Rough Sketch Page 2

  I should've stayed in the tree. I should've kept my distance. Should've drunk in the sight of her and then attacked some wood.

  I didn't.

  Instead, I swung down from the tree and landed on the grass with a thud. "Good afternoon, Miz Malik."

  The simple black dress she wore, the one designed for the singular purpose of showcasing her hips, defined entrapment. I couldn't stop myself from tracing the lines of her body with my gaze. I figured the dress hailed from a boutique for serious, reserved businesswomen, a shop that knew only the coolest hues of the color wheel. She didn't look serious or reserved. She looked like loosely restrained sin and the shiny persimmon shoes she wore only validated that. There was brightness and warmth inside her, but she kept it on a leash.

  "What brings you out of the ivory tower?" I swiveled my head from side to side. "And where are your minions?"

  She skittered to a stop, her hand pressed to her chest as she blinked between me and the tree.

  "I—pardon me." She gestured to the oak. "Did you climb that tree, Mr. Guillmand?"

  I tucked my sketchbook under my arm, dipped my hands into my pockets. "Yes, Miz Malik, I sure did."

  She shook her head in tiny, tiny movements. All hummingbird. "Yes and—why?"

  "Why not?" I shrugged. "What are trees for if not getting a look at the world from their vantage point?"

  She shifted the hand on her chest to her forehead, murmuring, "That's a logical fallacy."

  I turned away, wandering over the grass as she stared after me. "You never did answer my question," I called. She huffed out a snarl as I continued walking. "What are you doing out here on a nice day when you could be inside with the machines?"

  I sensed her staring after me, a hot, unyielding glare. Here I was, walking away from her when most people devoured every word and bent eyebrow she offered. It was several minutes—excruciating minutes—before she abandoned the structure and comfort of the sidewalk, but even as the grass rustled under her steps, I still felt the heat of her gaze.

  "And what are you doing out here when you could be in your studio? The one we designed to your exacting specifications, sir?"

  On the other edge of this knoll sat a cluster of yucca and sacred datura. Like anything truly wild, they grew in disorderly clumps. I wanted to explore the ways they attracted and repelled each other and I wanted Miz Malik to follow me. I wanted her to see this because it was real and true and—fuck me—she needed some of that in her life. I couldn't say how I knew that but I did, as well as I knew I wanted her knees stained with grass, and dirt under her nails, and her dress—that proper, boring dress—ripped and wrinkled in the best ways.

  As she came to a halt beside me, she announced, "I'd like to speak with you."

  Her hands were on her hips and her lips were pulled tight, and goddamn me, I wanted to taste the cove where her neck met her shoulder. I couldn't pretend I'd be satisfied with one taste. Somehow, in the convoluted maze of human consciousness, I was able to find her desirable and aggravating all at once.

  I wanted to fuck her and then I wanted to tell her to fuck off.

  "Go ahead," I answered, my attention squarely on the yucca. "Speak."

  "Would it be too much trouble for you to look at me while I speak?"

  With all the impatience in my body, I shifted to face her. "Go on, Miz Malik," I drawled, an eyeroll tossed in for good measure. "You have my full attention."

  She nodded in response, piercing me with another sharp stare. "I'm curious, Mr. Guillmand—"

  "Gus, please," I interrupted.

  "Gus," she repeated with a sigh, her shoulders rising and falling at the concession.

  "Why are you so formal? No one else around here insists on the Mister and Ms. business. Should I curtsy too? Is that how you'd like me?"

  She offered no reaction beyond a slow blink and that only agitated me further. This woman. She only bit so much of my bait.

  "Mr. Gui—I mean, Gus," she said, her eyes fluttering shut as she corrected herself. "From what I hear, you aren't spending much time in your studio. Is there an issue with the space?"

  "It's fine. Is there an issue with me spending time outside the studio or am I required to stay at my desk all day like the other worker bees?"

  She waved at the open space around us. "By all means, enjoy the grounds."

  "But spend more time in the studio," I added, crossing my arms. "Right? That's what you're trying to tell me. I'm on the clock and you want me churning out one masterpiece after another while the citizens of this strange corporate colony watch. You don't want an artist-in-residence, you want a dancing monkey."

