battling it out. The horses ran parallel for most of the way, throwing dust and grass under their hooves and into the camera’s eyes.

The atmosphere was electric. Chaotic. People were cheering for Romeo and Pathaan. They didn’t know who could win.

Romeo pulled ahead by a hair’s breadth…

But at the last ten feet, Pathaan charged.

Nashit saw, right down to the microsecond when the horse decided to win. The jockey bent parallel to his animal and applied a light touch to its flanks. Pathaan neighed. A war cry if ever there was one.

And whipped past Mr. Romeo as if he really was traveling at the speed of light. The crowd was in an uproar, Nashit couldn’t hear the announcer screaming the results over the pandemonium. But he didn’t need to.

He knew it, in his gut. As he always did.

The ribbon was held at the finish line and with a last gallop that looked more like flying to anybody, Pathaan, showed his promise and raced to victory.

Nashit’s heart was in his throat as he watched the video again. Then again. Then, a third time.

His phone rang with a private number by the time he’d cued up the video a fourth time.

****

“Was wondering when you’d call, asshole.” Nashit leaned back in his chair, felt the kinks in his spine creak and groan like the chair did.

“Was waiting for yours, hoss,” Sawyer Marsden, the number one breeder in all of Montana and, by extension, of most of the world retorted. “It’s been a goddamn year already.”

“Untrue. I called you on your birthday in August,” Nashit countered.

“You talk like a goddamn lawyer, Nashit. I thought you were a horsehand.”

Nashit smiled. Slow and dreamy. “And now, thanks to you, I’m going to be a horse owner. How much?”

“Bastard’s a thing to behold, isn’t he?” Sawyer’s smile was apparent in his voice. “The jockey who trained him had to ride him for near on eighteen hours straight with his hands and legs taped to Pathaan before Pathaan broke for him.”

“Fuck.” Nashit sat straight. “That’s some spirit.”

“You can see it in the way he races, don’t you?”

Nashit sighed. Rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah. I can. How much, Sawyer?”

“Premium. And then some. I haven’t put this sumbitch up on the auction block because I know you’ve been looking seriously. And I wanted you to have first shot at it. But it is going to cost you everything. And you’ll have to take on the jockey too.”

“Because the horse only responds to the jockey?” Nashit concluded.

“He won’t let anyone else near him. Last time a hand tried to feed him some grub he damn near chewed the man’s fingers off. It wasn’t pretty, Nashit.”

Nashit chuckled. “He’s temperamental.”

“He’s a fucking menace is what he is,” Sawyer said bluntly. “But he can outrace anything and everything with the endurance to match. And, for that, I’ll charge you the sky and the earth you love so much. And you’ll pay.”

“How much are we talking here, Sawyer? Ballpark?” Nashit asked. His heart raced with the thrill of negotiation. “His pedigree is in question.”

“Yes, no doubt, but we’re testing to see if he comes from Darley or the Barb or Turk,” Sawyer named the three Arabian stallions who were responsible for breeding every single Thoroughbred in known history since the English imported them.

“But his legacy won’t be, and you know it. Think of the highest bid on horse after Shareef Dancer,” he named the horse owned by the Sheikh of a very comfortable Middle Eastern prinicipality, “and then add a couple mill to it.”

Nashit’s eyes bugged out as he did the math. “That’s…”

“Yep,” Sawyer agreed comfortably. “A lot. Think you can spring the dough?”

“All of it all at the same time?” Nashit murmured, doing the math in his head. As he thought about how this move was probably going to wipe out his portfolio.

“Because I’ve known you since your rodeo days and you’ve been one of my favorite horsepeople in the world, I’m going to make you a special deal. You can pay half now, upfront. And half from the purse winnings.”

“Purse winnings?”

“Mumbai, Kolkata, Victoria, Ascot, Bluegrass, and Kentucky,” Sawyer named some of the most important and valuable Derbies – thoroughbred races – in the world.  Posting these winnings should be enough, right?”

“You think he’ll win it all?”

“Boy, if there was a Derby to the fucking moon, I’d bet on Pathaan and Ali. All you have to do is gain their trust. So, are you in or do I need to put the horse up on the site?”

“You need my answer now?” Nashit muttered, even as his fingers flew over the keyboard and he checked his portfolio. It was enough to cover the deal and house and train the horse for the upcoming season. His first and only make or break season.

“You’ve been waiting five years for this question, Nashit. How much longer do you want to?”

Nashit made his decision then. The decision he’d been waiting for the last five years. Ever since he’d understood what it was, he wanted to do with his life. What it was he wanted his legacy to be.

School and books weren’t for him. He could hold seven figures in his head but give him a book to read and he was lost. The words made no sense to him. He’d learned enough to keep The Farm running by copying and plodding through the words in the middle of the night but he knew, with no vanity and without a doubt, that without horses he’d be nothing. No one.

With the right horse, with this horse he’d get it all. A champion. Greatness. Immortality.

Pedigree.

All the things he’d never had in his childhood, his bloody and deadly youth. All the things that he’d seen Krishna Bhatnagar keep and rule with an iron fist, to the cost of his family and their well-being. He might not agree with Krishna’s methods, but he understood his madness.

Craved it.

He crossed his fingers, to bring good fortune and luck to the deal and willed his gambler’s blood to cool down. “Set up a meeting with the Consortium. I’m in.”

“You won’t regret it, hoss. Good luck. And congratulations. You just bought your future.”

Nashit clicked off the call and murmured to himself. “I think I just did.”

Then he called his portfolio manager in Kolkata and instructed him to start liquidating all his savings. Every single penny.

Nashit had found the one thing in the world he’d sell the shirt off his back for.

He’d found his champion of champions. The one he could call his own.

---

This is all I have for this edition of TWGL, Postmate. I’ll check back in super soon with this month’s Book Club goodies and a very special friend’s scorching hot new release - it will melt your brain (and your panties :P)

Till then, shine on crazy diamond,

Xx

Aarti