Nayan grinned, a touch of less than innocent intrigue in the shape of it. “I’m okay with that. Sneaking around isn’t something I do a lot, but again if you have the way…” He gave a significant half shrug, then – making a decision – slid of the sofa and reached under the seat where he’d slid his notebook he used to make note of any French he didn’t understand for later translation. He slid a ballpoint from the spine, uncapped it with his teeth and scribbled his cell number on a page with some old French and Tamil in the margins.
“That,” he said, sliding the pen behind his ear and tearing the page off, “is my number when you find the way. I left my cell in my cabin, but I’ll have it on me later.” He folded the paper and stood up, extending his hand toward the blue-eyed drummer, the page between his fingers suspended between them. “Might be interesting,” he said, gaze amused and unwavering.