by Sara Desai
Layla turned away and poured the milk into a cup, but not before he saw a smile ghost her lips. “How do you go from ruthless capitalist matchmaking pimp one moment to considerate gentleman the next?”
“I’m a complicated man.” He joined her at the credenza. “I thought I’d stay in case you needed more snacks.”
“I’ll allow it,” she said magnanimously. “But I’ll do the talking. You can just scowl and look frightening and intense. It shouldn’t be hard since it seems to be your normal state of being.”
Sam snorted. “And here I thought I was doing you a favor . . .”
“Would you like some tea?”
“If it’s not chai.”
“No one hates chai. What kind of desi are you?” She filled a cup with boiling water and motioned for him to select a tea bag.
“The bad kind.” His lips quirked at the corners. He’d smiled more since meeting Layla than he had in the last two years.
“I should have guessed.” She raised an admonishing eyebrow. “You have bad boy written all over you.”
“What are you going to do with Hassan?” He selected the Black Dragon tea simply because the name appealed to his senses. Anything that had to do with highly intelligent, powerful, fire-breathing creatures couldn’t be bad.
“Send him away, of course. I’m not looking for a husband.”
“Then why are you making him tea?” He added milk and three sugars to his cup while she delivered Hassan’s tea and returned for her own.
“I feel bad for him.” She kept her voice low. “My dad was just trying to help, and he clearly got Hassan’s hopes up. I thought it would be polite to spend a few minutes getting to know him so he doesn’t feel that I dismissed him out of hand.”
“But you intend to dismiss him out of hand in any event, so why prolong the agony?”
“Because . . .” She sipped her tea, leaving the barest hint of pink lipstick on the rim of her cup. “I can’t help but wonder. What if he’s the one? Sometimes I think my dad knows me better than I know myself. What if he found the perfect guy for me and I kicked him out the door?”
Sam snorted a laugh. “You think Hassan Khan is your perfect guy?”
As if on cue, Hassan slurped his tea so loudly the sound echoed through the room.
“I think it’s unlikely, but I need to make sure.”
They joined Hassan at the table with their tea and a plate of cookies. Layla discreetly placed the donut on a napkin by her side.
“Tell me a little about yourself, Hassan,” she said.
“My details are here.” Hassan handed Sam a copy of his marriage résumé. With a loud huff of annoyance, Layla snatched the document from Sam’s hand before he had even had an opportunity to peruse the first page.
“Why don’t you just talk us through it?” She placed the document on the table in front of her but didn’t spare it a glance.
“I’m . . . uh . . . thirty-five years old.” Hassan frowned as if he wasn’t sure about his age. “I came to America from Andhra Pradesh to further my education. I have an engineering degree and will be studying for my MBA. Full disclosure: I am GUC.”
Now it was Sam’s turn to frown. “GUC?”
“Good used condition.” Layla dipped her head to hide her smile. “You obviously don’t spend much time on Craigslist.”
“How is it that you are ‘used’?” Sam asked, his curiosity piqued.
“I’ve been in several relationships that didn’t work out.” Hassan shook his head. “They only wanted me for my body.”
“I hear you.” Sam nodded in sympathy. “I have the same problem.”
Layla let out a snort. Droplets of tea sprayed across the table, hitting Hassan in the eye. Unfazed, he wiped his face with his sleeve and smiled like nothing had happened.
“Anything else we should know?” Sam was intrigued both by Hassan’s misadventures as a boy toy and Layla’s unladylike response.
“My hobbies include extreme pogo.”
“Watch your language,” Sam barked. “There is a sort-of lady present.”
“Sort-of lady?” Layla narrowed her gaze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a sport,” Hassan interjected. “It involves riding and performing tricks on a special extreme pogo stick that can jump over ten feet in height.”
Sam felt a curious sensation bubble up in his chest. “You bounce around on a giant pogo stick that goes ten feet in the air.”
“Yes, sir.” Hassan pulled out his phone and navigated to a video. “Here I am.”
Something inside Sam threatened to burst as he watched ungainly Hassan bouncing through the air in the middle of a field. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he fought to master the unfamiliar emotion. What the hell was wrong with him?
“Don’t laugh,” Layla whispered under her breath.
Laughter. He remembered it now. How long had it been since he’d had a good laugh?
Layla dropped her hand under the table and dug her nails into Sam’s thigh. Almost instantly, the uncontrollable sensation was replaced by another—this one familiar and likely to become problematic if he didn’t get her hand off his lap.
“That’s . . .” Layla cleared her throat. “Amazing, Hassan. Is there anything else we should know about you?”
“I am veg.”
Sam waited for Hassan to elaborate, but the prospective bridegroom just smiled.
“I’m actually not a vegetarian.” Layla’s words tumbled over one another like she’d forgotten how to use her tongue. “I like meat. Love it, in fact. I have meat every day. I pretty much grew up in my parents’ restaurant and they serve meat. Which I like eating. Lamb, chicken, beef . . .”
“I think she’s trying to say she’s carnivorous,” Sam said, biting back his laughter. “Don’t make any sudden moves or she might think you’re prey.”
