“Not at all, Danny Boy,” he answered, pushing himself out of the chair. “Please, have a seat. May I get you a drink of something?”

“I’ll wait for Sushmita.”

“Don’t worry about that. She doesn’t take.”

“Take?”

“Sorry. A little joke between Mita and me. The Maharastrians say take to mean drink alcohol. And keep if they have it in the house.”

“Funny,” I said, wishing Sush had shared the joke with me, instead of Willy. Why was I learning about India from a fellow fireng?

“Let me know what you’ll take, and I’ll have Govind get it for you.”

I gathered Govind was one of the house servants.

“Do you keep wine?” I asked, trying out the usage.

“Of course. May I suggest a Vouvray? It complements Indian food. I hope you don’t mind spicy dishes.”

“It’s fine,” I said. “I have a cast-iron stomach.”

Willy excused himself to retrieve the bottle of wine from somewhere down the corridor. A moment later, Sushmita appeared, looking cleanly scrubbed and casual in a simple loose-fitting cotton kurta and linen pants. Her hair was pulled back and tied low at the neck. She wore no bindi or makeup. She was gorgeous.

“Have you seen Willy?” she asked as if nothing had happened between us the night before.

I knew she had to play things cool, but—man—she was good at it. There might be servants watching or listening, I supposed. And Willy could walk in on us at any time. Still, I looked for a clue in her eyes, some kind of recognition of our secret bond. I could see none.

“He’s gone to get some wine,” I said, trying to beat her at her own game. “Can I ask Govind to get you some juice? Since you don’t take, I mean.”

She giggled. “Oh, Danny, that’s sweet. You’re doing very well adapting to our ways. I’m impressed. But nothing for me now.”

She’d seen through my attempt to come across as initiated and a veteran of the Indian experience, which I was not. She touched my forearm as she’d done a few times in Bombay during one of Willy’s cocktail parties or dinners. As electric as it had been on those occasions, it now communicated a private message to me. This was the signal I’d been hoping for.

She took a seat on one of the divans, and I stood opposite her, waiting for Willy to return before making myself comfortable.

“Mita is come at last,” he said from across the room. The surprise reminded me of the first time I’d met him, when he’d appeared from behind me and offered his opinion on the utility of Indians. “Danny Boy, please sit. We’re not a formal ménage here.”