Busted in Bollywood (11 page)

To give him credit, his smile didn’t slip. Instead, his eyes took on a predatory glint and I knew I’d pushed once too often. “You’ve got a smart mouth. And I think it’s time you put it to good use.”

Huh?
This time, I did the jaw-dropping routine as he closed the gap between us.

Ohmigod.

He was going to kiss me.

In the split second realization hit, I ran my tongue quickly over my teeth, wished I’d flossed that morning, and hoped my technique hadn’t slipped, considering it had been a while since I’d lip-locked anybody.

I held my breath as he paused, his face inches from mine. He tipped my chin up with a finger. “Let’s see exactly how good you are.”

My mind raced frantically as I searched for something witty to say. Sadly, all I could come up with was, “Very good.”

“In that case, let’s hear it.”

Hear what? I knew I was out of practice but last time I checked, kissing involved mouths and lips and tongues—not ears. Unless the guy was very, very good and let his tongue wander to my ear, one of my hot spots.

“Your apology, of course,” he said, almost a whisper, his mint-fresh breath wafting over me and begging me to taste. “Sometime this century would be nice.” His smug smile grated, but he was right. Besides, the sooner he got his damn apology, the sooner I could break this almost-kiss hold he had over me.

“Sorry.”

“Come on, you can do better than that.” His fingertip wandered, tracing a lazy path along the tender skin under my chin, and I desperately tried to hang onto my self-control.

Kiss him… kiss him… kiss him…
flashed through my mind, an insistent echo like a booming announcement at a Yankees game.

“I’m waiting.”

Damn him. How could two innocent words sound like a seductive purr?

“Sorry for stringing you along and wasting your time,” I blurted, managing to sit up straighter, dislodge his finger, and put some valuable distance between our faces at the same time.

“Better, though your delivery needs some work.” He didn’t make a big deal out of my chicken act (this from a woman who’d never backed down from a challenge in her life). The cozy atmosphere he’d created had vanished, though his smile didn’t cool my hormones, not one bit.

“Take it or leave it. It’s the only apology you’ll get out of me.”

“Fine. Now you’ve had your fun at my expense, why don’t you tell me what you think of India so far?”

Interesting change of subject. Though I’d rather pursue what he thought of
me
, I’d play along for now. “Chaotic, crazy, and totally mesmerizing. How long have you lived here?”

His eyes lit up with enthusiasm and I irrationally wished he would look at me that way.

“Five years, give or take. I’m mainly based in London, but spend several months a year here from choice, not necessity.”

“You like it that much?”

He nodded, enthusiasm sparking his eyes, making my ‘kiss-him’ mantra rev up again. “From the first minute I set foot here I loved everything about it. The contrasts, the people, the food, the vibrancy. It’s magic.”

“Are all you English this eloquent or is Shakespeare a long lost uncle?”

“Are you Yanks this brash all the time?”

I squared my shoulders. “Nothing wrong with blunt honesty.”

“Fine. Are you attracted to me?”

Shit. I mentally flapped my wings and squawked in a fair chicken impersonation. “Let’s get back to our cultural discussion. How did you get involved in the movies?”

He let me off the hook. By the gleam in his eyes I knew it was only a reprieve. “I’ve loved them since I was a kid. When Rakesh took me out to Film City one day to see his dad, I was hooked. Bollywood’s like the rest of this place. Big, bold, larger than life. Who wouldn’t get sucked in?”

“Must admit, I wish I’d had more time to explore yesterday. I’m a bit of a film fanatic.”

He grinned, obviously remembering what made me flee. “Anjali’s something else. Kapil doles out fortunes to anyone foolish enough to listen. Most people laugh it off so I’d hazard a guess he’s never had a half-naked woman attempting to strangle him before.”

“She didn’t strangle him. She just wanted to beat him around the head a little.” I joined in his laughter. This laid-back, comfortable warmth is how I felt with Rakesh, but with Drew, it had an underlying sexual sizzle I knew would combust given kindling and a spark.

“Would you like to visit again? This time, I promise to keep Kapil out of your way.”

“Thanks, I’d love to,” I said, strangely shy all of a sudden.

Detective Drew had been gruff, rude, and irritatingly condescending and I could handle him without blinking.

Disarming Drew crept under my guard, bamboozling me with charm, and handling him would be way too tempting.

Dreamy Drew was interesting, fun, and sexy, and I knew I couldn’t handle him if my life depended on it.

“Good, that’s settled. Now, about that other question, about the attraction thing—”

“Hey, you two, sort everything out?” Rakesh poked his head around the door, saw our proximity, and winked.

