Artistic differences between director and star. They could easily resolve that kind of problem without resorting to bloodshed, which would be a nice switch.
I plopped next to Asha, poured some tea, grabbed three scones, then dove into what now constituted brunch. I glanced at Jake. “So, llama or not, are we filming today?”
He ignored Asha and nodded at me. “Yes, indeed. I want to try and finish the big dance sequence over by the fountain. With the boys on one side and the girls on the other. Do you know the one I mean?”
Brig and I nodded with Jake. Asha did not nod. She handed Brig a buttered scone.
“Briggan. I’ve been really patient in not asking this, but I can’t stand it anymore. What do you intend to do with the statue? Now that Tempe and I have been kidnapped, Ray is dead, and you’re running around with half an ear missing, I personally don’t want to keep the Diva. Maybe she really is cursed.”
Brig mumbled as he took a bite. “Only for the greedy, Ms. Kumar. Only for the greedy.”
“Yeah. Right. Maybe I got greedy? Is that what you’re saying? Well, whatever. So? Where’s the goddess off to next?”
Brig glanced at the clock hanging on a hook at the back of the food tent. “With any luck, Shiva’s Diva will be in the hands of her rightful owner by four this afternoon. So, when you retrieve her, bring her back to the food-service tent.”
Asha and Jake immediately began a barrage of “Who? Why didn’t you tell us before? Where are you making the exchange? How much?”
I stayed silent. Claire Dharbar. I knew it. I didn’t quite understand this “rightful owner” comment, but I assumed the lady had met his price. A twinge of my unreasonable jealousy hit, but I squelched it with another bite of my scone.
Brig glanced around the table. “It’s Claire Braganza Dharbar. Tempe met her the other day in Bombay.”
Asha and I looked at each other, then Asha crowed, “Knew it! Tempe nailed it the other day. Said it only made sense for her to be the buyer because otherwise why would you go chatting her up at a restaurant?”
I nearly threw my scone at her. “Asha? Care to take a long slow ride on top of Binky the elephant? I know how much you love the beasts.”
Brig winked at me. “A bit of jealousy, now, is it I’m hearin’?”
I tossed my hair back. “Not a lick. I just told Asha that you wouldn’t have been rude enough to leave me sitting by myself less than two hours after nearly getting shot by Ray.”
Asha glared at me. “I said that, Tempe, and you didn’t listen!”
I did throw my scone at her. Then I rolled my eyes and hissed, “Isn’t it swell how smart you are? And isn’t it time you go jump on a llama?”
She just grinned. I rose. Brig did as well. I waved at him to stay put.
“Finish your tea. I need to shower before we start filming today, then I’m off to Reena’s to fight over her latest costume in the let’s-make-Tempe-look-like-a-rat’s-nest design contest. I’ll meet back up with everyone on the set.”
I was still wearing the ruined, bloody sari from last night’s foray into violence at Hot Harry’s. I hadn’t had a chance to get back to my own trailer and put on some jeans.
Jake smiled for the first time this morning. “If it were not for your memories of what you went through last night, I would tell you to keep wearing the sari. It’s perfect for the scene.”
Brig looked closely at me. “It’s nicely open in the right places too. Shows a lot of skin.” His smile dimmed. “I don’t like whose closet it was hanging in originally though. So just as well you’re changing.”
I sighed. “I’m so glad this look meets with the approval of the men present. But excuse me if I feel I need a bit more coverage and a little less smell. Bye-bye all.”
I ran all the way back to Raj’s trailer and locked the door. It wouldn’t deter Brig if he decided to gain entrance, but it gave me a slight illusion of privacy while I considered the issue of Claire.
I stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out, while I wondered why Brig hadn’t given the woman the statue before today. I was certain he had his reasons, but they eluded me right now. He’d be handing over the statue to her at four. Teatime. Great. Super.
I can be classy when I need to. If I ran into Claire Braganza Dharbar, I would outdo Asha in the acting department. Be gracious and charming and nice. Pour tea into china cups for her and spread fresh marmalade over scones and muffins while I tried not to make comparisons between the two of us. Comparisons that would not be pretty. Because by teatime, after dancing through fountains and doing flips off elephants, my hair would have frizzed, my makeup would be nonexistent, and I’d look much as I did after my first run-in at Hot Harry’s. Claire, doubtless, would look classy, calm, collected—and smell fresh too.