  "There is nothing further from the truth, Mr. Guillmand," she snapped, slicing her hand through the air as she spoke. "We appreciate and admire your talent. We want you to be comfortable. Even if that means spending most of your time swinging from the branches. My only concern is whether you have everything you need."

  "Is that what got you out of the office, Miz Malik? Your concern for me? For my needs?"

  "No, that's not the only thing." She glanced at the wildflowers, regarding them as if she'd never encountered such a sight in the hermetically sealed existence she called life. "I'm curious why you've gone out of your way to leave birds in my office."

  I took a step toward her. "Is there a problem?"

  She took a step toward me. "Is there a point?"

  "Isn't that what I'm supposed to do here?" I stared down into her coffee-dark eyes. "Bring art to the people. Wasn't that the high-level objective of this gig?"

  Another slow blink up at me, and then, "You are not required to literally deliver art to individual staff members. I apologize if that was unclear."

  I scratched the back of my neck, humming. "Ah. I see. My misunderstanding."

  "Very well."

  Her gaze was locked on my eyes, but for a split second it flitted to my lips. It was nothing more than a glimpse but it struck me like a challenge—and an opening. Without allowing myself time to examine my actions, I reached out and curled my hand around her elbow. Heat coursed through me, a flash of fire a thousand times more powerful than anything else in the world.

  She glanced down at my hold on her arm, up at me. "I'll leave the birds with my assistant. I'll ask him to work with the appropriate teams to get the pieces on display. If you need any help gathering the others—or whatever you've given staff members—we'll allocate someone with extra capacity this week."

  She didn't know. She was the only one and she didn't know.

  She gazed at my grip on her arm again, then over my shoulder, toward the office buildings. "Now that we've cleared these matters up, I'll be on my way."

  I didn't get a chance to reply. She shook out of my hold and walked off with her persimmon shoes and plump lips, and didn't grant me even a passing glance.

  This fucking woman.

  Chapter Three

  Neera

  Anamorphosis: a visual perspective technique that yields a distorted image of the work's subject when viewed from the typical viewpoint. However, it is employed such that when viewed from a specific angle, or reflected in a curved mirror, the distortion disappears and the image in the picture appears as expected.

  I wasn't one for knocking knees. I didn't wobble, I didn't waver. Few things struck fear in me.

  But it wasn't fear that had me marching away from Gus Guillmand on unsteady feet. No, it was anger. True, kettle-whistling anger. That man was infuriating with his tree-climbing and word-twisting. It was anger and it was exasperation too. I wore a lot of hats around here, but riding herd on the artist-in-residence wasn't supposed to be one of them.

  It was anger and exasperation, and an unwelcome jolt of attraction. That wouldn't do. I would not. I couldn't lust after someone like Mr. Guillmand, someone insufferable and argumentative and—and distressingly sexy.

  I could, but I wouldn't.

  It was anger, exasperation, attraction—rather unwelcomed—and a complete inability to focus on my w
ork for more than three and a half minutes that had me clicking my online profile to out of office and packing my things well before my regular quitting time.

  I told Heath I had some personal business to handle this afternoon and he smiled and nodded while munching a dandelion—leaf, stem, and flower. If I was a betting woman, I'd say the office would be brimming with theories as to whether I was leaving—whether by new employment or terminal illness—before tomorrow morning's first chai.

  I tucked my hair back, put my earbuds in, and clicked on a podcast before boarding the company's commuter bus. Around here—and other civilized parts of the world—earbuds served as a clear Do Not Disturb sign. Today, it saved me from collegial conversation and mulling over my unlikely reaction to Mr. Guillmand.

  Except I couldn't stop thinking about him. His grasp on my arm throbbed like a burn and I was hot everywhere. Our conversations were stuck on repeat in my mind. For the first time in my professional life, I was doubting the way I handled a situation. It was unclear to me how I could've better handled Mr. Guillmand, although one corner of my mind had ideas about handling him.

