And boy, had she turned up.
His plans after tracking her down had been nebulous for sure, but he definitely hadn’t counted on her seekinghimout while fleeing a handsy mark. And then kissing him. Or asking him back to her place. Or looking at him with those warm chocolate eyes like she was begging him to kiss her again. Or casually telling him about the family that had brought him to her doorstep.
So many surprises in a row. But perhaps the greatest surprise was how he’d reacted to her.
He’d known she was beautiful. His brother’s file had held a few photos, but they’d been driver’s license shots, and one very old picture pulled from a now-defunct social media profile. None of them had prepared him for the wallop she packed in person.
There were a million things about her that a photograph didn’t convey: her multi-layered brown skin that glowed with health; her shining gold hoop nose ring with the little flower at the bottom; the intriguing thin scar bisecting her eyebrow; her muscular, angular body; the different shades of brown and black in her eyes and how deep and endless those eyes were; the softness of her hair, short and roughly cut, as though she’d hacked it off herself one evening when she’d had enough of it.
Beautiful, yes. Not like the dawn, but like a sunset after a heavy rain, mysterious and luxurious and strong.
Since when did you become a poet?
Since that kiss probably.
He’d forgotten why he was loitering in that bar. Forgotten the crowd around them and who she was and who he was and, most terribly, his brother. Her lips were so perfect and sweet, the dip of her back the perfect rest for his hand. He’d wanted nothing more than to keep kissing her for hours. And when she’d invited him up, his first feeling had been anticipation, as if they really were going to hook up.
He prodded his nose a little harder, both to ensure it actually wasn’t broken and to summon his usual pragmatic brain, which was out to lunch lately. She was a criminal born of a family of criminals, and more importantly, she was a means to an end. An end that included his brother, alive and home.
Pull yourself together.Krish wasn’t an actor, or even a good liar, but like every avid reader, he’d pretended to be someone else a time or two. He could do this. He’d done it in the bar already, playing a seductive and flirtatious savior. He had no choice. She was his only lead and bargaining chip, all rolled into one.
Sejal yanked at the handcuff so hard he took a step forward in concern, then back again when she kicked out at him. “You’re going to hurt yourself. Please stop, and listen to me,” he said, louder, but then he caught a glimpse of her wild eyes.Oh fuck.She was desperate, and scared.
Well, of course she was. He was much bigger than her, had possibly stalked her, and had now handcuffed her to her own bed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated, loudly and clearly. “I’m—”
“Tell my mother she can go to hell.”
Her mother?“Uh.”
“Was that guy at the bar working for her, too? John? What does she want this time?” Her breath came even faster than his. “Whatever it is, I don’t have it.”
Thistime?
He had his brother’s files on her mother, but many of Rushali’s activities were public record. The woman had headed one of the most feared crime syndicates in Mumbai. The daughter of the original head of Cobra had immigrated to the States, married an Indian American man, settled down in the outskirts of Las Vegas, birthed two girls, then left them when they were young to take over Cobra when her father died. Over the years Cobra had stretched its tentacles throughout multiple countries, including America.
Rushali had evaded capture by international law enforcement agencies for years, but she resurfaced a little over two years ago in a hotel room on the Vegas Strip, inexplicably tied up and surrounded by stolen diamonds. Rushali had sat in prison since then, pending acres of red tape and extradition, sullen and unwilling to cooperate with anyone except to occasionally pose for the press.
But surely the former crime boss didn’t make a habit of sending men to hold guns on her own daughter, estranged or not? “I don’t work for your mother.”Okay. Get this show on the road.“I’m with the FBI.”
That didn’t have any kind of calming effect. “Fuck you,” Sejal snarled.
“I’m serious.”
“Dirty cops exist, and you don’t even give off cop vibes.”
Good instincts. “Probably because I’m not a cop.” Truth. “I’m a special agent.” Lie.
“Dirtyagentscan exist, then.”
“They do. But I’m not one of them.”
“Sure you’re not. Agents on official business always kiss people, follow them home, and then chain them up.”
He fought the heat that wanted to rise to his cheeks. Covert special agents did notflush. “First of all, you approached and kissed me. Second of all, I didn’t follow you home, I drove you home.”
“Ifyou’re a cop, how come you didn’t announce who you were right away?”
Krish tried not to rub his still smarting nose. He grabbed a wooden chair from the corner and dragged it over to sit next to the bed. When most people stayed somewhere, they put their personal stamp on it, no matter how neat they were: a jacket tossed over a couch, a lipstick-smudged glass in the bar area, an old receipt crumpled on the floor next to the wastebasket.
