Busted in Bollywood (20 page)

“Do you have the right room?” I prompted, secretly relieved Queenie had knocked on the door and not some tall, voluptuous blonde. If Drew had to have visitors, I’d prefer old and wrinkly to young and perky any day.

“Is Drew Lansford in?” Her toff English accent sounded a hundred times more stuck-up than Drew’s, and she tilted her nose higher and clutched her purse tighter as if I were a bag-snatcher.

Queenie thought I was scum? Two could play this game.

“He might be. Who should I say is calling?” My imitation of a posh accent was lousy at best and Queenie didn’t seem impressed.

“His mother.”

Oh shit
.

His mother. Two words guaranteed to strike fear into any girl’s heart, especially if aforementioned girl was bonking buddies with the uptight mother’s son. And if aforementioned girl had just tried to rip off Mother’s posh accent.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Please come in.” I tried my best apologetic smile and threw the door open, stepping aside to let Her Majesty in.

Drew’s mother—I couldn’t think of her as a mom because “mom” implied warm and friendly, two things this woman definitely wasn’t—sailed across the threshold without a backward glance, leaving a powerful waft of Christian Dior’s Dune behind her.

She surveyed the room, ascertained Drew wasn’t hiding behind the plush velvet drapes, and turned back to me. “Where’s my son?”

“Taking a business call. He shouldn’t be long.”

“Oh.”

How Queenie could instill so much disapproval into one tiny syllable I’d never know.

“Would you care for some tea?” I said, sounding like the subservient serf she obviously thought I was.

“No, thank you.”

So much for the universal English icebreaker.

“Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

Ignoring my forced smile, she perched on the edge of the couch, clutching her bag and eyeing me with barely concealed contempt.

Jeez, and I’d thought posing as Rita for Mama Rama had been tough.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lansford. I’m Shari Jones, a friend of Drew’s.” I lied about the pleasure bit but I had to say something to fill the uncomfortable silence. As for introductions, Queenie didn’t seem too thrilled to have anything to do with me but I needed to be polite if only for Drew’s sake. No point alienating another member of his fan club.

“It’s Lady Lansford,” she said, disapproval radiating from blue eyes so much like her son’s.

Lady
? As in a real, honest-to-God title?

Holy-schmoly… did that mean Drew was a lord?

My mind reeled with the implications while my heart ached.

I’d opened up to Drew like I never had with any other guy. Sadly, he hadn’t reciprocated.

How could he withhold something so important from me? And what other secrets was he harboring?

With my opinion of Drew shredded, I stood rigid, not daring to move for fear of cracking the emotional shell I’d quickly constructed to show his mom nothing she said surprised me.

“Why are you dressed like that? By your accent, you’re American, and Shari Jones doesn’t sound Indian.”

It was the longest speech she’d made to date and I should’ve been pleased. Instead, her tone dripped icicles and I suppressed a shiver.

“My mother’s Indian, my father American.” I cast furtive glances at the closed office door, silently praying Drew would appear any moment. “My outfit’s a costume from a movie I was in today.”

Hopefully that would impress the old bat. Having to justify what I was wearing to someone I’d just met, Drew’s mother or not, sucked.

“A movie?” The wrinkles on her nose increased as if I’d divulged my occupation as brothel madam.

“Yes, one of Drew’s, actually.”

“That explains it.” She crossed her arms tighter over her bag, glaring at me like I’d stolen the Crown jewels.

“Explains what?” I shouldn’t have asked, I really shouldn’t have, but something behind Queenie’s eyes, a cunning, knowing glint, prompted me to do it.

“Your presence here. I’ve heard you movie people will sleep with anyone to get ahead and obviously you see my son as a meal ticket.”

