“Ummm. Chemistry degree from USC. If that doesn’t ring alarm bells—”

“I’ve seen Breaking Bad.”

“Parents deceased. Three brothers. One living in San Rafael, one in Folsom, and one in Crescent City.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “You do realize some of the state’s worst prisons are coincidentally located in those three cities?”

“He’s almost at the door.”

“He likes baseball, Bollywood movies, Broadway shows, fast cars, and spending quality time with friends. He does tai chi in his spare time and takes pottery classes. Tell him I need a new coffee mug. Someone broke mine.”

Layla reached for the door. “I’m going in. If I don’t text in half an hour, send the police.”

“Welcome. Welcome. You must be Layla. I’m Salman Khan. Not the actor.” Salman shook Layla’s hand and gave her a wide smile, dazzling her with two shiny gold incisors.

“That’s not the actor I would have confused you with.” Layla followed him through the tiny restaurant to a worn wooden table near the kitchen. Faded Bollywood posters, threadbare carpet, and the heavy scent of stale spices gave the restaurant a tired feel.

“Who do you think I look like?” He gestured for her to take a seat.

“Shoaib Khan in Once Upon a Time in Mumbai.” She jerked her head in the direction of the three men in dark suits sitting at a nearby table. “You even have the bodyguards.”

Salman laughed. “Don’t mind them. They are like brothers to me.”

Except these ones aren’t incarcerated. She could almost hear Sam mumbling beside her and she felt curiously comforted by his imaginary presence.

She studied the man across the table as he poured two glasses of water. He was almost as tall as Sam, with a square face, close-set eyes, and slick black hair. His neatly combed mustache extended down to the bottom of his thick lips, and a tiny patch of beard filled the dip in his chin. Beneath a black suit jacket, his white shirt was open at the collar to reveal a thick gold chain.

“The food won’t be as good as you’re used to,” Salman said with an apologetic smile. “We run a simple restaurant here. Just the basics.”

“I’m sure it will be lovely.”

Five days. Both ends. Broke the toilet, Imaginary Sam whispered.

“Freida!” Salman screamed over his shoulder. “Bring the food. Make sure the roti are hot.”

Layla startled. “Is she hard of hearing?”

“Not at all.”

“Those are interesting tattoos.” She pointed to Salman’s fingers, each of which bore a black letter in intricate calligraphy that spelled ALL INDIA BZ when he put his hands together. “Were you in a . . . gang?”

Dear police: Guess where the All India Boys street gang is hiding?

She imagined glaring at Sam. He’d probably be out of his seat by now or have an arm around her shoulders. Certainly, he’d be trying to end the date.

Salman’s smile faded. “Ah. Folly of youth. But I’ve moved on to bigger and better things.”

Layla glanced over at the three men who had nothing in front of them but glasses of water. “I thought you had to black out your ink when you left a gang. Or maybe that’s just motorcycle clubs. I was a big Sons of Anarchy fan.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Salman said tightly. “I only watch movies. Mostly Bollywood remakes of Hollywood films. Have you seen Chachi 420?”

“The Mrs. Doubtfire remake?” Layla brightened. “I’ve seen it, although I like the original more because it wasn’t as raunchy. No lecherous cooks or hot bath scenes.”

“Those were the best parts,” Salman protested. “What about the dancing CGI bears in Ta Ra Rum Pum, the Talladega Nights remake?”

“It ends with a murder!” Layla said in mock horror. “It was crazy.”

Speaking of murder . . . Imaginary Sam was back, or was it her niggling conscience?

“Not as crazy as Bichhoo, the remake of Léon.” He smiled, almost blinding her with flashes of gold. “That last scene had a kill count of eighteen, and the dude was flying when that explosion hit. Like Superman.”

“Except with a lot more gore,” Layla added.

Speaking of kill counts . . . Imaginary Sam interrupted again. He clearly wanted her to leave but it wasn’t often she got to talk to someone who knew Bollywood films as well as she did.

“That reminds me . . .” Salman pushed his chair away. “I need to check the kitchen to see what happened to our food. It was supposed to be ready for your arrival.” He walked briskly to the kitchen, followed by two of the men in suits. The third turned his chair so he was facing her direction.

“Bitch! I’m going to find you!” Salman shouted so loudly the water in Layla’s glass rippled in fear. “Where the fuck is the fucking food?”

Pots crashed. Glass broke. A woman screamed. A thud. A loud crack. And then silence.

And we’re out of here. Imaginary Sam didn’t need to tug her arm because Layla was already out of her seat.

“Gosh. Look at the time. Please give my regrets to Salman. I forgot I have to—”

“You don’t disrespect Mr. Khan by leaving without saying good-bye.” Moving with a speed that belied his heavy frame, the guard blocked her exit, hands folded over his massive chest. “He likes you. He wants you to stay.”

Her heart pounded in her chest. “What if he didn’t like me?”

“He would ask you to leave.”

Layla swallowed hard. “The way Freida left?”

“Freida’s fine. She’s big on drama.” He gestured her to the table, and she reluctantly took a seat. It’s not like they were in a private home. The restaurant was open for business, and the front window overlooked the busy street. If she could see out, people could see in.

Still, she wasn’t interested in an ex–gang member who screamed at his staff. Her only chance of extricating herself from the situation without causing offense was to make herself as unappealing as possible. And the best way to do that was to embrace the passion she’d tried to hide away. She’d dyed her hair to cover up the blue streaks before her first interview, but that part of her was still there—raw, emotional, and real.

“Blue Fury,” here I come.

“Apologies.” Salman joined her at the table, his voice slick and smooth like he just hadn’t broken a rib screaming at Frieda before probably murdering her and dumping her body in the back alley. “Just a little trouble in the kitchen.”