I dressed in a short black skirt and black tee in case I managed to change out of my slutty Reena design before the grand presentation of the statue.
Today’s filming had the girls on one end of the fountain and the boys on the other, so Brig and I were separated. Just as well. I didn’t need to listen to Irish charm. I had enough trouble dealing with the pas de bourees, elbow twitches, and pelvic grinds they had me performing in a fountain spewing water down steps that were slippery and hard to traverse.
Jake called a halt to all terpsichorean activity at 3:49. As I walked toward the tent for a badly needed break (and the tea and pastries) I saw an old tan four-door sedan drive up near where we’d been filming.
Claire Dharbar exited the vehicle from the driver’s side. This surprised me. I had assumed this buyer for Shiva’s Diva would have glided up in a Rolls driven by some gorgeous Swedish male named Sven. (Yeah, yeah. Add snide and tacky to my list of bad personality traits.)
But the sight of Ms. Dharbar looking cool and chic in her immaculate linen suit and low-heeled pumps brought back my feelings of inadequacy. She and Brig were of a kind. They didn’t have a perspiration gland between them. A hundred degrees out and she seemed as dry as the wine Mahindra had pressed on me at the Yacht Club.
I had to stop this. Claire couldn’t help being rich, gorgeous, and perfect. She was obviously wealthy enough to meet whatever price Brig had asked to release Shiva’s Diva. She might even be an artist of some kind, perhaps a painter who normally occupied a loft in Soho in lower Manhattan. Saraswati would abundantly bless her and doubtless the fertility bit would kick in so little Claires would soon overrun Bombay.
Fertility.
That called to mind Mahindra and his own desire to leave a legacy. The man must have heard that particular call, because behind Claire’s tan sedan three cars suddenly came screeching to a halt. The first two vehicles were as nondescript as Claire’s four-door. The last was a stretch limo. White. Out stepped Kirk Mahindra.
Chapter 41
Mahindra grabbed Claire. She did not scream. She did not claw at him. She did nothing. The woman had turned to ice. But the look on her face made me forget any previous asinine jealousy about this woman and Brig. Claire had passed scared and gone directly to terrified.
Next up were Mahindra’s associates, who’d been in the nondescript vehicles providing escort for the limo. They had obviously decided to look around for familiar faces, then go after the closest. That would be me.
Five goons headed my way with broad strides at a swift pace. Much as I wanted to help Claire, I needed to do a one-eighty and book it back to the fountain. At least fifty dancers, male and female, were still crowded around the bottom steps, chattering, laughing, and enjoying the break. Talk ceased when they saw me and saw what followed behind me.
I ran, screaming and waving my arms in the air to warn everyone that trouble had arrived with weapons ready.
Asha came charging out of the carnival tent with two snakes wrapped around her neck. Sparky and Fluffy. She didn’t seem the least concerned that the serpents were cozily sliding up and down her arms and torso. The Carnival of Lust tote bag that held the Diva swung over her shoulder.
Symmetry ag
ain. The routine first choreographed at Flora Fountain during Asha’s rescue looked like a rehearsal for the real thing. The dancers and I began improvising a lively little number in the water alongside Mahindra’s men. Music blared out from two speakers hooked up far above the fountain itself. All fifty of us danced up and down the steps. Men with guns slid and slithered across wet pavement trying to catch us. Well, mostly me. Everyone, including the goons, stayed in rhythm.
One of Mahindra’s thugs stopped flailing long enough to chase me up to the top. I grabbed the rope ladder hanging from the fountain and climbed as fast as I was able up to the platform holding the speakers. I took great delight in watching my pursuer lose his footing, crash into a pool of water below, then scream in fury at the six-plus angry male dancers who tackled him.
The Hindi love song between Asha and Raj that had been playing all morning changed. “Holding Out for a Hero,” my favorite song from Footloose, suddenly came blasting out at top volume behind me.
From the opposite side of the carnival tent, riding Binky the elephant, appeared one Briggan O’Brien.
