When we get there, the building is much larger than I remember. Tall, brightly glimmering in the desert sun, a thousand feet of glass. My heart is no longer merely pounding, but is likely to burst out of my chest. I clutch his hand as we park and head for the entrance.
The moment we are in the cold marble and glass foyer, I see Pappa’s security men, and I recognize one of them by name—Arun. He is young, only a few years older than me, if that. He always had a secret smile for me, I think because he finds me attractive. He sees me, and his eyes widen.
Kane holds me back, stopping us near the doors. “Let them come to us,” he murmurs.
It is hard to swallow. Arun heads for me, two others following him.
“Miss Sharma, you have come back,” he says, in very excited Hindi. “This is very good. Your father will be pleased.” He gestures at the elevators. “This way, please.” To Kane, in English: “Thank you, sir, for returning her. You may go.”
I step back, into Kane, answering in Hindi. “No, Arun, it is not like that. I have not come back. I am only here to speak to Pappa. Please, get him for me.”
Arun looks at me, at Kane, his eyes narrowing as he realizes the intimacy of our stance—Kane’s arm low around my waist, my hand on his chest. “No, no. You do not understand. You must come. Jiwan Vardhamana is most unhappy.”
“Ido not careabout Jiwan Vardhamana.” I snap my fingers at him. “Call Pappa. Tell him I am here to speak to him. I will not go up. He must come down.”
Arun frowns, confused. “I…I cannot tell him this.”
No one tells Pappa what to do. No one.
I shrug. “Then do not. I do not care.” I turn to Kane, speaking in English. “We may go, now.”
“No, wait—wait!” He has an earpiece and a small microphone clipped to his suit coat lapel, which he keys and speaks into, low and rapid. He listens, nods. “He is on the way.”
“Very good.” I look around—there is a lounge area, a few chairs, a couch, a low glass table scattered with magazines. “We will wait there.”
Arun looks at Kane. “He must go. Your father will be most displeased.”
I shrug. “He is already most displeased. Kane is not going anywhere.”
Arun looks pained. “Miss Sharma, please. You do not understand.” He bends closer, and I feel Kane tense. “We have instructions.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “What kind of instructions, please?”
He frowns—he has been speaking in Hindi, except for the one time he addressed Kane. “We are to bring you, no matter what.”
“Even if I struggle? What then?”
He winces. “We are to bring you. Your friend is in danger.”
“He not my friend,” I say, lifting my chin. “He is my lover.”
Arun curses in Hindi, glaring at Kane, then looking to me again. “If he is smart, he will leave.”
“What’s going on?” Kane asks. “Your friend doesn’t sound happy.”
“He says you are in danger. I told him you are my lover, and he says that they have instructions to make sure I go with them, no matter what.”
“Well, that ain’t happening.” He squeezes an arm around my shoulders. “Don’t worry about me, hon. Nothin’ these amateurs can do to threaten me.”
He pulls me to the couch in the lounge area, taking a relaxed seat, tugging me down so I am snugged into his side, his arm along the back of the couch. He glances at Arun. “You boys, where I can see you.”
Arun frowns, pulling back the lapel of his blazer, revealing a shoulder holster and a gun. “You do not understand the situation.”
Kane just grins. “Awww. You got a little gun? Ain’t that cute.” He moves like a striking cobra—one blink of an eye, he is lounged beside me, relaxed and loose, the next he is several feet away, in Arun’s space, one hand on the butt of Arun’s pistol, the other around his throat. “Kid, I get the situation just fucking fine. It’syouthat don’t know shit.” His voice drops low, threatening. “I wanted you dead, ain’t a goddamn thing you or any of your friends could do to stop me. And I don’t need a gun to do it. You feel me?”
Arun gurgles, eyes wide, nods. Kane releases him, eyes scanning the other two of Pappa’s men. Each of them shows Kane his hands, moving to stand where Kane can see him from the couch.
Kane pulls Arun’s gun from the holster, patting Arun’s chest in a patronizing way, and sits beside me. He ejects from the handle the part of the gun which holds the bullets, looks into it, replaces it, pulls back the top part with an ominous metallic click.
