The narrow throw of the flashlight jittered before us as she led the way. The drawing room was the first we crossed. Expansive, with stone floors, covered by Oriental rugs of different sizes, patterns, and colors. Sushmita told me later that they were mostly Kashmiri and Turkish carpets that had belonged to her grandfather. No questions about him, either. More rugs still hung from the walls, alongside Indian and Western paintings in heavy frames made of wood and antique glass, some bearing a crack or two.

The furniture was colonial era—as in the Raj—probably all from the nineteenth century by the looks of them. There were divans, a daybed, a hanging chair, and mahogany tables. Against the wall to my left was a large sideboard, bedecked with peacock miniature paintings in the door panels. Three beveled-glass cabinets dominated the center, flanked by drawers and nooks on the sides. A small shrine to Ganesh and Lakshmi was on display, with a blackened brass diya ready for the next puja.

We moved slowly through the dark, heading into a corridor with doors on either side. She stopped at the first one and inserted a key into the lock.

“This is my bedroom,” she said, and pushed opened the door.

“It’s locked?” I asked.

“Of course. We always lock our rooms in India. You can’t trust the servants.”

“What servants?”

“Be still, Danny, and come in.”

Sushmita placed her bag on a chest against the wall then lit a long tapered candle on either side of the bed. She regarded me quizzically in the low light.

“Well?” she said. “Aren’t you going to put down your bag?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The morning came too early. I knew we had to get back into the Mercedes and drive the rest of the way to Poona, but lying next to Sushmita was a bliss I didn’t want to end. I certainly had no intention of getting up for a run. The wee hours of the previous night had put an end to all the hesitation and missed opportunities. And never mind the betrayal of my friend and benefactor, Willy Smets. That was the furthest thing from my mind. All I could think of was her. I wanted to take her away from him, take her back to Bombay or to New York, wherever we could spend more nights like the one we’d just shared. Together. Alone.

I was subject to falling in love at the drop of a skirt, but this was a whole new experience. The intimacy jacked up my emotions. Something about sex turned me inside out. The bond became much more than physical. I know that sounds sappy and pathetic, but I considered myself a romantic. Not an idiot for once.