Chapter Two
Oh, fuck.
“Okay. Let’s talk, Sejal.”
“Go to hell.”
Krish could admit that he deserved that, but wasn’t his possibly broken nose punishment enough for misleading her?
With Sejal restrained, Krish was able to assess the damage. He put his fingers to his throbbing nose, pulling it away to find
blood. Son of a bitch. This woman was a menace, but what could he expect from someone from a family of criminals?
Sejal Chaudhary. Has never held a steady job, short stints as a bartender or waiter.
Tied to a drug- and gun-running enterprise in her early twenties, under suspicion of involvement, but was cleared.
Small-time grifter, seems to make a living with bar bets and cons, likes to target married men.
Never been arrested, has no close friends.
No long-term romantic partners in a while.
Estranged from her parents and sister, but had a close relationship with her aunt until Rhea went WitSec.
Aunt loves her; see marshal’s comments. No known involvement with Cobra or any other org.
Could use her petty cons for leverage/info.
His brother had kept a slim unofficial file on Sejal, complete with the neighborhood and bar where she’d been spotted last.
Krish had spent two nights he didn’t have lurking in said bar, waiting for her to turn up.
And boy, had she turned up.
His plans after tracking her down had been nebulous for sure, but he definitely hadn’t counted on her seeking him out while fleeing a handsy mark. And then kissing him. Or asking him back to her place. Or looking at him with those warm
chocolate eyes like she was begging him to kiss her again. Or casually telling him about the family that had brought him to
her doorstep.
So many surprises in a row. But perhaps the greatest surprise was how he’d reacted to her.
He’d known she was beautiful. His brother’s file had held a few photos, but they’d been driver’s license shots, and one very
old picture pulled from a now-defunct social media profile. None of them had prepared him for the wallop she packed in person.
There were a million things about her that a photograph didn’t convey: her multi-layered brown skin that glowed with health;
her shining gold hoop nose ring with the little flower at the bottom; the intriguing thin scar bisecting her eyebrow; her
muscular, angular body; the different shades of brown and black in her eyes and how deep and endless those eyes were; the
softness of her hair, short and roughly cut, as though she’d hacked it off herself one evening when she’d had enough of it.
Beautiful, yes. Not like the dawn, but like a sunset after a heavy rain, mysterious and luxurious and strong.
Since when did you become a poet?
Since that kiss probably.
He’d forgotten why he was loitering in that bar. Forgotten the crowd around them and who she was and who he was and, most
terribly, his brother. Her lips were so perfect and sweet, the dip of her back the perfect rest for his hand. He’d wanted
nothing more than to keep kissing her for hours. And when she’d invited him up, his first feeling had been anticipation, as
if they really were going to hook up.
He prodded his nose a little harder, both to ensure it actually wasn’t broken and to summon his usual pragmatic brain, which
was out to lunch lately. She was a criminal born of a family of criminals, and more importantly, she was a means to an end.
An end that included his brother, alive and home.
Pull yourself together. Krish wasn’t an actor, or even a good liar, but like every avid reader, he’d pretended to be someone else a time or two. He
could do this. He’d done it in the bar already, playing a seductive and flirtatious savior. He had no choice. She was his
only lead and bargaining chip, all rolled into one.
Sejal yanked at the handcuff so hard he took a step forward in concern, then back again when she kicked out at him. “You’re
going to hurt yourself. Please stop, and listen to me,” he said, louder, but then he caught a glimpse of her wild eyes. Oh fuck. She was desperate, and scared.
Well, of course she was. He was much bigger than her, had possibly stalked her, and had now handcuffed her to her own bed.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated, loudly and clearly. “I’m—”
“Tell my mother she can go to hell.”
Her mother? “Uh.”
“Was that guy at the bar working for her, too? John? What does she want this time?” Her breath came even faster than his.
“Whatever it is, I don’t have it.”
This time?
He had his brother’s files on her mother, but many of Rushali’s activities were public record. The woman had headed one of
the most feared crime syndicates in Mumbai. The daughter of the original head of Cobra had immigrated to the States, married
an Indian American man, settled down in the outskirts of Las Vegas, birthed two girls, then left them when they were young
to take over Cobra when her father died. Over the years Cobra had stretched its tentacles throughout multiple countries, including
America.