Hassan opened his tablet and handed it to Layla. “If the interview portion is completed, my parents have prepared a test for you. You’ll have five minutes to complete each section. Incorrect or missing answers will be penalized one mark, so it is possible to have a negative score, although that won’t help your situation.”
“What situation?”
“Your father said you were in urgent need of a man.”
“She’s desperate.” Sam shook his head in mock sorrow. “If I wasn’t here your very life would be in danger. It’s an effort to keep her on this side of the table.”
Layla squeezed his thigh again, her hand precariously close to his fly, nails digging in so deep his eyes watered. “You want danger, Sam? Keep talking.”
“We don’t want to have intellectually inferior progeny in the family,” Hassan continued. “My parents have Ph.D.’s. My two brothers are doctors and married to doctors. I’ll have two professional degrees when I’m finished my MBA. We don’t want a spouse with a lesser intelligence.”
“That rules you out,” Layla muttered to Sam under her breath.
Sam bit back a laugh. “He’s not really my type.”
“The academic section is first.” Hassan pushed the tablet toward her. “For the fitness test we can go outside and I’ll mark fifty yards in the parking lot for the sprint—”
“Fitness?” Layla’s nose wrinkled in disgust.
“Just put a box of donuts on the finish line and she’ll run the equivalent of a three-minute mile,” Sam offered.
Layla turned the full force of her fury on him. “You’re an ass.”
Sam leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You say that like it’s a surprise.”
Hassan took back the tablet and tapped several boxes, filling them with black X’s.
“What are you doing?” Layla studied the screen.
“Even temperament. Accommodating. Sweet disposition. Submissive. Compliant. You have five failing marks in the
personality section.”
“Seriously?” Layla spluttered her indignation. “No one can fail a personality test.”
“You just did,” Sam pointed out. “And to be fair, I saw that one coming.”
“You’re very different than your profile on desilovematch.com.” Hassan held up one of the crumpled papers.
“Let me see that.” Sam snatched the document and pushed to his feet, holding it out of Layla’s reach. “Hmmm. ‘Layla Patel. Age twenty-six. Height five feet, five inches. Weight—’”
“Give me that.” Layla jumped up and lunged for the paper. Sam held it higher and she collided with him, losing her balance. He circled an arm around her waist to keep her steady, securing her soft body against his chest. Electricity arced between them, warming his blood as he felt the pounding of her unaccommodating heart.
“Bastard.” She broke the spell, jumping to get the paper. Her body rubbed up and down against his. Too late, he realized the danger.
“Is this a sales technique?” he whispered in her ear. “A little demonstration for Hassan about what he can expect in bed? Or is it just for me? Because, sweetheart, if he doesn’t marry you after this, I will.”
Her nostrils flared, and she pulled away. “I wouldn’t marry you even if you got down on your knees and begged.”
“When I’m with a woman, it’s not me doing the begging.” Holding her at arm’s length, Sam studied the picture of Layla in a bright pink salwar kameez, her hair tucked away in a matching pink headscarf, hands hennaed, face painted, her neck and wrists dripping with jewelry.
“It’s hard to believe this is you,” he said. “You look very feminine in shocking pink and quite unlike the kind of woman who would curse and throw herself at an innocent stranger in a frenzy of lust.”
“I wasn’t feeling any innocence below your belt,” she said dryly.
With a chuckle, Sam continued to read the marriage résumé in his hand. He was enjoying her predicament far too much. “‘Religious, healthy, cultured, obedient, polite, dutiful, demure, deep sense of responsibility to family, respectful of elders . . .’” Sam shook his head. “Not entirely accurate, I’m afraid. I am six years older than her and she was very disrespectful to me. Strong willed? Definitely. Healthy?” He looked down at a fuming Layla. “Show me your teeth. My grandfather owned horses and he always assessed their health by examining their teeth.”
Layla cursed in Urdu using words he’d never heard from a woman before.
“Well, that was neither polite nor demure, and you aren’t very obedient because the only teeth I see are bared, like you want to attack me and eat me for dinner.” He turned over the page. “It also says here that you’re a good girl.” His voice dropped to a sensual purr and he leaned toward her. “Are you a good girl, Layla? You seem very bad to me. If you need a husband who can keep you in line, you’ll have to up your game.” Sam could almost feel Layla’s furious gaze boring through his skull. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had so much fun.
“Is this your man?” a bewildered Hassan asked, looking from Sam to Layla.
“Hardly.” She glared at Sam. “He’s nobody. It’s sad, really. He seems totally unable to comprehend that he has to leave.”
Sam’s body shook with repressed laughter. “I am all man, sweetheart, which I’m sure you know after you rubbed yourself all over me like a cat in heat.”
“So she is available?” Hassan asked Sam. “We can finish the test?”
“I’m not doing any test.” Layla gave Hassan a tight smile. “I’m terribly sorry for the misunderstanding. My father arranged this meeting without discussing it with me. I’m not looking for a husband.”
“But you’re old,” Hassan said. “And in urgent need. Who’s going to marry you if not me?”