  When the bus rolled into the Redwood City station, I'd resolved nothing. I was tired from all the emotional footwork and frustrated with myself for allowing the issue to consume this much of my day when topics of far greater value demanded my attention.

  I tapped open a car service app as my colleagues disembarked. I was a ten minute walk from home but that wasn't where I wanted to go. I was in need of calm and comfort—and a mental reset—and right now, that meant crossing a bridge and crawling along the 580 toward West Berkeley.

  The cafeteria-style restaurant reminded me of Penn Station at rush hour. It was unbelievably loud and the crowd seemed to move as a collective body, swarming the front counter, surging toward open seats, scrambling to collect trays piled high with authentic Indian street food.

  I loved it.

  I gained as much peace from the atmosphere as I did the food. Perhaps that was a product of this great crowd and the anonymity that came with it. No one cared about me, my title, my connections, not when there was a fresh order of gulab jamun waiting for them.

  I enjoyed my work and I was comfortable in my role but it was refreshing to live a moment or two without those pieces preceding me. Yes, that was it. Some comfort food and a reprieve from the world I managed, that was what I needed. Today's loss of equilibrium was a result of a busy week on top of a travel-heavy month on top of a turbulent year.

  Mr. Guillmand was the unlikely product of my overdue need for some intense self-care. Nothing more.

  One of the clerks behind the counter raised her hand, signaling for another customer. The waiting crowd heaved forward and an elbow connected with my upper arm. I covered the sting with my palm as I glanced to the side, in search of the offending elbow.

  But it wasn't an elbow I found. It was a great wall of man, one barely enclosed in a black t-shirt, dark jeans, scuffed boots. One who seemed intent on invading every last inch of my world. I eyed him up and down, arching my eyebrow at his slicked-back hair and clenched hands. "Mr. Guillmand."

  "Miz Malik." He loosened his fists and stretched his fingers, then shoved his hands into his pockets. "Of all the curry joints in all the towns in the Bay Area, what're the odds you'd walk into this one?"

  "I could ask you the same," I replied, still rubbing my arm.

  He tracked the movement, his dark brows knitting together as understanding flashed in his eyes. He slipped his fingers under my palm, pulled my hand away. But he didn't release me. He held on. "I'm sorry," he whispered, covering my bicep with his free hand. His thumb stroked my skin over my sleeve, his touch gentler than I'd imagined possible.

  And I'd imagined. I didn't want to admit to myself—to anyone—but I couldn't stop imagining those charcoal-darkened fingers exploring my body. Leaving marks on my skin.

  Forcing a smile, I shook free from his hold for the second time today, clasped my hands, and stepped back as far as the crowd would allow. It wasn't far. "It was an accident. Just a bump. I'm fine." I tipped my head toward the counter. "Enjoy your meal. The chole bhature is exquisite."

  Mr. Guillmand hit me with a smile that could only be described as undeterred, and he edged back into my space. "Is that your order?"

  "Hmm. Sometimes." I shot a glance at the menu board. I wanted a bit of everything. "Don't let me keep you, Mr. Guillmand."

  He reached for my arm, curling his hand around my bicep. "Gus."

  I didn't step back this time. I let him touch me and I let myself burn under that touch. "May I ask how you came to be here, in West Berkeley, Gus? This is a rather great distance from the campus and your living quarters."

  His fingers slipped up the inside of my arm as he gazed at me, a curious, not altogether pleased grin pulling at his lips. "Slater Somethingoranother recommended it. The social media guy, the one who takes all the fake candid photos. He insisted I get out of Silicon Valley and he hooked me up with a list of local spots." His shoulders lifted and the gesture pushed the pad of his thumb into my soft tissue. Schooling my expression took serious work when I wanted to moan into his touch. "This is the only one I hadn't tried yet."

  "Mr. Wend. Smart man, good taste." I gestured toward the counter when a clerk called for the next customer. His hand fell away. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

  I wasn't excused for long. The neighboring clerk blindly beckoned for a customer and Mr. Guillmand stepped up beside me. We ordered separately but I couldn't stop myself from stealing glances at his profile. The way he flattened his palms on the counter drew my attention to the leather cuff on his left wrist. It looked worn, scarred but soft. I wanted to touch it, to run my fingertips over the raw edge and follow it along the topography of his wrist.

