Spice and Secrets (3 page)

The glare she gave him was delicious. “
Haan
, and Hell is freezing this time of year.” She laid her palms flat on the table…in a way that made him wonder what they would feel like pressed against his chest. The idea made him faintly dizzy and most definitely hard. “I don’t plan to get on with you in any way, shape or form,” she was spitting like an angry cat. “I will conduct my show as I see fit.”

When the waiter appeared—an enterprising young lad who clearly recognized Sunny but wisely feared her—Davey ordered a Glenfiddich, neat. Then he told her succinctly, “No, you won’t. In fact, I have a few ideas for the season premiere.”

“Oh, really?” She arched a theatrical brow.

It was his turn to be surprised when she curbed all of that vibrant attitude and actually listened to him. He’d come up with several clip packages and on-the-street components, and as he explained the ins and outs, she nodded along, tapping her sculpted red nails in time to a staccato internal rhythm. It was when he got to his suggestions for guests that she hopped off board, downing the rest of her drink in one gulp and slamming the delicate champagne glass back down.

“You’ve got to be bloody joking, Mr. Davey Shaw. Rahul Anand and Priya Roy will
never
appear on my show together. I’d have a better chance of raising Raj Kapoor’s ghost.”

He smiled—this woman made him want to
constantly
smile; he could bounce around all of Mumbai like a bloody grinning idiot. “Then I suggest you get out your Ouija board and start contacting the spirits, Ms. Sunita Khanna. Because it’s going to happen. One way or another.”

And, one way or another, he was going to get Sunny Khanna into his bed.

Chapter Four

Two item girl roles and one spicy anti-heroine role.
Wow
. Priya couldn’t help but look at her upcoming calendar with wonder. Red circles around dates, pencil marks of the times, all for shootings. It looked like a sports playbook when, not so long ago, before
The Raj
, it had been a blank desert. Signing three pictures after so many years away from the industry was providence. They were blessings she hadn’t worked for but would accept just the same…all while leaving her biggest blessing of all behind in Kolkata.

“You cannot take her with you,” her father had reminded her, his wise dark eyes as kind as they were damning. As if she did not know. As if she didn’t feel that basic denial every moment of her life. “How could you explain? What would everyone say?”

What they always said: “Your baby sister is so pretty.”

Na
, Shonali, Shona—her golden child—was
beautiful
.

“She has grown three centimeters since you left.”
Didi
liked to tease, and though Priya knew Anita wasn’t serious, each video chat session was spent silently measuring and cataloguing.
Had
she grown?
Was
she a little rounder, a little softer?

“Prithu
Didi
,
tumi kothai
? Where are you?” Shona constantly asked.
“
Big si
s
ter
”
from her lips, too. Not
ma
. Never
ma
. Five years old, the very picture of a perfect doll—with a less-than-perfect temper—Shona didn’t quite understand what Priya was doing so far away. Couldn’t she be a heroine closer to home? It was a question her parents had asked her as well: Why not make a name for herself in Bengali cinema instead of returning to Mumbai? Why not try her hand at theater? There were countless options in Kolkata that would keep her close to her family. She had no answer, only the certainty that she needed to finish the journey she’d started on. It wasn’t just about acting, just about being in a movie. It was the whole package.
Shob kichu
. She needed to finish her transformation into a Bollywood heroine…to prove to herself that the rave reviews from her first picture weren’t a fluke. She could do this. It was the
only
thing she could embrace in full view of the world.

The persona sometimes threatened to slip, and Priya held it tight with both hands. In the bosom of Bollywood, she wasn’t a daughter, a sister or a mother. She was a star. This was what she told herself even as she ended the Skype sessions that tied her back to all of those roles. None more important than that of Shona’s mom…even if she couldn’t give the part that name.
I miss you
, she constantly told her.
Love you so much
. But the one thing she hadn’t said—what she could
never
say— was, “I’ve seen your
baba
.”

