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Authors: Flo Fitzpatrick

BOOK: Hot Stuff
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I tilted my chin with a bit of defiance, just as Brig said, “Miss Walsh. My, my. Where's that little diatribe coming from? Will you listen to me? The maid in question hit ninety years old a decade ago and must be the great-great-great grandma of fifty kids. But she's an observant old bird.”
“Oh.”
“Do you understand that you can't go back there? That these various goons have ties all over this city and that they're after you? Which is why we're here.”
“Brig, you lost me. We're about to go touring the lots at the capital of Indian cinema because murderous scumbags are hot on my trail?”
He grinned. “That's a decent take on the situation. But we're at Film City because you, my darling talented Tempe, are about to join the ranks of the legion of stars working on Jake's next picture. You've just been given a job in a new Masala extravaganza.”
“Say what?”
Brig nodded. “I told Jake about your expertise as both a dancer and a gymnast. I also told him you were quite beautiful and you had legs up to your lovely neck that would look quite nice in high-cut bottoms. He whipped out a contract on the spot. So, you're dancing in
Mela Manokamana
. Loosely translated it means—”
“Carnival of Desire? Lust? Yes?”
He beamed at me. “That's very good. Jake won't even have to have a script translated for you since you know Hindi. He'll love that. Saves costs.”
“Right.”
He hastened to add, “I'm also in the movie and will be more than happy to keep an eye on you. Or more.”
“Brig. Keep the eyes to yourself, okay?”
“Fine. No discussion of eyes or other body parts. For now. Anyway, you'll be hiding out in an apartment about an hour's drive from Vivek Studios. With Asha Kumar, celebrity actress and ex-fiancée of Mr. Jake Roshan.”
Chapter 8
Jake finished his phone call. He trotted over to where Brig and I still stood staring at each other.
“Good news! I'll have money coming in on the next film from a very legitimate group in New Zealand. I can rest easier now. I must admit, I've been concerned.”
I must have looked puzzled because Brig interjected. “Masala films are all too often financed by what we might refer to as some of the more unsavory lads in Bombay. Boys of the Mahindra persuasion. They think nothing of making poor honest businessmen pay protection or shooting them if they, well, disagree. Our Jake here sweats buckets every time he starts a film until he can be certain his backers are legit.”
I glared at Brig. “Ah. Super. I am now so thrilled. I can't tell you how much that reassures me. You've got me hiding right back in the middle of the same slimy group of thugs who want to kill me. Thanks so much.”
Jake took over for Brig, which I knew could be a difficult task. “Tempe. Okay if I call you that?”
I nodded yes. “Miss Walsh” now referred to that girl in the buttoned-down business suit from New York. The girl who hadn't existed since about seven o' clock last evening. The girl I wasn't sure would ever exist again. Unasked for, yet storming right into my brain, rushed the thought,
The girl I don't
't want
to exist again.
“Tempe. Brig, for once, has the situation well in hand. He's told me about the gentlemen who seem determined to locate you and Shiva's Diva. Let me reassure you. Mahindra and Patel are not part of the gangsters who desire to take over cinema. Mahindra is one of the wealthiest men in India. Patel is a thug, nothing more. He wants to dive into whatever scheme seems most profitable. He has no interest in anything artistic.”
I glanced at Brig. “Which brings up another point. Why are those guys so determined to have Shiva's Diva? They're not art lovers. Well, at least not Patel. Don't they know about the curse? Aren't they trembling under their turbans?”
Brig smiled. “Mahindra fancies himself a great patron of the arts. And remember, Tempe, there's a blessing attached that brings luck and prosperity. I think our boy Patel is too stupid to believe in curses or blessings. I imagine Seymour Patel wants to steal it, sell it in an overseas market, then retire to Pago Pago.”
I focused on what, to me, was the most interesting part of that discourse.
I squealed, “Wait. Seymour?
Seymour?
The scourge of Bombay, the man whose sidekick missed killing me by an earring, the biggest crook this side of Gotti is named Seymour? No wonder he's so clueless. The one other person in the world named Seymour sings in a musical called
Little Shop of Horrors
and plays with a giant alien plant named Audrey Two. Jeez. Seymour. That explains a lot.”
I would have gone on. I could have gone on. Anything to chat about trivial matters and stop thinking about the very real danger Seymour and Mahindra posed. But just then I heard Jake take a sharp inhale of breath and tense up like a pony preparing to receive a five-hundred-pound rider.