Rushali had evaded capture by international law enforcement agencies for years, but she resurfaced a little over two years
ago in a hotel room on the Vegas Strip, inexplicably tied up and surrounded by stolen diamonds. Rushali had sat in prison
since then, pending acres of red tape and extradition, sullen and unwilling to cooperate with anyone except to occasionally
pose for the press.
But surely the former crime boss didn’t make a habit of sending men to hold guns on her own daughter, estranged or not? “I
don’t work for your mother.” Okay. Get this show on the road. “I’m with the FBI.”
That didn’t have any kind of calming effect. “Fuck you,” Sejal snarled.
“I’m serious.”
“Dirty cops exist, and you don’t even give off cop vibes.”
Good instincts. “Probably because I’m not a cop.” Truth. “I’m a special agent.” Lie.
“Dirty agents can exist, then.”
“They do. But I’m not one of them.”
“Sure you’re not. Agents on official business always kiss people, follow them home, and then chain them up.”
He fought the heat that wanted to rise to his cheeks. Covert special agents did not flush. “First of all, you approached and kissed me. Second of all, I didn’t follow you home, I drove you home.”
“If you’re a cop, how come you didn’t announce who you were right away?”
Krish tried not to rub his still smarting nose. He grabbed a wooden chair from the corner and dragged it over to sit next
to the bed. When most people stayed somewhere, they put their personal stamp on it, no matter how neat they were: a jacket
tossed over a couch, a lipstick-smudged glass in the bar area, an old receipt crumpled on the floor next to the wastebasket.
Not Sejal. The studio held only the corporate art and furniture that was common in short-term rentals. He’d commented on the
painting only because he’d felt vaguely awkward about standing in her apartment and finding it wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, though. Mementos of her family? Piles of weapons and cash? Signs that she was actually
a part of Cobra, too, contrary to what his brother had suspected, and therefore unlikely to assist him?
He was careful to sit out of her reach. Her legs were long, and he already knew that she could kick hard. “You didn’t give
me a chance before you went wild on me.”
“I meant in the bar.”
“Again. You didn’t give me a chance.” And I forgot my mission while I was kissing you. He hesitated. “And I needed to find out where you lived.”
She rattled her wrist. Her shirt had ridden up, revealing the strong muscles of her abdomen, and he averted his eyes upward,
to the light sparkling off her necklace, a long gold bar with a little black pearl on one end and a delicate gold peacock
feather scrolling and entwining over it. “Let me see your badge,” she said.
He’d prepped for this, too. He pulled it out of his jacket pocket and flashed it at her.
“Closer.”
He handed it to her, and she swiped it with her free hand.
She glanced up at him. “Wait. You said your name was Krish.”
A regrettable error back in the bar, but in his defense, that surprise kiss had thrown him for a loop, and he didn’t normally
use any name but his own. “It’s my middle name,” he improvised.
She stared at the badge so hard he feared she’d figure out it wasn’t his. “Avi Anand. You . . . you’re the agent who called
me two years ago, aren’t you? From Los Angeles.”
Nowhere in Avi’s records had it said that he’d already contacted Sejal, though it wasn’t wild that he had. Avi had investigated
Rushali, and though he hadn’t been in charge of the case, he might have helped his colleagues out. Or perhaps Avi had known
even then that Cobra would try to come after him. “I am.”
She squinted at him. “This photo barely looks like you.”
Interesting. People had often told him and Avi they looked similar, though Avi’s features were far more elegant. Like an artist
had spent longer refining him. “It’s an old photo.”
“You didn’t have the scar. You’re much bigger now. And somehow . . . rougher.”
His nose twitched. Yes, yes, no need to belabor this point. He held out his hand and tried to channel his most official tone. “You seem like you’re looking for reasons to not believe me, but I promise you, I am who I say I am.”
She handed the badge back. “This is a damn creative way to go about contacting me again. Have you heard of a telephone?”
He cast her a sardonic glance. “So you could bolt again?”
She looked away. Ah. She had gone on the run after Avi had tracked her down two years ago. “How did you find me?”
“I’m very good.” He opened his jacket and put his brother’s badge back, and she stiffened. He followed her gaze to his holstered
gun.
The gun was his. It was licensed, he knew how to use it, and it wasn’t a prop to scare her. He let his jacket fall closed.
Her earlier panic had almost completely dissipated. He could practically see the wheels in her brain starting to churn. Thinking