She frowns, totally serious. “Oh. Is it very much longer? I have had to go for quite some time.”
I can’t hold back the laughter anymore. “Jesus, woman, I’m teasin’.” I give her slim shoulder a gentle shove. “Go pee. I’ll wait here.”
She sighs, sounding very nearly annoyed. “You and your teasing. How am I to know when you are serious and when you are not?” This is rhetorical, though, since she walks off without giving me a chance to answer.
* * *
A couple hours later,we’re cruising into LA. At a light, I turn to her. “So, where’s this place of your dad’s?”
She blinks. “Oh. I…I do not know the address.”
I laugh. “So…how am I supposed to find it?”
She shrugs. “I…well?” A resigned sigh. “It is a whole building. My father is Rohit Sharma.”
I think she’s figuring I know the name, and was hoping to avoid having to share this. “Sorry, babe. Don’t mean shit to me.”
“Really?” For some reason, this brightens her. “You do not know who is Rohit Sharma?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” She’s silent a moment. “You will have to use the internet, then.”
I pull off the road into a parking lot, leave the motor running and put down the kickstand, dig my burner out of the saddlebag. Power it up; it’s a burner, but it’s a smartphone at least, just a cheap off-brand kind I don’t mind throwing out when I’m done. With her assistance in spelling, I search for her father. Turns out he’s a billionaire real estate developer based in Mumbai, but with interests in Vegas, LA, and New York. The building he owns in LA isn’t one I know, but it’s not hard to find. I memorize the route from where we are to the building.
Back onto the road, and it’s a good thirty-five-minute ride.
When we get there, I park in the connected parking garage and we head to the main entrance—it’s a pretty decent-sized building, some twenty floors, all glass and fancy architecture.
We get through the front door and head toward the bank of elevators on the right; the lobby is marble and sunlight, with a wide receptionist desk in the middle, a coffee shop on the left, and the elevators on the right.
Nearly to the elevators, Anjalee halts, gasping in fear, ducking behind me. “No, no, no. Oh no. Please, no.”
I sense the fear in her, hear it. Feel it. I twist, hiding her from whatever she saw with my body, holding her. Tilt away and touch her chin. “Anjalee, babe. What’s wrong?”
She pulls her chin away, looking down. Shakes her head. “I should not have involved you. I should have known better.” She stiffens her back, squares her shoulders. “It is fine. You may go.”
I frown down at her. “Yeah, not happening. You’re scared shitless.” I turn and scan the area—and I see them.
Six men, all in similar suits—black or charcoal, with white button-downs, shiny loafers. They’re all Indian, young men, well-built, sharp-eyed. Strapped, too. In twos around the bank of elevators, watching the crowd as they stream onto and off of the elevators.
“Talk to me, Anjalee.” I touch her chin, lift. Her eyes shift, full of terror and anger. “I can help, but I gotta know what’s goin’ on. Who are those guys, and why are you afraid of them?”
She just shakes her head. “I can’t. You helped enough by getting me here. It is not your risk to take. I will handle them.” She starts to move past me, but I don’t let her, just dance back in front of her, blocking their view of her with my body.
“I don’t think so, beautiful.” Her eyes go wide, shocked, but also soft and pleased. “I told you, long as you’re with me, you’re safe.”
“They are not good men.”
“Neither am I.”
She frowns. “You are.” To them, then. “They would not help me, they would take me back.”
“Back?” I eye the men, then her. “I think it’s time to fill me in, honey.”
“No.”
“They’re your father’s men?”