Brig charged at Mahindra, who still held Claire in a lethal grip. Screaming, “Araich!” (Battle?) Brig stood, then executed a gorgeous aerial somersault from Binky’s back. He landed at Mahindra’s feet, popped up, and knocked the man in the jaw without harming Claire. Neat.
Mahindra released her. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a piece of red cloth. Damn. My halter top. I’d had to leave it at Mahindra’s penthouse when I’d changed into the sari. I nearly fell off my perch from the nausea that swept over me.
Brig had seen and very definitely recognized the top as belonging to me. His nostrils flared. He smashed Mahindra in the mouth. Blood spurted. Mahindra slapped Brig’s newly bandaged ear. Dazed, Brig fell to the ground. Mahindra dropped and rammed his elbow into Brig’s rib cage. Brig rolled away but managed to get to his feet again.
He seemed about to deliver a nice punch to Mahindra’s face when Mahindra clipped Brig behind the knees. He sank back to the ground. Mahindra kicked Brig in the stomach, then jumped up. His foot drew back for a kick aimed at Brig’s head.
Brig saw it coming. He rolled, caught Mahindra’s foot, and threw him. Mahindra again hit the ground, face first. He sat up and spat out a wad of dirt. Brig began to push himself back up but didn’t get the chance. Mahindra lunged and hit Brig with his shoulder. Right in Brig’s sternum, which knocked the wind out of him and toppled him over on his back.
Mahindra loomed above him. He waved my halter top like a matador taunting the bull. Brig snatched it, then executed a perfect kip. He faced Mahindra and his face darkened as he looked at the scrap of clothing.
Mahindra screamed, “She’s mine!”
Brig’s shoulders relaxed. A slight smile crossed his features. He said only one word. “No.”
Brig bent his knees and prepared to leap in the air and bring that leg around with a roundhouse kick. But in midjump he lost his balance. He fell, managing only to knock Mahindra’s shoulder. Both men were now on the ground.
Facing them were two king cobras. Sparky and Fluffy.
Mahindra, quick to use any means as an advantage, dove, grabbed the snake nearest him by what I would call its neck, then threw it at Brig.
His aim was bad. The snake ended up a foot away from Brig’s foot. But it was now a most unhappy serpent. It coiled into the classic strike pose with its head flat, open, and ready. It looked at Brig, then back at Mahindra.
I didn’t know how long the snake would remain still while it debated whom to bite first. It didn’t matter. Brig was frozen with fear. And the other snake was slithering to aid its cagemate.
There was a twenty-foot rope tied securely to the railing of this platform at the top of the fountain. The finale to Mahindra’s favorite opera, Tosca, suddenly flashed into my mind. Tosca meeting her doom from a parapet in a vain attempt to rescue her lover. I pushed the images away.
I grabbed the rope and wrapped the upper portion around my wrist, then made a loop around my ankle as well. I placed a foot on top of the railing. I balanced for perhaps a second, then took a deep breath and jumped.
It was a less-than-graceful ride down. I flopped and twisted and made circles in the air, nearly losing my grip. I sailed past a crowd of stunned, wet dancers and thugs, then continued to sail past Brig, Mahindra, and the snakes, nearly hitting Binky the elephant who stared at me with a look of horror on her broad face.
The backswing was a different story. I landed butt first into Mahindra’s chest.
He went down. I hit the ground and immediately went into a back somersault, finishing on my stomach. I looked to my left. Sparky. Or Fluffy. On the other side of the snake lay a furious Kirk Mahindra.
Brig screamed, “Tempe!” and leapt into the air. He rolled me as far he could. Then he reached back over and grabbed the snake to throw it away from me.
It landed near Mahindra.
Brig helped me up. We ran toward the safety of Binky, who had patiently waited for her master to return.
Asha yelled, “Sic him, Sparky!”
Sparky coiled. The snake hissed. Loudly. My bones went cold. Then Sparky struck Mahindra in his chest.
Mahindra fell back, then lay on the ground, quivering. Tears of pain and rage streamed down his cheeks.
It was over.
Asha gathered up the frightened snake and began crooning to it. Claire sat on the ground a few feet away, arms wrapped around her shoulders, rocking and sobbing.
