Page 46

You Should Stay

Even though Padma was mere hours away from reclaiming the nine million dollars no one but her had even noticed was missing and being officially hailed as Indo-USA Gaming Inc.’s conquering hero, at the moment, she faced two problems.

The first was that her mother may have been right. Not about her being frumpy—hard truth, her ass, she was fucking awesome. But that this matchmaking thing may have been a good idea. When she’d walked through the doors and spotted Nilesh waiting for her at the counter her armpits had immediately felt sticky. If that wasn’t a sign she was in love, she didn’t know what was. They’d had two great dates, and this third one could seal the deal. She had been practically floating as she’d considered her career and personal dreams could finally be coming true. And that brought her to her second problem: Nilesh wanted to go bowling.

Padma made sure her smile included her perfect bottom teeth. “I’m not doing that.”

Nilesh tapped his fingers on the counter. “I don’t know how else you expect to bowl.”

His last word narrowly missed being drowned out by a crashing noise from behind them, followed by an eruption of cheers. And then another crash, and another wave of cheers. The teenage attendant stood on the other side of the counter beside a hot dog–rolling machine as a dozen browning frankfurters continued their slow spin. He held a pair of flat bowling shoes he’d pulled from the rental shelf. The teen stood still, except for his head swiveling back and forth from Padma to Nilesh.

“I told you. I’m not wearing used shoes.”

Padma sniffed.

Nilesh didn’t need to know Padma didn’t mind they were used; she was refusing to wear them because they were flat.

Padma liked Nilesh—a lot—and she couldn’t take any chances.

She had to nail this.

He could be the one.

He came from a prominent family of bedding manufacturers, was an international tax specialist, and like her, he hated outdoor patios and salsa dancing.

And he’d made her laugh.

Twice.

Bottom line, when he looked at her, her toes tingled.

And not because their circulation was cut off.

Before meeting him at the strip plaza bowling alley, to be on the safe side, Padma had reviewed his requirements.

Nilesh had specifically noted that he wanted his prospective bride to be five-four and above. Padma came in at maybe five-two, in heels, on tiptoes.

Padma had never been bowling before and was pleasantly surprised when she’d checked the website photos and saw there was plenty of seating. But somehow, she’d missed the part about the required footwear.

There was no way she was shedding her shoes in front of him. That would be matchmaking suicide.

“But everyone wears bowling shoes when they go bowling. And they disinfect them between wears. Don’t you?”

Nilesh looked at the attendant.

The teen nodded mutely.

Padma sneered at the footwear.

“Look, Padma, I like you. But I haven’t seen these friends since college, and they’re waiting for me. You decide if you’ll wear ‘used shoes’ or not. As you choose.”

He spun on his heels and walked away.

Padma watched Nilesh go and gauged the likelihood of surviving a courtship without ever taking her heels off, lest he reject her.

There would be no swimming, no running, no horseback riding, no sex . . . well, maybe, if he had a fetish.

She weighed her options and decided, regrettably, in the dog-eat-dog world of Indian matchmaking, she had to cut her losses and reject before being rejected.

Her mother had warned her, if she was presented with a third strike she would be taking matters into her own hands. And Padma couldn’t have that.

She scanned the bowling alley for one last look and spotted Nilesh reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his phone.

Padma rifled through her purse for hers and glanced back to see Nilesh waving his arm, in the telltale search for a signal.

She checked her device. Damn. No signal either. She looked back at him, and for a split second their eyes met and held.

Then Nilesh turned and speed walked toward the emergency exit. Padma sprinted for the front entrance and pushed her way through the door. Once outside, a bar appeared. Padma frantically texted The Matchmaker.

Padma Singh: Sorry, Aunty. Nilesh is very nice, but it did not work out.

Three dots . . . then:

The Matchmaker: Yes. He told me he has rejected you.

“Fuck!”

Padma threw her phone to the ground. “Fuck!”

There was nothing Padma despised more than being outmaneuvered.

* * *

Twenty minutes later Padma swiped herself into the maintenance room and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Dog.

She scanned the room and spotted Pam’s mutt curled up in a corner, on the cement floor.

Was the mangy thing still alive? She watched him and saw an ear twitch.

The room was quiet, except for the hum of the fluorescent lights and Farid, sitting at the table Brenda had set up in the middle of the room, tapping on his laptop.