I’d never been so glad to see anyone in my life.

“Yep.” I bolted from my chair and rushed to the door. “Drew has offered another visit to Film City. Isn’t that great? Can’t wait. This time I’ll get to see everything. You know how I love movies.” I babbled like a bimbo, but was grateful for any sound to fill the void left by Drew’s hanging question—and the answer reverberating through my head, a deafening, resounding “YES!”

Rakesh led me back to the table, his cocky smile saying he knew exactly why I had a severe case of verbal diarrhea. Turning a chair backward, he sat opposite Drew and leaned on his elbows. “I hear you’ve been harassing my fiancée.”

“Fiancée, my butt,” Drew said, sending Rakesh a mock furious glare. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew she wasn’t Amrita?”

I slid quietly into a chair between the two guys facing off, an eager spectator now the heat was off me.

Rakesh shrugged, his broad shoulders straining against the white business shirt he wore so well, the sleeves casually rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. “I didn’t want to make a big deal. How did you find out anyway?”

For an Englishman, Drew had a tanned complexion rather than the pale pastiness evident in his countrymen—no one could defy the Indian sun for long—and to my surprise a faint pink stained his cheeks, adding to my amusement. “Remember the Thornton deal and the all-nighter to secure it?”

Rakesh snapped his fingers. “You must’ve seen the info I’d pulled on Amrita when I dashed out of the room to head off the raging CEO. Slick.”

He nodded. “It got caught up in a few files, and I unintention-ally read it. How’d you discover enough to know Shari wasn’t Amrita?”

Rakesh’s turn to look bashful. “I used the company’s PIs.”

“Ah.” Drew grinned, the two cohorts proud of themselves.

Typical smug males. Like I’d let them off that easily. “How did you know my name that night at the party?”

Two pairs of eyes swiveled toward me, one a warm chocolate brown, the other a startling blue with the potential to make me melt.

“I mean, you knew I wasn’t Rita but how did you know my real identity?”

The pink in Drew’s cheeks deepened to crimson. “When you were mingling I took a photo of you with my cell, checked it against our search engines, and had the info I needed in less than five minutes.”

“Perk of the job, huh? Spying, invading a person’s privacy, being an inquisitive English ass?”

“I was looking out for my friend’s interests.”

“You were sticking your nose in business that didn’t concern you.”

“And you treated me like an idiot instead of telling me the truth from the start.”

“Children, children.” Rakesh tut-tutted and made a T sign with his hands. “Time out. Now everyone here knows everyone else’s business, what say we keep our lips zipped and continue as before?”

“And go back to him being an uptight, pretentious know-it-all?”

A tad harsh. Once Drew learned the truth he’d lightened to the point where he’d turned flirtatious and I’d loved every second. However, I had a reputation to uphold—my don’t-be-stupid-where-guys-are-concerned reputation—and I couldn’t let a little healthy flirtation get in the way of my new smarter self.

“And go back to her being a lying, devious diva?”

We deadlocked in a staring competition, challenging the other to look away first.
Bad luck, Bollywood Boy.
I’d been my middle school’s staring comp queen three years running and no way would I capitulate.

But he didn’t play fair. The longer I stared into his eyes the more I noticed the tiniest green and gold flecks dotted around the irises, overshadowed by that powerful, too-good-to-be-true blue.

I sensed rather than saw the corners of his mouth tilting as if he was laughing at me, and my resolve unwound as fast as Anjali’s sari in front of Kapil yesterday.

I caved.

I let out a loud whoop and he joined in while Rakesh shook his head like a proud papa watching his two favorite kids.

“Diva, huh? I like it.” I cocked my hip in a sassy ‘bring it on.’

Drew’s gaze drifted to my hip before slowly sweeping upward to my face, heating every inch he’d visually skimmed. “Guess I need to brush up on my insults.”

“Hey, before you get into round two, I need Drew to sign off on a deal,” Rakesh interrupted, surprisingly brisk and businesslike. “Time for you to head home,
wife-to-be
.”

“In your dreams.”

“In my nightmares,” Rakesh said, and I flipped him a rude sign before making a dignified exit.

As dignified as can be expected considering I stumbled when my three-inch heel caught the edge of the Persian rug and threatened to land me on my expanding butt. Damn Anjali and those
ladoos.

I heard a stifled snort and turned quickly, glaring at both men. “The least one of you bozos could do is escort me to the door.”

Drew shrugged and smirked. “Sorry. You’d accuse me of being a know-it-all again and I can’t have that. My fragile English ego can’t handle it.”

