First and Only Destiny eBook & LARGE Print: First Kiss, First Love, Forever Love?

Prologue

North London, June 1995

Leaving the tomb-like silence of the Rolls Royce, Lia gripped the heavy skirt of her imprisoning wedding dress, while accepting the stooping, old man’s help to brave the summer downpour.

The big, bat-like umbrella over them absorbed the mini bullets of the rain, turning the pure white of her gown to gunmetal grey.

Was it sunrise or sunset? She did not know or care. The universe had lost all colour and warmth.

Her feet and heart refused to cooperate as the old man tightened his embrace around her and urged her toward the arched doors of the imposing granite-grey building ahead of them.

A familiar magnetic pull made her turn her head to look over her shoulder, across the road. Lips trembling under the stifling veil, she saw the soaking, unshaven, Devraj standing by his car.

She felt his agony, heard his thoughts, How can you throw away your life, our destiny? Please come back to me!

But the sleek, dark river of the London street may as well have been oceans separating them, like a chasm of culture neither could overcome.

Even if this was her biggest mistake, he had to see her enter the house of her God.

Suddenly, thunder reverberated above them. She turned away from the love of her life. Her first love was an illusion and a part of her past, now. He had to be.

Look forward, not back.

Love will come, you’ll see. Howard will make you happy. Her grandmother’s mantra over the past endless weeks had almost made Lia want to scream that it would only make her grandparents happy. But... here she was, still walking in the opposite direction from Devraj. For his own sake.

Whether or not he ever forgave her, one day she would be proud of her strength and sacrifice.

Tears streaming down her face, she forced her legs up the stairs into the dimness. The cool, musty scent of the traditions ingrained into the spirit of the synagogue made her shiver.

Faces of curious strangers watched her advance towards the waiting bridegroom. The high jewel-tone stained-glass windows, to which generations of proud families had contributed, seemed about to shatter in on her. And, as every hesitant step led her closer to the man at the end of the aisle, his patent happiness made her steps falter, and she wanted to shout, it’s a lie; you know nothing about me!

She almost stumbled, but Dedda supported her. The nightmare continued.

But this was her destiny, not the heart-broken, young man out in the rain.

Statue-still, she lowered her burning eyes behind the veil. If Devraj ran up that aisle, demanding he was her rightful soul mate, would she flee with him? No!

Sucking in a shaky breath, she prayed for strength from the same God who had gifted—and then snatched away—an alternate, impossible future.

Anchoring her limbs, she swore to be the perfect wife to the smiling man beside her. She was not marrying him for her grandparents, but for a much bigger reason.

Or—she raised her head, heart pounding—she could grab the long train of her white dress as restrictive as armour, and escape into the arms of her one and only true love.

She took another fortifying breath.

Her fingers unfurled from their fists like opening petals.

Chapter 1

University of Central London, eight months earlier

Lia stole another glance at the beautiful, exotic young man whose image she was trying to capture in her sketchpad. Ignoring the bustling atmosphere of the campus cafeteria, she focused on the sensuous feel of the charcoal stick within her shaking fingers as it stroked the paper. Surreptitiously, she studied her subject’s confident body language and his slightly amused, slightly superior expression, which acted on all her senses.

Once again, everything around her had faded to background noise as soon as she had seen the tall, young man several yards away, standing with his friends, yet seeming to be apart from them.

What a perfect Rajah he would be, dignified and confident, waiting for his beautiful Hindi bride to appear. Lia imagined the delicate fragrance of a jasmine-and-rose wedding garland around his neck. She resisted the temptation to draw him in a traditional white-and-gold bridegroom’s suit.

Why had she never met a suitable Jewish man who captured her imagination like this?

Suddenly, her subject turned away from the girl smiling up at him and looked straight at Lia. Immediately she glanced away from those bright hazel eyes. Heat flushed her cheeks and her shaking hand stilled above her sketch. Why had she chosen to draw him again? Was she watching too many Bollywood movies with her aunt and grandmother?

Compelled by fascination with the forbidden, Lia hesitantly lifted her head. She watched the young man stride towards her across the short span between them, his gaze never releasing hers.

She gulped, forgetting how to breathe.

Hunching over her sketchpad, she wished she could disappear. He would not understand her interest in him was purely artistic.

Or was it?

Her world slowed as his bold steps covered the distance between them, like a conquering Maharaja with golden-dark skin claiming his bride. The charcoal stick snapped in half in her hand. A sense of inevitability rippled through her as he reached her table and she raised her head to look fully into his face.

Her many sketches had not done him justice.

Drawing in a revitalizing breath, she stared into those amber eyes that seemed to shine from within.

Lia absorbed his relaxed aura and easy-going smile, the tones of his skin, and the shiny black hair stroking his denim shirt collar. Even the slight bump on his regal nose added to his attraction.

His eyes lowered to her sketch.

With clammy, shaky hands, she snapped the pad shut but could not look away from him.

He rested one large, golden, beautifully shaped hand on the edge of the table and leaned toward her. Like what you see? he asked in a rich baritone that caressed even as it teased.

I don’t know what you mean. Her face prickled, leaving her as hot as if sunburned. She probably looked as red as a cooked lobster.

Smile widening, he sat opposite her. Let me see? his tone a mix of request and demand she found arrogant … and maybe a little attractive.

She clutched her sketchbook. Absolutely not.

Her refusal did not dim his smile. Did you give me horns and crossed-eyes?

Lia shook her head. No, of course not! I mean it’s… it’s private.

He shrugged, studying her. Well, it’s my image you’re using. I should be allowed to see what you’ve done.

She took a slow, steadying breath. I … I’m sorry. I won’t sketch you anymore.

I don’t mind. In fact, I’m flattered. I just want to see—

Please leave me alone.

His dark brows rose. Hey, now. That’s not very friendly. You seemed to be interested—

Please? she interrupted softly, but clearly he heard her because he stopped in mid-sentence and watched her reproachfully.

It was her own fault. She had been staring at him, drawing him, for several days. Treating him as if he were a still life. But he was a live, healthy, attractive man, not a bowl of fruit, so of course he had misunderstood.

She glanced at the group he had left minutes earlier, several young men, as dazzlingly handsome as the hunks in Gillette adverts, and sophisticated girls draped next to them, all students, and all strangers to her.

They had gone silent, their eyes fixed on her with open curiosity. Also obvious was the hostility in the narrowed eyes and flattened lips of one young blonde woman, fashionably dressed, and boldly made up. Her confident and assertive body language proclaimed her a woman who belonged here, not intimidated and out of her depths, like Lia felt.

Heat penetrated from her neck up to her face as Lia shifted her gaze from the scrutiny of this man’s friends and looked up only far enough to focus on his chin. Please go away. In the silence that met her words, she suddenly heard how rude, how unfriendly she sounded.

Maybe if she explained. I’m sorry, I-I’m here … just to study. I’m not supposed to … mingle.

She watched as he weighed her words, holding her breath, willing him to accept her explanation and simply retreat to his own world.

Instead, he grinned and shook his head. I’m Devraj, but people call me Dev, or Dave. The long fingers of his outreached hand drew her attention but she was not supposed to have physical—or any other—contact with men.

Devraj. Even his name was striking, regal. Feeling panicky because she wanted to touch his hand, wanted to feel his fingers on her own, Lia stood so quickly that her chair made a harsh noise against the floor.

Devraj stood up, too. Staring at him, slightly swaying forward Lia suddenly understood how magnetism worked. Grabbing her large cumbersome bag and draping it over her left shoulder she said, "I told you, I’m here, at this school, to study, not t-to meet strangers. I … I have to go. Excuse