  Ugh, no. Why, Neera, why?

  I needed to recharge, not gain intimate knowledge of his body. I wanted an illogical smorgasbord of comfort food that would make my mother simultaneously cringe and roll her eyes: biryani, dahi puri, and uttapam, not an arrogant pain in my ass.

  And yet I studied the sculptor's big, capable hands and asked, "Would you care to join me, Mr. Guillmand?"

  A smug grin split his face, brightened his dark eyes. "I thought you'd never ask."

  It was common courtesy. He was a visitor and a new member of the team, and it was common courtesy to share a meal with him given these circumstances. I was being a professional. That was all.

  We stood shoulder to shoulder, waiting for our meals. We didn't speak, didn't touch. To my credit, I didn't retrieve my phone and fall down a fake-busy hole. No, I kept Mr. Guillmand in my peripheral vision as I gazed at the pickup window. It was better like this. I didn't hide, didn't prevaricate. I stared down tension until it cooled…or boiled over.

  Our order numbers were called one after another. When I reached for my tray, Mr. Guillmand held up a hand, blocking me. "I've got this. You lead the way and I'll follow."

  I spent no time considering the meaning behind his words even though I was certain I'd find plenty, instead occupying myself with picking my way through the eatery. Two seats opened up on the end of a long communal table and I quickened my pace to get there before anyone else.

  I heard his coarse laugh over my shoulder as I hung my bag on the back of the chair. "Amused, Mr. Guillmand?"

  He set our trays on the table. "Impressed. You're a vulture."

  I brushed my hands together, glanced at the people seated nearby, sniffed. "What a vivid comparison."

  "Like I said"—he passed behind me, his hand ghosting over my lower back, the pressure just enough to send my belly flipping—"impressed."

  I sat, busied myself with unfolding my paper napkin and spreading it over my lap. My companion surveyed the diners around us, his gaze settling on the quartet of junior associates beside us from the venture capital firm Koos Blacke. They'd kept up their conversation about this fall's bonito run but made no attempt to hide their eavesdropping.

  That was how I knew they w
ere junior associates. Full associates and partners had perfected the art of invisible information gathering. Not that this meal offered information worth gathering, even for the Valley's virulent rumor mill.

  "It's curious that we bumped into each other here," Gus commented.

  "If you're implying anything other than happenstance, I'd suggest you reconsider."

  "It wouldn't be the first time you've come looking for me today," he replied.

  "That wasn't my intent this evening." I stared at him, my expression even. "How are you finding the Bay Area, Mr. Guillmand?"

  He dropped his forearms on the table, hung his head, groaned. "You can't call me that."

  My brows arched up. "And why not?"

  His entire body sighed. Shoulders, arms, lips, chest. It moved like a skipped stone rippling over a pond. "My father is Mr. Guillmand." He focused on organizing the small plates on his tray. "I can't hear that name without my stomach dropping to my toes and turning around to figure out how the hell he's here when he's supposed to be back home in Morumbi."

  "Is your relationship with him difficult?"

  Gus shook his head. "Not difficult. Different."

  "I would imagine being descended from the French monarchy does that to a bloodline."

  He hit me with a flat stare. "So, you've heard about that."

  I answered with a quick shrug and, "Did you think we'd bring you on without an extensive background check?"

  "No. Of course not. But I didn't think extensive meant three hundred years of family history, and I didn't think you'd take time from your very busy, very important schedule to get my dirt."

  I tipped my chin up. "I prefer to know who is in the building."

  "Oh, yeah?" he challenged. "You review background checks and CVs for every intern? What about the guy who works the omelet station in the cafeteria? Or the lady who cleans your office? You know all of them, Miz Malik? You know their stories?"

  "You're referring to Ido and Marian? Yes, I know them. I can't say the same for every intern as we have more than five thousand of them in offices around the world. However, I make a point of acquainting myself with the backgrounds of the interns on campus."