“Someone with whom I can share interests and who supports my independence and my career. Friendship is key, as well as good communication so we have a lasting, maybe even loving, partnership.”
“But you don’t understand,” Hassan persisted. “I need your family to cosign a loan as dowry so I can stay in the country.”
Ah. The truth came out. Sam had been warned about the scam when his family was looking for a husband for Nisha. “So you weren’t really looking for a suitable match or a lifelong companion, you just needed a way to get a visa.” He stood so quickly his chair toppled over. “Get the hell out of the office before I toss you out in VBC.”
“What’s VBC?” Layla whispered as Hassan gathered up his papers.
“Very bad condition.” Sam growled, sending Hassan scurrying out the door.
“Thank you for threatening to harm someone on my behalf.” Layla made her way to her desk after Hassan had gone. “You’ll have to forgive me if I don’t look at you. I’m afraid I might die of mortification. I had no idea this was going to happen.”
“You might want to take down your online profile,” Sam suggested. “Hassan might be the first of many, and I don’t want to have to deal with men beating down the door to get into your pants when I have a business to run.”
“How considerate.” She pulled up the desilovematch.com website. Sam blinked as his eyes were assaulted with flashing images of happy couples in traditional wedding attire superimposed on bright pink and orange screens.
“I can’t believe people still have arranged marriages.” His lips thinned in disapproval.
“My parents and my brother all had successful arranged marriages.” Layla scrolled through the website. “My parents adore each other, and they found my brother the perfect wife.”
“How perfectly wonderful.” He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. What the hell was he doing? He had a business to run. One of his clients was waiting for a financial analysis. An HR manager wanted to set dates for layoff meetings. Karen had texted to ask if he had a stethoscope and a pair of rubber gloves, and Royce wanted to talk about a new contract. He was letting himself get distracted by a woman who shouldn’t even be here, and drawn into a world he’d rejected years ago.
This had to end now.
He would ask John for a legal opinion on the contract.
And then Layla would be gone.
* * *
• • •
COULD this day get any worse?
Layla dropped her head into her hands and sighed. First, the visit to the hospital where her dad lay so unnaturally quiet and still, then rolling roti in the kitchen until her fingers ached. And now she had to deal with a cocky, arrogant bastard with no moral compass, strange men with marriage proposals, the knowledge that her father had secretly been trying to find a husband for her, and a website that wasn’t going to let her in without a password.
“What’s the matter?” Sam had returned to his desk and was banging on his keyboard like it had done something wrong.
“I can’t find myself.”
“That’s very profound. I didn’t expect that from you.”
Layla groaned. “I can’t access my profile. I suppose I could set up an account as a man and try to find it but I’m just not in a creative mood.” She hesitated. “Do you have an account?”
He gave an affronted sniff. “Do I look like a man who has trouble getting women?”
She bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue. He was beautiful; if that was a word she could use to describe a man. His hair was thick, dark, and neatly cut, and his tanned skin made his light brown eyes seem almost caramel. With that strong jaw and full lips, he was the most breathtakingly handsome man she had ever met.
Sam smirked into the silence. “I’ll take that as a no. But since I’m not going to get anything done with all that sighing, I’ll set one up so you can find your profile.” He crossed the floor to her desk. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll hit the jackpot and women will be beating down the door to get into my pants. Oh, wait. They already are.”
She shifted her chai
r to give him better access to the keyboard, her body tingling when his arm brushed against her shoulder. “I appreciate the help, but don’t think this means I’m letting you have the office.”
“You can owe me a favor instead.” He grinned, and her heart did a curious flip. Why did he have to be so gorgeous? All that tall, dark handsomeness, the mouthwatering body, the deep voice that caressed her skin like velvet . . . wasted on an arrogant, egotistical jerk.
“It’s not a game.”
“Everything is a game.”
“You have a very cynical view of life.”
“For good reason,” he said quietly as he filled in the form on the screen.
She wondered what had happened in his life to make him so pessimistic. Outwardly, he had it all—looks, charm, a successful company, and the kind of confidence that she admired. There were hidden depths to Sam Mehta. Too bad he wouldn’t be around long enough for her to explore them. She could learn a little something about him, however, by reading his online form.
Sam Mehta
Age: 32
Education: BSc, MD, MBA
She stared at him, incredulous. “You’re a doctor?”
“I didn’t finish my surgical residency. I thought it would be more fun to fire people for a living instead, so I left medicine, completed a one-year intensive MBA, and formed a partnership with Royce.”
There was a lot to unpack in that statement, not the least of which was the pain in his eyes that he tried to hide by looking away.
“Brace yourself for the stampede.” He clicked the DONE button and leaned back in his chair. “I’m about to unleash my formidable self on the women of desilovematch.com.” Leaning closer, he read the words off the screen. “I’m looking forward to ‘finding the happiness with someone new.’”
“Don’t get distracted. You’re supposed to be finding the happiness with me.”
“That seems unlikely,” he said with a bitter laugh. “I like demure, respectful, obedient women who don’t throw stationery, call me names, and try to kick me out of my own office. And since I have yet to see you smile, I haven’t even been able to assess the health of your teeth.”