Blood roared through my ears and I saw red. Spiteful cow. Where did she get off accusing me of something like that? She didn’t even know me. While I hadn’t heard any rumors at work, I’d wondered if people had whispered the same thing about me while I’d been with Tate. Even if they had I probably would’ve ignored it, content in my self-delusion I deserved an apartment, designer stuff, and a cushy job. I would’ve justified it with any number of excuses: it was none of their business; they didn’t understand our relationship, they were jealous. When in reality I knew how it must’ve looked: that I’d been sleeping my way to a free ride, and having my reputation tarnished irked as much as the lies he’d told.

It drove me every day, the urge to stand on my own feet, to re-establish my life and take control on
my
terms. This acting gig had been the first step and she’d just defiled it.

“His dalliance with you means nothing. It’s a man’s instinct to dabble in the exotic before he settles down.”

“What if Drew wants to
settle down
with me?”

Drew and I hadn’t contemplated getting serious but I needed to wipe away Queenie’s smug expression—before I throttled her.

She laughed, a brittle, empty tinkle that made the hair on my nape stand on end. “Don’t be ridiculous. As if he would settle for a jumped-up, trashy, half-caste like you.”

Hurt, swift and unexpected, stabbed through my deliberate indifference, and I gritted my teeth until they ached rather than let her see how her blatant racism shocked me. I might’ve been gobsmacked but there was no way I’d let the prejudiced bitch know.

Aware calmness would rile her further, I aimed for demure. “Maybe you don’t know your son as well as you think you do.”

Her frosty glare warned I hadn’t dented her confidence, while mine reeled from her rudeness. “On the contrary, it’s you who don’t know him very well. This…thing”—she waved her hand at me and made an unattractive little moue with her mouth—“you have with my son will finish soon, make no mistake.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“The fact Drew is marrying Amelia Grayhart.”

Triumph glittered in her cold blue eyes as I gripped the back of the chair for support. “Amelia’s English and a woman of Drew’s class.”

Drew’s engaged.

Shock swept through me, blurring my vision, making my insides churn and my body shake. I wanted to hate him. I wanted to castrate him. Until I dragged in a deep breath and clarity returned.

Jumping to conclusions was exactly what this bigot wanted and I’d be damned if I gave up on Drew without giving him a chance to explain. I’d given Tate the same courtesy and while he hadn’t deserved it, as it turned out, Drew did.

They were nothing alike. I hoped.

“Make no mistake, Amelia and Drew are marrying. Soon. Why do you think he’s still in town?”

“For work, the movie he’s backing.”

“You’re deluded. He finances movies. He never stays around for the filming.” Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “Amelia’s in town, has been for weeks. That’s the reason he’s in New York—the
only
reason.”

I wanted to give Drew the benefit of the doubt. I wanted to trust my new and improved instincts. But old habits died hard, and his xenophobic mom had unerringly arrowed in on every latent insecurity I’d ever had about this relationship.

I’d secretly worried I wasn’t good enough for Drew. Discovering he had a title only exacerbated those feelings of unworthiness.

But what really cut deep was the fact he hadn’t told me.

If he’d lied about that, surely an impending engagement to some uppity bitch could be a possibility?

Sick to my stomach, I stood there, torn between wanting to flee and confronting him the moment he stepped into the room.

She glared at my outfit through narrowed eyes, her obvious distaste making me bristle. “You mean nothing to him. My son has an unnatural fascination for India, and you’re another tacky plaything he acquired from there. A used, soon to be discarded, tacky plaything.”

I could’ve thrown the Ming vase near my right hand or pummeled her with a Versace cushion lying plump and ready on the chair in front of me. Instead, she made my decision to leave or stay easier.

I straightened my shoulders, walked stiffly to the door and opened it, blinking back furious tears. The classy thing to do would be to march out, slam the door, and never look back. However, Queenie had tarred me with a
tacky
brush, why not live up to it?

I eyeballed her, three words I never would’ve dreamed saying to anyone older than me, let alone Drew’s mother, rolling off my tongue.

“Racist old bitch.”

I slammed the door on the way out.

chapter twelve

“You called her a racist old bitch? Way to go.” Rita lolled on the couch like an ad for all things spicy in her cerise sari, gold flashing at her ears, neck, and wrists as she dipped a Chili Dorito into jalapeño salsa.