Ignoring him, I glared at Rakesh. “And what’s your story, Lover Boy?”

“He gets Lover Boy and I get Bollywood Boy? Nice.” Drew’s eyes glittered with mischief and I fought the urge to run over, wrap my arms around him, and consummate the kiss we’d almost had.

Rakesh scrambled to his feet and crossed the room in two seconds flat, taking my hand and placing it in the crook of his elbow. “I was going to invent some lame excuse but after you’ve pumped up my ego, how could I be so ungallant?” He lowered his voice to a loud stage whisper. “Bollywood Boy? Good one.”

“I thought you said we had to get back to business, Rama? So once you escort the lady to the limo, I’ll see you in my office.”

“Nice seeing you again, Drew.” I sent him a saucy wave over my shoulder, wondering when I’d last had this much fun. Sad, because all we’d done was trade verbal banter, the odd insult, and flirted a little. Yet suddenly my world looked like a brighter place to be.

In all honesty, my life had improved since I’d arrived in this crazy, hot, melting pot of human intrigue, and I hoped my new positive karma carried over when I returned home.

“You too, Miss Jones. Look forward to seeing a lot more of you.” His low, seductive chuckle left me in little doubt he wasn’t just talking about my physical presence.

Damn, he was good. But I was better.

“The feeling’s entirely mutual, Mr. Lansford. Though remember, divas only expect the best.”

I licked my top lip in a sexy move I’d seen on TV, savoring his surprise and flare of heat as he checked me out with a silent promise of more to come.

chapter seven

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Hey Shari,

Only someone as confident as you could lob into a strange city, pull off the impersonation of all time (I hear Anu is a clever cow and if she believes you’re me, you deserve the lead in the next Bollywood extravaganza), and find romance with some hot English dude.

He’s hot, isn’t he? All I hear is you dissing him and complaining, which tells me you have it bad! Uh-oh, let me guess. He’s a Hugh look-alike?

Repeat after me: “I am not Julia Roberts. I am not Andie MacDowell. I am not living a film role. Hugh Grant is a sap.”

Okay, maybe he’s a cute sap but nevertheless, even if this English guy doesn’t look like you-know-Hugh, don’t get into a thing with a guy who lives on the other side of the world. You’re only asking for more heartache, girlfriend, and you’ve had your fair share thanks to that lowlife scum Tate. (Please forgive slip in using the T-word.)

Lover Boy, huh? If the Boy Rama is anything like the Indian guys I’ve met, I won’t give him a second look, your recommendation notwithstanding. I don’t need a master, hot bod or not, and unfortunately that’s what these guys want—some docile slave to pander to their every whim while they grow fat on wifey’s cooking. No way, no how.

(Note my bravado when voicing my strong opinions to you but discussing my cultural cynicism with my folks? So not happening. Wish I could make them understand I’m as Hindu as they are and respect all that stands for, but I’m a New Yorker, too, and I crave freedom of choice as much as they crave an Indian son-in-law.)

Anyway, that’s me for now.

Love you,

Rita xx

(PS. Sorry I’ve been incommunicado. Been dodging Mom’s questions about wedding plans—yeah, all the way from the Grand Canyon!—and busy number-crunching at Berg’s. You know how it is… Later.)

I reread the email, searching for a clue to substantiate the suspicious niggle I had that something wasn’t right. It had taken Rita two days to respond to my email when we usually spoke/emailed/texted every day. The text messages from NYC to Mumbai had been something along the lines of “R U OK 2DAY?” but at least it’d been contact. Yesterday, there’d been nada.

While I couldn’t find anything untoward in the email, I couldn’t shake the feeling Rita had something stewing.

“Shari, you ready? The car’s here.”

“Coming, Auntie.” I added an extra slick of gloss and puckered up at the mirror. Sad, I know, but it was the closest I’d get to a kiss this trip—fantasies about Bollywood Boy notwithstanding.

Drew had sent the limo for our return trip to the studio, and by the height of Anjali’s nose stuck in the air, she loved every minute of it. Her smugness as she simpered at the driver, who held the door open for us, was in stark contrast to Buddy’s sourness as he hovered in the background, ostensibly polishing the old Beamer while casting malevolent glares at the limo. He hadn’t taken too kindly to being demoted from his driving duties for a day.

Taking pity on him, I waved and smiled, his mutinous expression brightening for a second. Buddy could rival the Lone Ranger to head up my Indian fan club. He’d been particularly attentive since the crash’n’bang duty-free incident, trying to make up for it.