Anita knew, of course. She knew, and only asked when Shonali wasn’t in the room, when their parents weren’t close enough to overhear.
How is he looking? Is he still handsome? Are you still mad for him?
But to Shona, her father was a photo, a story, a myth. Not someone who’d ever been real. It was a lesson Priya learned by heart before adapting a fairy story for her little one. Shona’s true parents had left her beneath a magical tree in the mountains, Priya told her, and Garuda, Vishnu’s winged guard himself, had brought her to their family for safe keeping. Shona was happier not knowing what Priya knew, not understanding what they had lost. She had her adoptive mother and father, her dear Anita
Didi
. What did she need some arrogant Mumbai producer for,
na
?

Priya did not need him either. That she could still feel the phantom of his hands on her body was of no consequence. That she still dreamed of him didn’t matter. The only love affair she dared enter into was with Mumbai…and with success.

“He’s still handsome,” she told
Didi
, cradling her mobile between her ear and her shoulder as she marked out another appointment on her calendar. “But I’m not still mad for him. I’ll never be mad for him again.”

Sunita commanded the spotlight like an operatic diva. Multiple cameras captured her in brash, living color, and her face taking up all the monitors in the booth was no hardship to bear. Davey was positively enthralled. As was Avinash Kumar, who was sprawled on the sofa, one arm thrown casually across the back.

“…and we just wrapped our shoot for
The Raj
a few months back,” he was saying, eyes trained on Sunny’s face instead of acknowledging the lens. “I think you’re really going to like it. It’s got a great scope and a fantastic love story
.
For us boys,
thoda dhishum-dhishum bhi hai
. There is action, too.”

From what little Rahul had told him about the shoot, Davey knew
most
of the action had been off-camera. But there was not a drop of that scandal permeating this interview. Sunny allowed herself to be charmed by Avinash’s pitch, and charmed him in return. They bantered like old pros.

“I’ve heard that
The Raj
takes many liberties with Indian history. What will you say to critics?” Sunny posed the query like a
yaar
, not an inquisitor.

Avi didn’t look remotely ruffled. No, in fact, he looked rueful. “We have a Beatles item number, Sunny-
ji
. Anyone looking for accuracy should just toss it out the window and settle in for some drama instead. You will laugh, you will cry, and you will care.
Bas
. That is our job. Not to be history professors.”

“And how is your wife, Trishna, doing?”

“She’s married to me,
na
? So,
bahut bura
. Very bad. Her hair’s gone gray. In her next film, she will be playing the
dadima
instead of the heroine.”

On cue, an outraged shriek that would’ve made Miss Piggy proud echoed from stage right. Trishna Chaudhury swept onto the set in a flurry of bright silk, eyes flashing with mock insult as Sunny rocked back with laughter.

“
Raj chhoro,
” she cracked. “
Rani aagayee hain.
” Forget the kingdom, the queen has arrived.

It was a perfect segment. Full of jokes and noise and manufactured drama…and Trish wasn’t the queen, Sunita was. She effortlessly navigated Trishna and Avinash through a naughty Q&A, taking care not to delve too deeply into their personal life—she was their gossipy friend, not their enemy—and only the trained eye would know that the couple was clearly putting on a show. That they loved each other was obvious…you couldn’t fake that sort of fondness…but something was missing. They sat a few centimeters shy of close; they teased each other like siblings, not spouses. Any other host might remark upon it, might cajole Trish into perching on her husband’s lap, but Sunita just barreled on with her questions like a vivacious freight train, until even the cameramen were chuckling.

“Dial it back a little,” Davey murmured into her earpiece. “You’re overshadowing your guests. Remember, darling, their egos are fragile.”

Ever the professional, she didn’t even bat an eyelash. She drew back verbally, letting Avinash launch into a story of how Harsh Mathur dared him to streak across their hotel in the buff. “I said I’d do it only if he did, too. Let me tell you…there’s nothing that bonds a
dosti
like running about in your altogether. Harsh and I meet up every week here in Mumbai—clothed, of course.”