After I’d sent out an SOS call she’d headed straight for my place following a successful dinner with her mother-out-law and the rest of the Banana-Ramas.

“I’m guessing that’s not what has you this upset?”

I shook my head, bile rising at the thought of Drew’s deception. What was the attraction for me with lying, cheating scum?

“Drew’s engaged.” Saying it out loud made it more final, more hurtful, more
everything
.

“What?” Rita’s hand hovered halfway to her mouth, a perfect surprised O.

“You heard me.” I pointed to a jalapeño about to land unceremoniously in her lap and she quickly shoved the Dorito and salsa chip sandwich she’d made into her mouth without spilling a drop.

She chewed quickly, her eyes bulging with a shock mirroring mine.

“Guess his mom was right. I was his foray into multiculturalism before going for the pure thing.”

“Don’t.” Rita jabbed a Revlon-tipped finger at me. “Don’t you dare go down that path. His mom was talking through her ass and if you buy into it, she wins.”

“This isn’t a competition,” I said, picking up the nearest cushion and hugging it to my chest. Pitiful protection for my shattered heart. “If it were, I’d walk around with a big fat L tattooed on my forehead and be done with it.”

“I’m not joining your pity party. Give me all the facts about this so-called engagement. Who’s the lucky lady?”

“Amelia Greyhart.”

“
The
Amelia Greyhart?” Rita’s sculpted brows shot skyward as I sagged farther at the news she’d heard of her.

“Freaking great. You know Amelia?”

Rita laughed and clapped her hands like a three-year-old sculling red soda for an entire afternoon. “You could say that. I manage her account at the store and boy, does that woman know how to shop. Do you know, she spends more on—”

“As riveting as I find the bimbo’s spending habits, could you save it for someone who cares?”

Rita continued to laugh. “Hang on, I haven’t got to the good bit yet. You know who she regularly shops with and is almost engaged to?”

I screwed up my eyes, tapped my temple, and slapped the side of my head. “Uh, wild guess, Drew Lansford, greatest British prick of all time?”

Rita shook her head, the soft tinkling of gold at her ears reminding me of the one time I’d worn similar earrings—impersonating her—and the first fateful meeting that night at the Rama welcoming party in Mumbai. Maybe Kapil the soothsayer had a point? I’d had a decision to make and boy, had I botched it big-time.

“It’s not Drew. Amelia has bigger fish to fry.”

Staring at Rita’s smug face, I wondered if I’d done the right thing in calling her. Maybe I should’ve buried my head in a tub of ice cream for the next few hours before taking a Valium or three.

My best ‘I’m not in the mood to play’ glare must’ve worked because she sobered up fast. “Amelia and some Bieber clone?” She entwined her index and middle finger. “Like this.”

Disbelief shot through me as I sat bolt upright and dropped the cushion. “If this is your way of cheering me up, forget it.”

Justin Bieber was a
teenager,
so it stood to reason some wannabe would be young. As if Amelia freaking Greyhart, Lady Muck’s choice of bride for her son, would have a boy toy. Or be remotely serious about him.

“It’s true. Everyone at Bergdorf’s sees them shopping together whenever they’re in town. They’re all over each other. And Kelly in cosmetics told Krista in perfumes she’d overheard them discussing carats for an engagement ring. How much more proof do you need?” Rita made a clawing action with both hands and mouthed, “Cougar.”

I wanted to laugh but even if Rita’s far-fetched tale had a semblance of truth to it, the fiasco with Drew’s mom had given me a much-needed wake-up call. She’d mistaken me for some wannabe starlet sleeping her way to the top and had tried to drive me away. A typical overprotective mom I could understand. I could even dismiss the engagement as being wishful thinking on her interfering part. But the fact he had a title and he hadn’t told me? Uh-uh. Unacceptable.

