Free Where the Lotus Flowers Grow by Mk Schiller Page A

starkers? “Does that make you think less of me?”
    “No, sir, but here is the thing. I do like my job. As you said, I’m fine where I stand.”
    “That’s not exactly what I said. And your statement doesn’t offer me any greater insights into your position. You’re wasting your life.”
    Her mouth tightened. I thought she’d leave then, or slap me, or some other gesture I deserved. Instead, she cut me with the harsh tone of her words. “That’s an opinion, not a fact. And it’s not exactly a very solid opinion when coming from someone who isn’t passionate about his own life.”
    “At least warn me when you’re about to gut me.”
    “I should go. It’s late. Unless you actually have any questions involving my job or this hotel?”
    Fine, we’d play it her way. I had a whole fucking list of questions. I skipped right to the most important one.
    “I’m sure you’re aware this hotel is losing money.”
    “I am. Everyone is.”
    “Do you have any suggestions or opinions on the matter?”
    She looked around the room. “May I be bold and improper, sir?”
    “Better than meek and weak.”
    Her smiled widened. “The hotel is a fraud.”
    “A fraud?”
    She stood and knocked on the decorative molding that framed the window. “This is plastic. The floor,” she said, tapping her foot against it, “is not real stone, but a cheap factory-made porcelain imitation. The rug is a mass-produced, made in China, reproduction of a Persian rug.”
    “What is your point?”
    “We should not try to be something we are not. This is Jaipur. You can cross the lake and stay at a real Raj’s palace. Why would you want to stay at a fake one?”
    I paused, my grip tightening on the pencil. She’d successfully expressed the very issue that eluded me. “You make a strong point.”
    “Thank you, sir. Are you writing this down?”
    “Yes.”
    “You’re not. You haven’t been taking notes this whole time. What are you doing?”
    She held out her hand, gesturing to the pad. I gripped it tighter. “It’s chicken scratch you won’t be able to read.”
    “Then why won’t you let me look at it?”
    What use was it? We—no, not we—I had crossed so many lines tonight that I might as well have walked a marathon.
    I set down the pad. It was a rough sketch at best, but she looked at it as if was a fine work of art. Her finger hovered above the lines, following them in the air. I drew her with her hair down as I imagined it would look, her pouty lips in that carefree sexual smile that rarely surfaced. But whenever it did, my heart jumped, as did another part of my body.
    “It’s me?”
    “I was paying attention to what you said, but I really wanted to draw you, which is weird considering I haven’t drawn anything in a long time.”
    “You’re very good.”
    “Hardly, it’s a hobby.” Not even a hobby anymore.
    “Have you had any formal training?”
    “No.”
    “Then you are naturally talented.”
    In my head, I snorted at the compliment. “I have professional opinions to the contrary.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “When I was eighteen, I wanted nothing more than to be an artist…a painter. My father had other ideas.”
    “So you didn’t do it because of him?”
    “Oh no, I wasn’t a docile boy. I rebelled. He threatened to disown me. I’ll have you know I didn’t balk at that idea. I accepted it. Things are always easier when you’re young.”
    “What changed?”
    “He made a deal with me. It was a fair deal, and I accepted the terms.”
    “What deal?”
    “He said I couldn’t make a living with the bohemian lifestyle I chose for myself. I disagreed, of course, but he wanted to prove that to me. He offered to pay all my living expenses for six months. After that time, I would have an exhibition. If I made enough to cover what he’d spent, then he’d send me to the art school of my choice. Or to Europe to study with a master. I really wanted that, Mary. I wanted to improve and hone my skills. So I