“Don’t worry about me, Nisha.”
“I do worry.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You can’t go through life alone.”
• 3 •
SAM walked quickly up the stairs to his new office suite, a box of office supplies under one arm. The scents of curry, coriander, and mild incense permeated the air, making his stomach rumble. An accident on the I-280 meant the one-hour journey had taken an extra forty-five minutes, and he would have to hustle if he wanted to get in a workout before the gym closed.
He reached the second floor and walked down the hallway, his footsteps muffled by the mint green carpet that matched the patterned wallpaper on the walls. The frosted glass door to the office was slightly ajar.
Puzzled, Sam pushed it open and walked into the small reception area. Twilight streamed through the large windows on the far side of the modern, open-plan office, spreading lazy orange fingers over the polished wood floor. A stack of boxes tottered inelegantly on the maple reception desk, and a ghastly purple couch had been placed against the wall beside a glass table with a sequined ceramic elephant base. Sam had little interest in interior decor, but the combination offended even his unschooled aesthetic sensibilities.
Crossing the floor past the reception desk, he entered the office proper. Recently renovated and boasting floor-to-ceiling windows, polished wood floors, and exposed brick walls, the spacious office also had a private boardroom and small kitchenette. Nasir had furnished the office with a large cherry boardroom table and two desks, one multicolored and made of metal rods and glass by an obscure interior designer named Eagerson, and the other a traditional two-pillar desk made of rosewood and nickel-plated brass. Sam had mentally claimed the traditional desk; the Eagerson was more Royce’s style.
And then he saw her, shuffling through a massive pile of papers on his rosewood desk.
She was in her mid to late twenties, her long dark hair streaked electric blue and tied up in a ponytail that brushed the graceful curve of her slender neck. Long, thick lashes brushed over soft bronze cheeks, and her plump lips glistened.
He coughed.
She screamed.
He retreated a few steps, but not quickly enough to evade the barrage of office supplies flung in his direction. Small erasers bounced off his chest, and a sharpened pencil almost took out his eye. When she lifted a stapler, he held up his free hand, palm forward in a gesture of surrender. “Do you really want to compound your crimes by adding assault, or even murder, to the break-and-enter charge?” he asked, unable to hold back his irritation.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?” She grabbed her cell phone off the desk, brandishing it like a weapon. “Answer, or I’m calling the police.”
“Please do. Then you can explain to them what you’re doing in my office.”
“This is my office.” She thumped the stapler on the desk. “My father leases this space as well as the restaurant downstairs.”
“And you are . . . ?” Beautiful. Stacked. Frightened. Furious. A number of adjectives came to mind, not the least of which described her generous breasts and lush curves. Too bad she had such terrible taste in music. Had she picked up that unfortunate Nickelback T-shirt at a thrift store? Or was she really a fan?
“Layla Patel. Nasir Patel is my father.”
“I’ll need to see some ID.” He held out his hand, gesturing impatiently.
“Seriously?” Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “Is this the new way of breaking and entering? You ask for ID so you can make sure you’re robbing the right place? How about you give me your ID so I can tell the police who to arrest?”
Sam added a few more adjectives to his list: snarky, sarcastic, sassy. He almost couldn’t believe this was the daughter of the famous Indian restaurateur who had turned his ethnicity into a brand.
“Well . . . ?”
He tried to think of something intelligent to say. Anything. He was used to being in control of every situation and handling dilemmas quickly and decisively, but the longer he looked at her, the less able he was to command his power of speech. Everything about her was so vivid, so vibrant, from the shine of her knee-high boots to the fire blazing in her eyes.
“Sam.” For a second, he forgot his last name. “Sam . . .”
Her lips quirked at the corners. “Samsam? That’s your name?”
“Sam Mehta.” He pulled himself together and took a step toward her, hand extended, as if he were meeting a business colleague and not a beautiful interloper with the most sensual mouth he had ever seen. “CEO of Bentley Mehta World Corporation, corporate consultants. I’m subleasing this office from Mr. Patel.”
Her eyes sparkled, amused. “That’s quite the title.”
“I’m quite the guy.” A little flirting never failed to soothe an angry woman. He needed to bring down the tension in the room so he could figure out the best way to convince her to leave without risking another office-supply attack. This was his office. He’d signed a lease and paid a hefty deposit. Maybe her father hadn’t shared that information with her, but she knew now, and it was time for her to collect her things and leave.
“Well, guy.” Her sharp tone suggested his flirtatious behavior hadn’t had the desired effect. “I’m sorry but you’ll have to find somewhere else to run your world corporation.”
Sam didn’t know why his company name would be the subject of such derision. Many of their clients were high-profile international companies, with offices in dozens of countries.
“I have a hard copy of the lease.” He put his box down on the glass desk and pulled out the agreement. “Do you promise not to attack me if I bring it to you? Murder is an indictable offense and twenty-to-life is a heavy price to pay for a place to store the ugliest couch on the planet.”
“It’s not a couch.” She sniffed. “It’s a chaise longue. And it was a gift from my aunt.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Not for the people who sit there. It’s extremely comfortable.” She held out her hand. “Let me see the lease.”
He approached with the document, keeping one eye on her free hand should she suddenly procure a pair of scissors. “Mr. Patel—”
“My father.”
“The landlord.” He wasn’t going to let her get one up on him. “Gave me the keys two weeks ago. He told me everything was in order.”
She flicked through the lease. “He briefly mentioned he’d rented out this space. He said he was going to call you and let you know that it was no longer available.”
“He didn’t call.”