He’d lied about his identity and after Tate I’d had a gutful of dishonesty. Besides, according to Lady Muck, a high-and-mighty Lord would marry someone of his class. Someone worlds away from me.

Not that I’d contemplated marriage, but hey, I’m a single gal approaching thirty and I had, very briefly, linked Shari and Lansford together to see how the names sounded. It didn’t mean anything. Every female over the age of five did it with any guy she liked.

“If that’s true, how come I haven’t read about it? I’ve never heard of her.”

“Trust me on this. Drew isn’t engaged. Rakesh would’ve told me.” Rita blushed at the mention of Lover Boy and I silently applauded. At least one of us had the happily-ever-after we’d always scoffed at.

“He tells you everything?”

Her blush deepened. “Yeah, he does.”

“Lucky you.” I swallowed my bitterness, remembering the sweet things Drew had done—serving me dinner, protecting my back as we walked through peak-hour crowds, opening doors. Little things that added up to make him the wonderful guy I thought he was. I’d assumed we were developing the type of connection that invited confidences. Sadly, the small things and the closeness I’d treasured had been a sham.

Rita moved to sit next to me, draped an arm over my shoulders, and gave me a hug. “Rakesh likes you. Says you’re one of the few women he knows he can call a friend and if Drew was contemplating an engagement, he wouldn’t have let him within two feet of you. You know that.”

I managed a mute nod, recognizing a glimmer of truth behind what Rita said. Rakesh was one of the good guys and I felt the same way about him. But Drew was his business partner and best buddy—did guys share confidences the way girls did? Doubtful.

Rita released me, a deep frown slashing her brow as she glared, bearing a strong family resemblance to Anjali at her scariest.

“There’s only one way to clear up this mess—”

“I’m not talking to Drew.”

Rita might be right, but the way I was feeling, facing the guy I’d grown way too attached to wasn’t an option. I needed some time to gather my thoughts, plan my approach, and steel my nerve to make a clean, swift break.

Rita squeezed my hand. “You need to confront him.”

Perfectly logical advice. Shame I’d lost rational reason around the time I’d succumbed to Bollywood Boy’s first kiss.

“You’re right but I need time. Get myself together. Think up a suitable apology for calling Lady Muck a bitch.”

“Don’t you dare apologize for that.” She puffed up like an outraged peacock and I loved her for it. “From your description of her views, I’m surprised Drew loves India so much.”

“Do you agree with your parents’ view on arranged marriages?”

“Point taken,” she said, gnawing at her bottom lip at the mention of marriage.

“What’s with the coyness?”

She glanced away, but there was no hiding her dopey grin. “I was going to tell you but maybe now isn’t the right time?”

“Tell me what?” I leaned forward, eager to latch onto any news to take my mind off my own misery. Besides, I had an inkling. Kapil, eat your heart out.

“Rakesh and I are getting married.”

I screamed and grabbed Rita, hugging the life out of her as we alternated between sobbing, laughing, and squealing. I released her and dabbed at my eyes, gritty as if sandpaper had been rasped across them since I’d walked out of The Plaza two hours ago. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Crazy, huh? I send you all the way to India to get me out of the marriage then I take one look at the guy and fall apart.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Memories of my time with Rakesh in India flashed through my mind and I smiled, pleased one of my hunches had panned out. As for the other involving Drew and me and a chance at a real relationship… one out of two ain’t bad.

“We haven’t told our families yet so keep it quiet, okay?”

“I’m guessing the families already know. Wasn’t it their idea in the first place?”

“Ha, bloody, ha.”

Rita reached for a Dorito and crunched it, a flicker of doubt shadowing her eyes before she blinked.

“What aren’t you telling me?”

She sighed. “We want it to happen quickly, in a few weeks, and we want it here. No big Indian wedding, no hordes lingering over days of celebration—just a simple Hindu affair with my parents, his family, and you.”

And Drew
. Though Rita didn’t say it, I knew Rakesh would invite his business partner, especially to a small intimate affair in a foreign city. Which meant I had to see him to clear the air before the wedding. So much for a clean break. Seeing him again had the potential to get messy.