As if. I liked having a man in the house to do my bidding, but if I had a choice between Buddy and a mojito right now? No contest.

The driver edged the limo through the crowd outside Anjali’s gate and as he turned onto the street, I caught a glimpse of a Stetson.

I grabbed Anjali’s arm. “Hey, is that the guy who delivered the letter?”

“Where?” She craned her neck and squinted at where I pointed.

“Standing behind your gawking neighbors.”

“Can’t see a thing.” Not that she was looking all that hard, considering she waved and nodded at the onlookers like the queen from her royal carriage. “Besides, I’m sure he’s harmless.”

“If I get abducted by some Stetson psycho, I’ll remember that.”

She guffawed and settled back in her seat as the limo headed up the street. Despite scanning the crowd in our wake, I couldn’t see the hat. Maybe I imagined it? Or maybe some crazy cowboy
was
stalking me? Just what I needed, further intrigue.

Anjali prattled for the entire trip and I listened with half an ear, nodding and ahh-ing in the appropriate places. Drew wouldn’t be at Film City today, and while my head said this was a good thing, my heart wouldn’t have minded another jump-start from his skilled flirting.

As the studio gates came into sight, the memory of our previous embarrassment had me fixing Anjali with a don’t-mess-with-me glare. “Today you stick with me. No wandering off on your own, no interfering, and most of all, no approaching Kapil for a repeat performance.”

Anjali’s kohl-rimmed eyes widened in a pathetic attempt at innocence. “I’m not a child, you know.”

“Then don’t throw a tantrum like you did last time and I’ll believe you.”

“Who, me?” She batted her eyelashes in exaggerated faux innocence, and I experienced a surge of affection for this warm, funny woman who had taken me into her home and protected me from what this bizarre city could throw at me.

Reaching over, I squeezed her hand. “Yes, you. No outbursts today, right?”

“Right.” She grinned like a naughty kid and I knew I’d need to keep an eye on her.

However, I didn’t have time once we arrived. In Drew’s absence he’d entrusted us to his deputy, Desiree, a striking Eurasian woman of indeterminate age, who guided us through the extensive grounds.

We skirted around the mayhem on two sets—a fight scene and a chase scene complete with galloping horses and cowboys, my latent paranoia kicking in as I surreptitiously checked for authentic Stetsons and sniffed the air for Brut. Unable to tell the cowboys apart, I was nonetheless relieved when we stopped at another set, this one featuring a huge fountain as a centerpiece. Fake Roman columns surrounded it, with a covered walkway leading to a gazebo, where a harem of women wearing buttercup, amaranth, and lilac saris spilled down the steps in riotous abandon.

They clapped and twirled and cast coy glances at the male chorus, resplendent in burgundy turbans. My head spun with the noise and color and sheer numbers of extras involved.

Watching a scene shot live would change the way I viewed Bollywood films forever, the vibrancy and animation astounding. The fantastic blur of color and music mesmerized me as I tapped my foot in time with the catchy
tabla
rhythm, wishing I could demonstrate the same
joie de vivre
of the actors. I was particularly impressed with the stunning sari-clad women dancing
chakkars
(pirouettes) and
dhak dhaks
(a dance step involving loads of titillating breast jerks), their grace and liveliness inspiring.

Apparently, most male movie fans loved the
dhak dhak
. Not surprising, considering onscreen kisses were rare, and nudity nonexistent, so the odd breast shimmy—often in the rain for a little extra attention—was about as raunchy as it got. Movie audiences would have a group coronary if Stanley Kubrick produced here.

As the music picked up tempo and the dancers whirled in compelling color, I didn’t know where to look first, like a kid on a trip to Disneyland.

“You’ll like this, child. Holi is the Hindu festival of color and often used in film sequences. Look.” Anjali grabbed my arm in excitement and I followed her line of vision.

“Wow.” I stared as a cast of hundreds threw bright powders and sprayed water on one another, dancing and singing and leaping in an astonishing kaleidoscope of color. Peacock blue mingled with emerald, ruby with sunshine yellow, a gorgeous mayhem free-for-all like a bunch of hyperactive preschoolers let loose with finger paints. I yearned to play.

“Watch the heroine,” Anjali said, giggling at my goggle-eyed surprise. “More titty action.”

Sure enough, the beautiful heroine with exotic almond-shaped green eyes and thick black hair falling to her waist in a sleek curtain emerged from the writhing masses, drenched from head to foot. Color speckled her sheer white chiffon sari and clung to her voluptuous body.

Anjali shook her head. “Men are perverts.”