I lifted my brows toward him in a wordless question. He pointed to a very sporty, very attractive, very classic sky blue convertible racing in through the entrance gates of Vivek Studios. The driver zoomed into a spot designated “No Parking”—and for good reason. There was barely enough space for vehicles the size of small motorcycles, much less for an American car (even one so diminutive as this two-seater convertible). Even its fins were slender and sporty—and it was still a tight fit.
I squinted. A girl who looked like she had barely reached puberty, much less legal driving age, jumped out of the convertible and began striding toward our trio.
“Jake! What the crap is this urgent crisis you had to see me about? I thought I made it clear we weren't on speaking terms. I'll talk to you on the set for
Mela
or
Carnival
, or whatever the hell the name is, but that's it.”
Jake held up his hand for silence. “It's not
my
crisis. Brig needs help, as does the lady with him.”
A tiny nose tilted upward with the regal quality of a medieval queen. Eyes the same shade of blue as the convertible stared at me.
“And just who the hell are you and what are you doing here?”
I answered with as much grace as I could. “Tempe Walsh. Lady in crisis.”
I saw her lips twitch in what had to be the suppression of a smile.
“Interesting. Are you friend or foe of Jake?”
I bit my lip. “Um, neither yet. I just met him about fifteen minutes ago.”
She snorted. “Plenty of time to discover that Mr. Roshan is a rat. A first-class double-A-battery-run rat.”
I had no idea what a “first-class-double-A-battery-run rat” meant, but I admired the vivid image. And I understood her as only one female can understand another. Two minutes after meeting Brig O'Brien, I'd been struggling between the desire to strangle him or throw him to the ground and pounce on every inch of his delicious body.
I had no idea how to answer her about Jake. I was also intrigued by her accent, which seemed familiar. Her looks were a mix of Indian and English. Yet she spoke slang and without that overly correct grammar affected by folks trying not to make a mistake in a foreign tongue.
I shrugged. Might as well side with my new, if temporary, employer. “I guess . . . friend? Since Jake has agreed to help Brig and me with some trouble.”
“Trouble? Whatcha done?”
Brig took over. “Nothing. We did nothing. It's what we
have
that's the problem.”
“Stolen artifacts? Crown jewels? Or simply a nice portrait? A Degas or a Matisse, perhaps?”
Just what
did
Brig do for a living? Make off with priceless objects on a weekly basis?
I glanced back at Brig's diminutive accuser, who winked at me. “He's a modern day Robin Hood, our Briggan. Rob from the rich, give to himself.”
Brig chimed in, “Now, darlin'. Don't be havin' Tempe thinkin' I'm some sort of thievin' villainous pirate.”
I'd noticed his Irish brogue grew stronger in moments of stress, moments of deceit, or moments when Brig desired to be ultracharming. This moment seemed to encompass all three. I ignored him and turned back to the girl.
“We seem to have taken possession of a statue Mr. O'Brien calls Shiva's Diva. A statue both cursed and blessed and a statue every criminal within a fifty-mile radius wants to own. We've taken shelter with Jake. Although why we can't just take the darned piece into the nearest police station and head on a plane back to the States is beyond my comprehension.”
She looked horrified. “You can't do that! There are tons of cops here as corrupt as the crooks. Poking out of mobsters' coat pockets. Now, the good ones are great, but it's the decision as to who's who that's the killer. Besides, if this sucker has both a curse and a blessing, you'd better find out which one is going to land on
your
head before you give it to anyone.”
Brig nodded. “Exactly. Which is why Tempe and I came to Jake who kindly agreed to let us perform in his latest cinematic masterpiece. Tempe's a fine dancer and I'm no slouch myself in the martial arts. Not to mention I do a nice Irish clog.”
She closed her eyes in mock horror. “Right. I'm sure
Carnival of Lust
needs the Irish-American doing the Riverdale dance in the middle of the scene where the villain blows up half of the temple. We'll stick you in a loincloth and tap shoes. Works for me.”
“Wait,” I interjected, “Riverdale? Don't you mean
Riverdance
?”
She snickered. “Mr. O'Brien spent his depraved youth in Riverdale. The Bronx, girl. Probably clogged his way out of boarded-up windows while burglarizing homes every weekend.”
I glanced at Brig. His grin widened. I ignored him and turned back to the girl.
“So? What do you think about us hiding out here?”