“It was horrifying,” giggled Trish, in a way that meant the stunt (whether real or fabricated on the spot) hadn’t been horrifying at all. “We had to pay for all the hotel guests’ eye surgeries afterwards.”

With the focus back on the actors and their film, it was safe to wind up, and Sunita did that, urging her viewers to check out
The Raj
next year and bill Avinash and Trishna for their eye problems afterwards.

After they counted down to the break and cut the feed, Davey made his way down from the booth. The air was fairly crackling with the energy of a good show—a more-than-satisfactory season premiere. But it wasn’t success that put fire in Sunny’s eyes. As he approached, she broke off chatting with Trishna and Avi to turn and glare at him. “I am
not
your darling. Mr. Shaw.”

Oh, yes, you are.
It was something he didn’t have to speak aloud, just convey with the smug quirk of an eyebrow. He couldn’t wipe the smile from his face. Even as he shook hands with the talent and introduced himself. It only fueled Sunita’s irritation. With every passing moment, he could see her temper flare just a bit more. She waited twenty minutes—until they were alone, safely ensconced in his office—to let it truly burn.

“I don’t like your tone,” she snapped, hands on her hips like a fishwife just getting good and riled. “I didn’t work my way up to this place, to this status, to have some…some
man
…talk to me the way you do.”

He settled behind his desk, offering her a guileless blink. “I gather you don’t like being called ‘darling?’ I call
everyone
‘darling’, Sunita. It’s hardly a case for harassment when I use the term for my driver, my secretary—who is male, thank you very much—
and
my star. But if you like, I can switch to something else. Sweetheart? Old thing? Love?
Jaan-e-maan?
”

She compressed her lips into a fine line, and he could practically see the steam coming out her perfectly adorable ears. It was entirely possible that she was going to exceed Trishna’s Miss Piggy-inspired outrage and karate kick him about his office.
God
, he hoped she’d try. “I can play this game, too,” she said, the clipped words dripping with annoyance. “How about bastard? Or
haram kohr
? Or
kutey ki aulad
?”

“I thought we’d already established I was the son of an owl. Now I’m the child of a dog, too? Come now,
Rani Sahiba
,” he chided. “Consistency is key.”

The perfect nickname slipped from his tongue without him even realizing it. It wasn’t until Sunny was repeating
Rani Sahiba
with a kind of fascinated horror that he registered he’d even said it. “
Yeh kya hain?
” she demanded. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Hindi’s your first language, not mine. I’m sure you know the meaning better than I,” he pointed out mildly. When she gave him a hard look, downright mulish, he conceded he’d wound her up enough for one afternoon. “You called Trishna the queen of
The Raj
, but
you
ruled the day, Sunita. You rule this show, and your viewers are your loyal subjects.”

She’d clearly expected another bit of silliness, not complimentary sincerity. Her surprise took her over in beats. First, her gorgeous eyes widened. Then, her lips parted in a half circle. Last, her cheeks flushed with just the slightest hint of red. Like a sun-kissed peach. And he wanted nothing more than to lick the juice from her lips.

“Mr. Shaw…”

“Davey. Call me whatever else you wish, but at least call me that.” He rose and came round his desk to her. She stood still, but she was a livewire: vibrating with energy and heat. “You have everything you need to be a sensation, Sunita. The brass, the talent, the spark. Work with me, not against me, and we’ll take over the market…blowing those other talk shows out of the water. Stop viewing everything I do as an attack. I’m not your enemy.”

“No. You’re something far, far worse,” she snapped, reaching to shove him out of her orbit. “I don’t care how brilliant you are or how well we work together. You’re an outsider. You don’t belong here.
Main tumko yaahan nahin chathi
. I do not want you here. Understand? I want you gone.”

For a long moment, Davey could only gawp at her. Then, there was nothing to look at but the back of her as she sailed out of his office and slammed the door. It took him hours after that to puzzle together that it wasn’t anger in her voice; it was not disgust fueling her words.