The Marriage Game Page 3

  “Maybe after we’re done, we could get a drink.” She licked her lips like a predator about to feast. Karens were the worst. He rarely walked away from a Karen encounter with all the buttons on his shirt.

  “I thought you got custody of the kids in your divorce.” He tried not to sound too hopeful. “Don’t they need you at home?”

  She ran a finger over the buckle on his belt, her voice dropping to what he assumed was meant to be a suggestive purr. “They have sleepovers.”

  Single and thirty-two, Sam didn’t find the word sleepovers as arousing as Karen clearly did.

  “I heard you used to be a doctor.” She leaned up to nuzzle his jaw. “James got a doctor kit for his tenth birthday. I could be your naughty nurse. What’s your specialty?”

  Sam thanked God he hadn’t started a residency in obstetrics and gynecology but, given the situation, heart surgery was not much better. He also couldn’t help but feel sorry for poor James, who clearly hadn’t been asked if he minded sharing his toys with his mom. “I didn’t finish my residency. I was planning to be a cardiothoracic surgeon when I decided to make a career switch.”

  She grabbed his hand and put it on her breast. “My heart’s hurting now. Maybe you can fix it.”

  “Karen . . .” His voice caught when her long red nails grazed over his fly.

  “The boardroom is free and I have the only key.” Her talons locked on to his belt and she tried to yank him forward, but at six feet tall and 180 pounds of gym-honed muscle, he wasn’t that easy to push—or pull—around.

  “Tempting as it is, I have plans for the evening.” He disengaged her hand, claw by manicured claw. Usually he had no qualms about slaking the thirst of a frisky HR manager with a casual hookup. With a sister to care for and a downsizing business to run, he didn’t need the complications of a relationship in his carefully ordered life.

  Tonight, however, he had to pick up his sister, Nisha, from rehab and then take possession of his new office. His business partner, Royce Bentley, had incited a mini riot at a company he had helped downsize with his callous handling of the redundancy process. The disgruntled employees had retaliated by vandalizing the Bentley Mehta World Corporation head office to the extent that the landlord terminated their lease to do a full renovation.

  “Tomorrow, then. I’ll bring the doctor kit and you can . . .” She grabbed his tie and pulled him close. “. . . Give me a physical.” A statement, not a question.

  Sam made a mental note to bring an extra shirt. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that she wouldn’t be banging strangers on the boardroom table for long. As soon she finished with the mass layoffs, Karen would be meeting with the CEO for a personal version of Thank you and get out. Sam’s recommendation for a 15 percent cut across the board included HR.

  “Remember that speech,” he said to her on his way out.

  “Why?”

  “You might need it one day.”

  * * *

  • • •

  SAM parked his black BMW M2 outside the Sunnyvale Rehab Clinic. With its tinted windows and aftermarket black rims, his vehicle was more suited to a drug dealer than a corporate downsizer, but since they were both considered disreputable professions, he figured it was a good fit. Although he didn’t need the power of the TwinPower Turbo six-cylinder engine to flee from the police, it had saved his ass more than once when the employees he had fired came looking for someone to blame.

  He checked for traffic updates on his phone after opening the trunk for his sister’s wheelchair. Nisha was usually exhausted after her rehab visit and would want to get home as quickly as possible. He had picked up the keys to his new office from Nasir two weeks ago, and they had agreed he would move in today. If the traffic was good, he should be able to accomplish both tasks and make it to the gym for a late-night workout.

  “Hi, bhaiya.” Nisha smiled, using the affectionate form of address for an older brother. She rolled her chair toward him, struggling over a gap in the pavement. Even with the exercises she did to strengthen her arms, she often had difficulty with uneven terrain.

  Giving himself a mental kick for not greeting her at the door, he ran over to help. “Do you need a push?” Before she could answer, he grabbed the handles and eased her over the bump.

  “I’m supposed to be learning to do things for myself.” She brushed her long, dark hair away from a face that was a softer, rounder version of his own.

  “Why strain yourself when your big brother is standing around with nothing to do?” He opened the door to the vehicle and helped her with the transfer, waiting until she’d buckled her seat belt before stowing the wheelchair away.

  “You have a lot to do,” she said when he joined her in the vehicle. “You should spend your evenings relaxing with your friends or going out on dates with hot women instead of driving me around. Ma and Dad are still waiting for some grandkids.”

  “Not going to happen.” Nisha used a wheelchair because of him, because he had failed in his duty as a son. Relationships were for men who could protect the people they loved. Not one so focused on his career that he hadn’t seen the danger until it was too late.

  “How was rehab?” he asked to distract her.

  “Hard.” She fiddled with her seat belt. “How was firing people?”

  “It’s a job, Nisha. It pays the bills.” He didn’t love the work, but after he’d given up his dream of becoming a cardiothoracic surgeon and returned to school to complete a one-year intensive MBA, the opportunity to partner with Royce had fallen in his lap and he couldn’t turn it down. Nisha’s medical bills were beyond anything his parents could handle and, as the only son, it was his duty to ensure she got the care she needed. Not that he would ever let her know. As far as Nisha was concerned, the insurance payments from the accident were still coming in.

