“So collateral if I refuse,” she said, her face contorted in anger. I hoped she wasn’t falling for his bullshit. “What proof do you have that he is my brother?”
Good girl.
“They agreed to let you perform a DNA test on your brother at a lab of your choice,” his reply surprised me.
She chewed her bottom lip, her expression contemplative. “Suppose I buy this story, when do I need to give you an answer?”
He smiled, I could say almost genuinely but I didn’t believe it. “We can arrange a meet with them then decide the details if you’re willing?”
Over my dead fucking body.
“I need time to think this through,” she replied. “I have a life here, a residency I plan to finish, I can’t just forget all that exists and move away.”
“I’m sure they’ll be willing to work things out, Ishika, we just need your confirmation.”
Dragging her hands through her hair, she turned her back on them and moved closer to where I stood, so close her scent wafted up nostrils, daring me to inhale deeply. My cock stirred, tightening behind my zipper. Clearly, he was ready for action after watching her for just over a month.
She frowned, staring at the spot where I stood then sniffed the air as though she recognized my cologne.
“That’s it, little fox, you recognize your owner, don’t you?” I whispered under my breath. Tempted to let her know I was there, my logical side dictated I shouldn’t. Not until I knew who the fuck I was dealing with.
About to take a step toward me, her uncle stopped her. “We’re staying at the Belvedere tonight, Ishika. Why don’t you join us for dinner?”
Her gaze riveted on where I stood hidden, she hesitated before slowly turning away. “Thank you but I have the evening shift at the hospital.”
“That’s a shame, perhaps on our next visit?” he suggested.
“Yes. Let me make you some tea, though,” she offered.
“Fuck sakes,” I growled, wanting them gone.
The couple retook their seats at the table while Ishika moved out of sight toward the kitchenette.
Back against the wall, I holstered my gun and moved toward the curtain. Using it as a shield, I pulled my phone from my pocket and sent Rahul a text.
Me: Anything?
I waited, watching the three dots dance for a few seconds before he replied.
Rahul: Veer Sharma. India’s Minister of Finance, and Miss Ishika’s uncle, mother’s brother. Squeaky clean record. A little too clean if you ask me. Currently seeking collaboration to rid India of drug lords.
“How saintly,” I muttered, positive there was more to the man.
Me: And the dark web?
Rahul: Mafia don. In deep with local and international smugglers, human traffickers and terrorists responsible for blood massacres all over the world.
My grip tightened on the phone, convinced he wanted more than the culmination of a marriage contract from Ishika.
Me: Do we know why he’s here?
Rahul: No chatter yet.
Me: Keep searching
I pocketed my phone, determined to find out more and rested the back of my head against the wall, waiting. Another ten minutes of idle conversation around her residency passed before they finally said their goodbyes.
“About fucking time,” I muttered.