The least I could do for my best friend who’d stood by me through the traumatic months post-Toad. “So what’s the problem?”

A tiny crease appeared between Rita’s brows, doing little to mar her beauty. “You’ve met Mama Rama and you know my mom. Do you seriously think they’re going to agree to a no-fuss wedding? Months have gone into the arranging, so do you think they’re going to settle for a quickie at the Town Hall followed by a low-key reception at The Russian Tea Room?”

I remembered the force behind Mama Rama’s slap all too clearly and I’d hate to think what she’d do to Rita if deprived of a chance to show off as mother of the groom. “Good point.”

“We have a plan, though it’s risky at best.”

“Tell me.” At least the intrigue had snapped me out of my funk. I’d stepped back into another Bollywood extravaganza, though thankfully I wouldn’t have the lead role this time.

“My folks are due home any day and the Ramas are heading back to Mumbai. Both families want us to get married and Mama Rama is sucking up, thinking I’ll get cold feet and ditch her son again. So we thought we’d give them an ultimatum. Either it happens our way now, or it doesn’t happen at all.”

“Think they’ll go for it?” Doubt spiraled through me. Anyone who’d seen Rakesh and Rita together could see how crazy they were for each other. To believe they wouldn’t get married at some point in the future would require a serious suspension of belief. Then again, both families were fixated with Bollywood films so it might not be such a big leap for them to make.

Rita quirked an eyebrow and struck a pose. “You think you’re the only one with acting talent around here? Wait ’til you see me give Rakesh the cold shoulder and watch Mama Rama fold like a deck of cards.”

I chuckled, the sound of my laughter a welcome surprise. When I’d left Drew’s suite I felt like I’d never laugh again. “If you need anything, let me know.”

Rita’s smile waned. “There is one thing.”

“What?”

“Mama Rama needs a pedicure before the wedding and I told her you’d be perfect for the job.”

“Bitch.” I grabbed a handful of Doritos and pelted her as we tussled, laughing until our sides ached.

…

Drew called.

Eight times, to be precise.

Four on the home phone, four on my cell.

Very even, very precise, very British. His messages ranged from polite and cool to annoyed and deranged, the last one something like this:
“Shari. This is insane. You cut out on me because my mother drops in for a visit? I know the battle-axe comes across a bit strong but I thought we had something. Surely you can tolerate her for a little while? Anyway, call me.”

He thought I should
tolerate
the old bag? See? Deranged.

When I didn’t return his calls that night, he arrived around midnight, ringing the buzzer like a man possessed. I could’ve let him up but what would be the point? I hadn’t formulated what I wanted to say, let alone mentally rehearsed it, and I knew the minute I saw him my hormones would go crazy and start ruling my head again.

I needed space. Space to let my head start talking sense to the rest of my traitorous body and I prayed it made a damn good argument.

Even if the Amelia engagement farce was a ruse Lady Muck used to get rid of me, Drew had lied to me. He was a Lord. A real, honest-to-goodness, ten-foot-up-himself Lord, and no matter how close we got, how far this relationship went, I couldn’t see Lady Muck welcoming a half-caste Lady Lansford into the family.

Half-caste.

Racist old bitch
.

I cringed in the darkness as the buzzer eventually silenced, wondering if Lady Muck told Drew about our fond farewell. Being raised to respect my elders, I wasn’t proud of my departing line. Then again, who said I had to take shit from a stuck-up meow like her?

I’d take a day or two, marshal my thoughts, set a plan of action, and stick to it.

Then why the sinking feeling in my belly that going through with this plan might be the hardest thing I’d ever have to do? “Plan” being the operative word as, lying on my bed with the blinds pulled up and moonlight spilling through the sheer chiffon drapes and speckling the ceiling, I had no idea what this so-called grand plan would entail. If Rita was right and the engagement thing wasn’t true, he deserved a chance to explain the title. It’s the least I could do.