She snorted a short laugh. “What rubbish, Danny. Don’t you think I have things to do?”

“Of course. But I thought after last night …”

“You thought what?”

“Nothing.”

I tried to let it go, but I was mixed up. It seemed she’d been inviting me up to the penthouse for something more than a drink on the sofa. But she’d reacted so coolly to Willy’s surprise return. Maybe I was seeing interest where there was none.

She wanted to sit, so we watched the rain through the veranda windows. A terrific storm was rolling in, with great booming claps of thunder and bolts of lightning overhead. The glass shook and the lights dimmed a few times before Sushmita suggested we switch them off altogether.

“It’s more dramatic this way,” she said, hooking her right arm around my elbow and drawing me closer. “I’ve always loved the rain. Thunderstorms, especially. They’re terribly romantic.”

She couldn’t possibly see my expression in the dark, unless she happened to glance my way as a streak of lightning flashed across the sky. But I must have looked like Hamlet, hesitant and indecisive. Would she find that endearing, sexy, or lame? I was overthinking everything. She was clutching me tight, pressing herself against me, talking of romance and rainstorms.

I closed my eyes and breathed in her scent. Sandalwood. So close and enticing in the darkness. I needed to do something. Take charge of the situation. Kiss her. Lift her in my arms and carry her to the bedroom, where I’d lay her gently on the sheets and …

Jesus, listen to me. I wasn’t Hamlet or Casanova. I was Walter Mitty.

“Look,” she said, interrupting my fantasies of seduction. She released my arm, pushed off the sofa, and stepped onto the veranda. “The Parsees across the way. Their grandson is finally walking.”

Beyond our compound, the neighboring building presented fifteen floors of viewing pleasure when there was nothing to watch on television. I joined Sushmita—and my missed chance—at the window. She pointed to a flat a floor or two below mine. I could see an elderly man in white pajamas hovering over a toddler, ready to catch him if he stumbled. The child took palsied steps toward an old woman a few feet away. Sushmita cheered him on as he neared his grandmother’s outstretched arms. Then he fell into her warm hug. They looked so happy, the three of them. Sushmita, too, was overjoyed. Me? I was pissed off. Stymied by a baby and his grandparents a hundred feet away.

“Isn’t he adorable?” she asked. “Wouldn’t you love to have one of those?”

“Of course,” I lied. The last thing I wanted at twenty-six was a little crumb-cruncher.