I watched the heroine’s graceful movements, perfect body, and gorgeous smile, not blaming guys for a second.

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” I said, a small part of me wishing I had one-tenth of the va-va-va-voom the actress had.

“Girls of today have no shame,” Anjali said as the heroine flounced off with the handsome hero hot on her heels.

I switched to watching another scene, where a group of women wearing micro-minis and crop tops was trying to entice a tall, leather-clad guy—the hero—away from a demure village girl, the love of his life by the way she made sickening goo-goo eyes at him.

“The vamps in these films always wear scandalous Western clothes,” Anjali said, her frowning glance flicking over my own tight white bootleg jeans and flowing pink peasant top as if assessing my vamp factor.

I must’ve passed the test because she returned to watching the action, including
barsaat
(rain) and wet saris,
jhatkas
(the jerks and
dhak dhaks
of many choreographed songs) and shy glances from the Queen Bee, the industry’s top heroine at the time. I’d never seen anything like the constant whir of motion, the frenetic pace, or the mind-boggling spectacle that went into making a Bollywood film.

When the action wound down half an hour later and the director called ‘cut,’ sweat trickled down my back in rivulets from standing too long and I jumped at Desiree’s offer of a drink.

We wound our way between giant sound stages and trucks filled with electronic equipment to a small refreshment tent teeming with actors. Desiree parted the crowd and we bustled to the front, organizing our tea before I gratefully sunk into a canvas chair.

I sipped my
chai,
half-listening to Anjali and Desiree gush, debating the assets of megastar hotties Shah Rukh Khan, Salman Khan, and Akshay Kumar while ogling some seriously prime beefcake. If I didn’t live half a world away and had sworn off guys, I could’ve easily fallen in lust with any number of the buffed guys strutting around the tent.

When we’d finished, Desiree took us behind the scenes of another film, an epic featuring star-crossed lovers, a murdered father, a vengeful son, and a ghost, making my taste in rom-coms seem decidedly tame.

We watched a dazzling dance sequence; a huge cast of whirring, gyrating, hand-thrusting demons dressed in rainbow-colored saris bounced around in the scorching heat. They maintained smiles during the high-octane performance, until the cameras stopped rolling and they flopped onto the nearest crate/chair/piece of ground to moan about the bastard producer and the lousy pay.

The
chai
revived me because I could’ve sat and watched Bollywood at its best forever. Every aspect fascinated me. When the scene wound down, we moved indoors to a vast area where musicians dubbed the score for the films.

Anjali glanced around. “Is Senthil Rama here today?”

“He sure is,” Desiree said, with a beaming smile for the first time today. “He’s the best tabla player in Mumbai and we’re lucky he works here. Do you know him?”

Anjali shrugged. “We’re old friends.”

“Then you must say hello.”

“Just a quick one. I’m sure he’s busy.” Anjali appeared disinterested but I couldn’t figure why she wanted to say hi to Senthil. It wasn’t like she had to impress the guy on my behalf considering I wouldn’t see him again once I headed back to NYC. And Anu wasn’t around, so it couldn’t be to aggravate her. Unless her deviousness extended to hoping Senthil would report back to Anu? Considering her loathing for the woman, I wouldn’t put it past Anjali. Or maybe the mystique in Rita’s plan was getting to me and I was searching for clues that weren’t there.

Desiree nodded. “Yes, he’s in great demand.”

I didn’t feel like greeting my pretend father-in-law. In fact, I’d been extremely lucky so far, only seeing the Ramas at their house once. Though I knew my luck wouldn’t hold, as Rakesh had mumbled something about a farewell dinner when I’d left Eye-on-I yesterday.

A dinner party with Mama Rama ranked right up there with my annual gyno visit: things we have to do but hate.

I waved them away. “Go ahead. I’ll rest here while you say hello.”

“We won’t be long.” Desiree and Anjali chattered about their favorite Bollywood films as they went in search of the Tabla King.

I sat on the nearest director’s chair, wondering whose famous butt graced the canvas before mine. Hoping Senthil’s groupies wouldn’t be long, I slouched into it, the combination of a full stomach and the heavy afternoon heat acting like a sleeping drug. As my eyelids drooped, I caught a strong waft of Brut as someone sat next to me and I registered their feet before I dozed.

Nice boots
.

My eyelids drooped.

Fancy cowboy boots
.

I needed matchsticks to pry open my eyelids, they were that heavy.

Shit.

My eyes sprung open as I registered where I’d seen a pair of these great boots recently. And the psycho they were attached to.