The Blue Bar (Blue Mumbai #1)(39)
Get on the bed and dance. Let me see you.
A whir of limbs and little else.
Now that’s more like it.
A whir of limbs, then, as now. She focused on her retreat along the length of the bar, the slope of the ramp, the wings of the stage. The girls would carry on, solos for those with skills and pairs for the others. Tara struggled to collect the pieces of herself—the shivering girl of yore, and the frenzied yet defiant woman now. She hit the greenroom for her next change, where an assistant stood, dress in hand.
Tara had ignored her glass of wine earlier. She downed it at a gulp while the girl unzipped her gown. The DJ turned up the music even louder. She heard it inside her body, right next to the beat of her heart, like the jackal’s deadpan, echoing laugh. Unease mounted. The next track would begin in a few seconds. She sucked in her breath as her assistant zipped her up. Mind in a tumult, she hurried to the stage, and paused for her cue.
This second time she remained onstage, along with a few of the girls. It was a slower number, and her eyes had adjusted enough to spot the uniformed waiters in the dim light beyond the stage, weaving between the sofas and the tables, serving drinks. The buzz of guests. The girls dancing in formation in the cue for her to take over again. She scanned the crowd as she pivoted and spun, certain she’d missed a pair of eyes that shouldn’t be there.
Adrenaline fueled her through the rest of the evening. She went through the motions, gyrating her hips and breasts, slow, slow, soft, then harder, faster, the changes, the flutter of paper in air—fake notes bought with real currency—perfume and sweat as the girls kept pace with the music. The evening ended with her final, most arduous solo number, back at the bar table. She dived into the rhythm—her moves seductive, reckless—but a part of her on high alert.
That’s when she saw him, at a back table, dressed in black, his gaze fixed on her. Over his left hand, the hand of a woman whose face remained in darkness, but Tara caught glimpses of long, blow-dried hair, smooth arms and legs.
Holding a drink, he stared at Tara. Arnav Singh Rajput.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
On most nights, pacing his seaside apartment balcony relaxed him enough to go to sleep, but he’d returned past 3:00 a.m. from a remarkable event. It still glittered in his memory—a vision of peril and longing.
His assistant Bilal wasn’t good at many jobs, but at others, he excelled without trying. Or even knowing what he’d done. In the same newspaper that had brought the pictures and descriptions of the last package, that had driven a bit of alarm into both of them, he’d spotted a different feature—about the reopening of bars. An old firecracker would be the opening number, it said. The one he’d wanted so badly, several years ago, because she was a dead ringer for the Item Number in her heyday. He’d stolen a few pieces of the Item Number’s jewelry for her, but she’d slipped away at the last minute.
It was an adventure—going out again to a dance bar after all these years. Those left after the ban had gone to ruin, the women too cheap and miserable. He’d lounged at the hot new bar this evening, taking in the scenery while hidden in the dark.
He chuckled and took a long breath of the salt-laden breeze. He couldn’t see the horizon, but a few stars twinkled in the distance, along with lights from a sleepy boat or two anchored offshore. From the deck of those boats Mumbai must look beautiful even now, its curved necklace bright, all the lighted buildings rising from the dark, disembodied, floating in air.
A car screamed on the road by the bay. Some fool had decided to race another at 4:00 a.m., like their cars couldn’t skid off, hit the sea wall or a road divider, and snuff out their insignificant lives. Just like that.
He’d promised Bilal, so he wouldn’t take it too far, but this was a sign. No matter how often Uhnna refused, he would get the man to arrange one private performance. Her body was all curves now, no longer a girl. When she danced, even the most subtle of movements was an invitation, as was her smile, and those eyes that searched the darkness every once in a while. It was like Item Number come to life in her old avatar.
Her hotel was less than twenty minutes’ drive. He’d tailed their group. It would be easy to find out which room. That thought jolted him back to his senses.
He couldn’t talk to the fat Malayali himself, and with good reason.
It was too early in Dubai right now. He would make that call in a few hours. Money, multiples of what he’d offered so far, was the answer. Uhnna’s men came at a price. She was worth it all, though—the other women faded in the shadows to her light.
He ambled to his study and reached into the cubbyhole of his desk, thumbing through the trinkets he’d put there, the small bits and pieces he stored in velvet bags—each one a face, a scent, an echo. Where were the little blue darlings, the Item Number’s sapphires? One day, he would place her diamonds there. The Item Number wore diamonds on her earlobes, twinkles of taunting lights. They’d wink out.
He’d played with the sapphires on others, but he’d had them crafted for this one, who shimmered like the Item Number herself. He rang the bell to wake his man Friday. If Bilal had lost them, he’d have to pay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
ARNAV
Over the last fourteen years, Arnav had imagined meeting Tara a hundred times. Not once in any of those scenarios had she appeared as calm as this.