The air on the terrace was cool, but the atmosphere was thick with a humid, dangerous heat. Anjali, dressed in a sheer chiffon saree that clung to her provocative curves, leaned against the weathered stone railing. Below, the city lights of Mumbai hummed, but up here, it was just her and the building’s watchman, Shankar.

Shankar was a man of raw, rugged power. His fair skin was bronzed from years in the sun, and he had a thick, muscular build that made his uniform shirt strain across his chest. He stood a few feet away, his cap in his hand, his eyes dark with a mix of fear and intense desire.