She shrugged. “Makes sense. As much as anything I've ever seen you do make sense, O'Brien. I guess my question is, where do I come into the equation?”
She still hadn't looked at Jake. He muttered under his breath. Three sets of eyes opened wide.
Asha yelled, “What? Yo? I didn't understand that, Mr. Roshan. Say again, please.”
Jake did. “Briggan will be staying with me. And Tempe will be staying with you. You have a spare bedroom. If that's all right with you. Otherwise, I'll make arrangements for her to have a trailer on the studio lot.”
My brain suddenly clicked onto the situation. This had to be Jake's ex-girlfriend, who'd dumped him days earlier. Miss Asha Kumar, singer, actress, and exotic star of Indian screen extravaganzas.
I must have looked stunned.
She grinned at me. “Just got it, huh? Since the guys were too damn rude to introduce me.”
“Well, Jake had said he planned to ask you if I could stay. I just didn't expect Asha Kumar to be, um—”
“From Jersey?”
“You're kidding.”
She giggled. “You're looking at a homegrown gal from Woodbridge. My mom's maiden name was Schwartz. Really. Married Daddy in Newark, then moved to Woodbridge and had me. Barbara Ashley Kumar. I changed it to Asha when I started working in Bollywood six years ago.”
I couldn't help staring. “Damn. I can't believe this. A Jersey girl. I grew up in Manhattan. Hey, how old are you? If you don't mind my asking?”
She giggled again. “Thirty. Yeah, I know, I know. I look like jailbait on a stick. It's the minuscule height plus these rotten elf features. I used to get carded in clubs from Atlantic City to Brooklyn. At least in Bombay everyone knows my face so I don't have that problem.”
My age. Jersey. I beamed at her. She beamed back, then grabbed my arm.
“Okay, Tempe. Let's get you back to my place and get settled. We'll let Brig and Mr. Roshan do whatever they need to do without us. Perhaps forever.”
Jake looked pained. “Asha. Can you take two minutes and come talk with me? In private?”
“Nope. Bye.”
She whirled around. I had no choice but to follow if I wanted a ride to her place—and the use of my right arm. Not to mention I wanted to remain on good terms with this explosive Indian-American actress from a city twenty-five miles outside of New York.
We'd made it to the car, chatting about Jersey outlet malls, before I thought to turn around and see if the fellows were watching. Brig and Jake hadn't moved. I had the impression they had yet to even speak since Asha preemptively took over my security issues.
I called to Brig, “O'Brien? Where is our little ivory singer just now, anyway? The statuette to kill for?”
He looked around the empty lot with horror etched on his face.
“Tempe! Hush. The lady in question is in a fine hidey-hole. We'll discuss this later, okay? On the set tomorrow. I believe Jake is putting us together for a dance number. We can talk while riding the Ferris wheel.”
I knew I wouldn't get an answer out of the man even if I hadn't stupidly yelled the question in a very public place. I whirled around, then jumped into Asha's convertible without bothering to open the door.
She snorted. “I can do that
if
I take a running leap. My legs are too short. I look like a junior high school track star prepuberty trying to tackle the college hurdles. In other words, dumb and graceless.”
I smiled. “There are one or two advantages to being tall. Until I turned nineteen, I was five-four. I swear I grew four inches in one year just in time to be booted out of the Olympic trials for gymnastics. No one believed any girl who wasn't less than five feet could manage the vault or the parallel bars. The fact that my specialty had always been floor didn't penetrate their bigoted skulls.”
“So you lost out on being an Olympic champion?”
“Pretty much. But I was still considering becoming a professional dancer, and I knew height had advantages when auditioning for musicals, as far as a lot of choreographers are concerned. So I rejoiced that I wasn't a tiny elf anymore.”
“Thanks. So much.”
I laughed at her. “You've done quite well as an elf, Miss Kumar. I hear you're the premiere star of Bollywood. Not bad for a girl from Woodbridge.”
I cringed for a second as the star almost sideswiped two taxicabs. I hoped the man who'd taken me to Vivek Studios wasn't one of them. I glanced at Asha.
“But you definitely drive like a Jersey girl.”
She giggled. “Why do you think Jersey drivers drive the way they do? They learned in India. When, or if, you do get back to Manhattan, take another look at the woman in the minivan with the cell phone in one hand and the mascara in the other who's just cut into your lane. Bombay born and raised. License from Newark. Swear.”

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