The materials Brenda had prepared for the investigation were piled at the end, never having been opened.

What a waste of time that had been.

Brenda had completely misread the situation’s needs.

As if this team flew over from India to screen surveillance footage.

Ha! Coupled with Brenda’s badgering that Padma should have stopped Farid from taking the dog “hostage,”

babbling on about it until Padma had recounted her mother’s tale of precisely why Farid was called The Fiscal Falcon—that had shut Brenda up pretty quickly.

Her mother had already cautioned Padma to be sure to tie up her loose ends.

Padma knew what that meant.

She wanted Padma to cut her new director of security loose.

Permanently loose.

Well, these were the hard truths she’d have to deal with if she intended to climb over her mother on that Forbes list.

She’d get Farid’s men to take care of this piece of business.

But she pushed that task aside for the moment, as she observed The Fiscal Falcon. He sat at the table, his leather briefcase closed beside him.

When those millions landed in the casino bank account at midnight, Padma would surely be booted up the corporate ladder.

She was on the rise, and she was finally wresting her career out from under her mother’s thumb.

Now if only she could do the same for her love life.

She checked Farid’s ring finger.

It was bare.

Farid looked up and smiled.

As soon as her mother found out about Nilesh’s rejection, she’d start vetting anyone with a penis.

Padma studied Farid for a moment.

Her mother said he was practically legendary.

Maybe it was a case of “better the devil you know than the devil you don’t.”

Padma smiled back.

Maybe the two of them could work hand in hand as she expanded their casinos across India.

They could be a lethal, take-no-prisoners type of couple and have their own Wikipedia page.

He was short and unattractive, but Padma had to admit there was something about the way he commanded a room.

All eyes on him.

Her mother could have anyone warming up in the on-deck circle.

He was worth a shot.

Farid pulled a pack of bubble gum from his pocket.

“Care for one, doll?”

Padma nodded, looked at him through her lashes and leaned forward to accept the offered piece, thankful her third-date mode had called for a pushup bra.

Farid’s eyes swept across her cleavage while he returned his gum to his pocket.

She unwrapped her piece, held it between her teeth for a moment in what she was sure was a sexy look, started chewing, and then tucked the wad into her cheek.

“You should stay in town a few extra days, Farid.

Seeing as we got the money back so quickly.

I could show you around.”

She flashed her new smile, including her bottom teeth.

He chuckled and leaned back in his chair, spinning his knees toward her and spreading them wide.

“And why would The Fiscal Falcon do that?”

Padma liked to think she was a practiced flirt.

She perched on the edge of the table, crossed her legs, and dangled a stiletto a few inches from him.

“I thought we might get to know each other better.

We could make a good team, you and me.”

She rolled her shoulder and licked her lips.

“Ha! Doll.

The Falcon’s a ten.

Even with your mom as part of the package, The Falcon would never be seen with anything less than a six.”

Farid turned back to his laptop.

Padma gasped.

Straightened.

When she realized her mouth was hanging open, she forced herself to close it.

“Besides”—his eyes were on his laptop screen—“The Falcon is already planning on sticking around.

You should read your email.”

Padma’s mouth sprung back open. “What?”

Farid was typing.

“I briefed your mom on the situation here.

She emailed you explaining everything.

If you’d had your eye on the ball instead of prancing around in your come-fuck-me shoes, you’d be up to speed.

Since I’ve cleaned up your mess so spectacularly, my guys have packed up and headed home.”

Padma looked around the room.

She had assumed the other four men were getting dinner or coffees, but now she noticed their luggage and personal items were gone.

“Don’t you need them until you’re sure you got the money?”

She studied him.

That was the whole point of having that stupid dog.

Waiting until the Mumbai banks opened and confirming that bank draft was legitimate.

He chuckled.

“Doll.

The Falcon always gets the money.

The moment those old gals let us walk out of there with that mutt, I knew I had the money.

That was the test.

Not waiting around until midnight to see if some deposit goes through.”

He glanced at her and then back to the laptop.

“See, that’s the difference between you and me.

I know how to read the room.

The guys’ work here is done, and the company jet should be”—he looked at his chunky gold watch—“wheels up any minute.

But The Falcon is staying put.” He swiveled around again, spread his knees wider, put his hands in the air, and smiled broadly.

“Say hello to your new boss.”