  “Sorry.” She gave him a contrite smile. “You always look so miserable when you come from work. I think the last time you smiled was when the Oakland A’s qualified for the playoffs.”

  “I’ve been smiling inside through their four-year win streak.” He’d been a green and gold A’s fan since he played T-ball, even though no one in his family shared his love of baseball. “If you come with me to the Bay Bridge Series this year, I might even laugh when they hit five.”

  “Maybe . . .” She looked away and his moment of pleasure faded. Nisha never went out. Except for her rehab and medical appointments or the obligatory family functions, she rarely left the family home after having had bad experiences with accessibility issues and awkward outings with her old friends. At twenty-seven years old, she should have been out socializing and pursuing her dreams, not spending all her time at home taking online courses and helping her mother prepare teaching materials for her third-grade class.

  And it was all Sam’s fault.

  Nisha had agreed to a traditional arranged marriage when she finished her college degree. Thrilled at the prospect of having grandchildren to bounce on his knee, Sam’s father posted her marriage résumé online. Over drinks one evening, Sam casually mentioned his sister’s search for a husband to Dr. Ranjeet Bedi, a highly respected cardiothoracic surgeon at the hospital where Sam was a resident. After reviewing Nisha’s online profile, Ranjeet requested an introduction. Despite their fifteen-year age difference, Ranjeet and Nisha connected. The families did their due diligence and approved the union. Six months later Nisha married a monster.

  “Can you stay for dinner?”

  “Not tonight. I’m taking possession of my new office after I drop you off.” He stared straight ahead so he couldn’t see the disappointment in her face.

  Nisha always asked and Sam always refused. He spent as little time with his family as he could. Unable to deal with the fact that Ranjeet had never been held to account for his crime, Sam had turned his back on everyone and everything that could possibly be blamed—from the culture that embraced arranged
marriages to the hospital that had refused to conduct an investigation into the “accident” that had happened on their property, and from the food he loved to the family that should have uncovered the true nature of the man who had married Nisha.

  “You do get the irony of renting an office above a Michelin-starred Indian restaurant? It will be a real test of your will power not to eat the food.”

  “It’s near St. Vincent’s Hospital.”

  “Sam . . .” She gave him a pained look. “Please. I told you to let it go.”

  Nisha had only partial memories of the accident. She remembered going to the hospital to meet Ranjeet for lunch, an argument in the stairwell, and then waking up in the emergency room. Ranjeet offered a different version of events. Indeed, they had met for lunch. They argued in the cafeteria over his long hours. She was upset that he had to cancel their dinner plans and ran away. He returned to his office. Half an hour later he was called down to the ER.

  The hospital saw no cause for an investigation. There was no reason to doubt the word of a highly respected surgeon who wielded significant power in the hospital, especially since his colleague from psychiatry said it wasn’t uncommon for victims of trauma to piece together stories from fractured memories. They handed the matter to the insurers. As far as the hospital was concerned, the case was closed.

  But Nisha continued to insist her story was true. After her marriage, she had discovered Ranjeet had a drinking problem and a vicious temper. Although he had never been physically abusive, his anger and verbal assaults scared her. It was not beyond imagining that he had lost control.

  Of course, Sam believed her. He had never known his sister to be so certain about anything. He helped her divorce Ranjeet and then he started his own investigation, spurred on by rumors of a cover-up. But at every turn, the hospital shut him down. Disenchanted by a system that would protect someone whose actions were anathema to the fundamental principles of medicine, he walked away.

  Still, he hadn’t given up the hope of one day bringing Ranjeet to justice, and that meant keeping tabs on the surgeon by staying in touch with hospital staff and the friends he’d made during his residency. One day Ranjeet was going to reveal his true nature and Sam would be there to catch him.

  “I think the new office is going to work out well for you.” Nisha pointed to a hearse that had just pulled into the street in front of them. “It’s a good omen to meet a corpse when you start out on a journey.”

  “You’re spending too much time with Ma.” Sam pulled up in front of the family home, a yellow four-bedroom, single-story rancher that they had remodeled to accommodate Nisha’s wheelchair.

  “And you don’t spend enough.”

  “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 h
adn’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.”

  “Obviously. He had a heart attack and now he’s in the hospital recovering.”

  Sam bristled at her sarcasm. He was used to women melting at his feet. Karen had just sexted him with pictures of herself in the boardroom in provocative poses, a plastic medical kit in her hand. How did he tame this wildcat? Did he turn up the charm? Soothe her with his deep voice? Dazzle her with his megawatt smile?

  “I understand it’s a difficult time,” he murmured in the sympathetic tone he reserved for employees slated for redundancy who were not as accommodating as Tyler and felt the need to share with him the details of illnesses, accidents, mortgages, sick children, ailing parents, planned holidays, car payments, and rent obligations. Life was an expensive tragedy. But he had a job to do. Nothing ever swayed him, not even the women who offered their bodies for a chance to keep their jobs.