I empathized with how terrified she’d been. But I noted, almost with amusement, that the woman still looked immaculate and that not even tears could ruin the perfection of that face. Figured. I, on the other hand, was wet, dirty, and smelled like chlorine and Binky.
Yet I was the one Brig held close. He began bestowing tiny, wonderful soft kisses all over my face and neck. He finally lifted my chin and stared into my eyes.
“ ’Twas a daft, brave thing ya did there, lass. Remind me to show my true appreciation in a more fitting manner at a more private time.”
I smiled at him. His own smile suddenly turned into a scowl and a look of horror crossed his face. He thrust me rudely aside and with a cry rivaling Celtic warriors defending their soil—and their women—he leapt into the air. I quickly turned and watched the glorious sight of Brig O’Brien tackling Kirkee Mahindra. For good reason. Kirk was no quitter. From his coat pocket, he’d brought out his gun. It was aimed at my back.
Brig knocked the gun from Mahindra’s hand. Holding him by the collar, Brig punched him in the face. Again and again and again. Somehow I knew he was seeing not only Mahindra but also all the thugs who’d kidnapped and stolen and murdered. The goons who’d shot up Hot Harry’s. Patel, who’d knifed Ray Decore. And perhaps he was even seeing the Irish terrorists who’d killed his sister so many years ago and gotten away with it.
I screamed, “Brig! Brig! For God’s sake, stop! Please. You’ll kill him! Stop! He’s not worth it.”
Brig let Mahindra drop. Mahindra stared at Brig as if making up his mind whether to try and reach for that gun. Finally he let his hand fall, empty, by his side. Brig spat at him and stood, his chest heaving, his breath coming in spurts for at least a minute.
Finally, when the color in his cheeks had returned to normal, he strode back over to me, threw his arms around me, leaned down and whispered, “He chose wisely.”
I giggled. “Indiana Jones. Last Crusade. Ha! Don’t tell me you’re not a film buff.”
“I do watch the odd movie from time to time, luv.”
“I knew it. That rescue bit with the elephant came from The Lion King, didn’t it?”
Brig said, “Speaking of . . .”
He whistled and Binky trotted over rather like a dog bringing a stick back to its master. Brig led her to Mahindra’s resting place, then nudged her knee. The huge elephant lightly lifted one huge foot and placed it on Mahindra’s chest. She held it there with just enough pressure to keep Kirk from trying any o
ther tricks, yet without crushing his chest. Brig winked at me.
“She’s a pacifist, our Binky.”
“Mmmm. A well-trained little darling as well. Who is she, Bambi’s twin? Must be. She seems to adore you.”
Brig gathered me up in his arms again. “We’el now, and who wouldn’t?”
He had me there.
I glanced around the set to see how the dancers were faring with the other nonfriendlies from Mahindra’s war party. Five goons lay in a heap at the bottom of the fountain. Water oozed up to their necks. They were tied in ropes as neatly as the calves from a rodeo event.
I glanced at the tallest dancer. He stood proudly with his foot resting on one of the thugs in the exact manner Binky still held Mahindra. The dancer was less kind than the elephant. He gave his captive an occasional kick when the man twitched. He smiled when he saw me, waved, then yelled, “Three of us did a curry western last year. Had a real live American lasso champion come and teach us!”
I nodded and shouted back, “He did a good job.”
I turned to Brig. “Is it over? Yes? Whatcha think?”
“Let’s just ask Mr. Mahindra there. Beg pardon, Kirkee? What’s it to be? Got any fight left, you perverted son of a bitch?”
Mahindra opened his mouth to speak. Nothing happened. Not a sound. Not a croak. Silence. Brig turned and smiled at Asha and at me. “Thought so.”
“Okay. I’m confused. Wasn’t Sparky the snake defanged? Or devenomed? Both? Which is why Mahindra is still alive. Why can’t he talk?” I asked.
“Didn’t you hear the hiss? Remember the legend? Mahindra’s been struck mute. Permanently, I imagine.”
Claire had recovered enough to watch this latest drama with much interest. She smiled. She said something to Brig in an Indian language I wasn’t familiar with. His eyes grew wide. He nodded.
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