A scandal-averse Maharaja.
A free-spirited actress.
What do you get when throw them together and add a fake engagement to the mix?
Depending on whom you ask, you either get a match made-in-heaven or a royal disaster.
Nivy Sharma knows exactly what she needs - the freedom to be herself and follow her passion. Guess what she doesn’t need? A tailor-made husband.
When her meddlesome mother tries to throw her into the arms of a mom-approved suitor, Nivy runs the other way.
Right into the arms of the man who shattered her heart.
His Highness Veerendra Singh can recognise a pain-in-the-ass when he sees it. Especially when it falls into his arms.
Even if said pain-in-the-ass has legs that go on forever and lush lips that just beg to be kissed, Veer vows to run the other way. As he did once before...
But, when the marriage-minded princess of Tejpur sets her sights on him, Veer runs back into Nivy’s arms to propose a fake engagement.
When 'fake' starts to feel very real, Nivy and Veer have to decide what is important… long-held prejudices or the chance for a life with the only person they've ever loved.
When her meddlesome mother tries to throw her into the arms of a mom-approved suitor, Nivy runs the other way.
Right into the arms of the man who shattered her heart.
His Highness Veerendra Singh can recognise a pain-in-the-ass when he sees it. Especially when it falls into his arms.
Even if said pain-in-the-ass has legs that go on forever and lush lips that just beg to be kissed, Veer vows to run the other way. As he did once before...
But, when the marriage-minded princess of Tejpur sets her sights on him, Veer runs back into Nivy’s arms to propose a fake engagement.
When 'fake' starts to feel very real, Nivy and Veer have to decide what is important… long-held prejudices or the chance for a life with the only person they've ever loved.
Will this be their second chance at love or will their broken past ruin their hope for a shared future?
Read an Excerpt from The Maharaja’s Fake Fiancée
NIVY
I told myself that the valet would be very shocked if I turned around, grabbed His Hottiness by the collar and kissed the living daylights out of him.
So, I closed my eyes and ignored the shudder that wracked my body. It was just a coincidence. He couldn’t have known that I had a thing for bikes.
And not just a small thing, but a ginormous THING that had led me into making some very questionable choices during my time in Mumbai. The kind of choices that made my poor mother threaten to take out a large life insurance on me just in case I broke my neck falling off the back of my biker boyfriend’s two-wheeled monster.
“And if you die, you duffer, I’ll never forgive you. But I’ll retire in style on that insurance money, just you wait,” she had wailed when she had heard about my biker boyfriend and his bike for the first time.
I was used to my mother’s twisted proclamations of love, so I didn’t take her seriously, but I did promise to wear a helmet and come back home in one piece. Thus, it was safe to say that when Veer’s souped-up Harley roared up the drive, my lady bits decided that it was time to sit up and take notice.
Veer shot me a knowing smile and grabbed the keys from the valet. Another valet rushed out with two helmets, and handed them over as ceremoniously as if he was handing out the Devgarh crowns.
I turned mine over to check for precious stones.
“What’s wrong?” asked Veer, throwing his own black helmet over his head and tugging on the strap.
I made a face.
“I’m very disappointed with the royal helmets. I expected a Cartier sarpech at the very least,” I said, referring to the turban ornament that the Maharajas of yore used to wear.
“At least it’s purple. Goes with your theme for the evening,” he replied, with a nod at the skull on my top.
His eyes lingered at my chest, and my nipples did a happy dance. A visible one, going by the way his gaze turned hot enough to scorch me.
I cleared my throat and gave Veer the directions to the dhaba.
He watched as I struggled with the strap of the helmet for a few seconds, and then, came over to show me how to pull it tight. His fingers grazed the skin under my ear and I forgot how to breathe.
As soon as he moved away, I took in a big gulp of air that turned into a silent gasp when he threw a leg across to straddle the bike.
Yowza! I’d always had a soft spot for bad boys with bikes. Who knew that a good boy with a bike could beat them all hollow?
I wanted to call the date off and hide under the bed until I had all these naughty feelings under control, for if I didn’t, I’d find myself married to my fake fiancé in the time it took my mother to snap her fingers like an evil fairy godmother, without even saying Bippity-boppity-boo.
And Veer would hate me for life. Or at least until his over-paid team of lawyers tortured me on a rack to get an annulment. And I would still be nowhere close to my dream.
So, I took another calming breath, and threw my own leg across the seat and climbed on. At first, I held on to the back-rest behind me, but the minute Veer revved the engine, the bike shot forward, and if I hadn’t wrapped my arms around his waist, this Humpty-Dumpty would have had a great fall.
I tried to stay upright, but the movement of the bike had me scooting forward until I was plastered against Veer’s back like a second skin. Every time I inhaled, my breasts brushed against his back, and my nipples sent me happy messages that I resolutely ignored.
It was impossible to make conversation over the roaring of the bike, so I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the ride. Veer picked up speed as soon as we left the city and hopped on to the highway. The sound of the engine revving went straight to my crotch and I bit back a silent moan.
If we were really engaged, I’d have made him stop the bike in a dark cul-de-sac off the highway and climbed around to face him, which would have resulted in us getting arrested, to be honest. So, I just had to keep telling myself that this was fake.
Meet the Author:
Alisha Kay is a Delhi based writer, who writes romances set in India.
She doesn’t hold with the concept of damsel-in-distress, which is why her heroines are spunky women with a sharp tongue and the ability to rescue themselves. Her heroes are hot men who are woke enough to find that independence irresistible.
The Maharaja’s Fake Fiancée is Alisha’s first book.
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