Busted in Bollywood

by Nicola Marsh

  The perfect diversionary tactic, and Rita bought it as we dragged my suitcases into the bedroom and popped the locks. In all honestly, there was a lot more Rita should know, like how eager Rakesh was to meet her, how great a guy he really was, and how my instincts screamed they were perfect for each other.

  Then again, since when had I turned into a Kapil? She’d find out soon enough and I’d be the first one to dance at her wedding, arranged or otherwise.

  As for me, Rita had helped sort out the homeless part of my life and I’d make a start on the jobless part first thing in the morning.

  After another mojito.

  God, it was good to be home.

  …

  “No way.” Rita gripped my arm in a stranglehold and turned frantic eyes to me. “That’s him? The gorgeous one in black Gucci?”

  “Not bad, huh?” I pried her fingers loose, trying not to crane my neck to scan the crowd in search of Rakesh’s traveling companion.

  Rakesh’s email had confirmed Drew and his crew would be traveling on the same flight but I couldn’t see him. Technically I shouldn’t be here, but when Rita had begged me to accompany her to the airport, reminding me of the great apartment I now lived in courtesy of her, how could I refuse?

  I had a strong suspicion she’d use the apartment card a lot over the next six months. Then again, it was worth every favor she asked for to wake up in that loft every morning, take a stroll down to Murray’s for fresh bagels, and know I didn’t have to put out to live there.

  And the best thing? Added incentive to turn a temporary apartment into a permanent one; an apartment of my own.

  Jeez, what had I been thinking, tolerating the Toad situation?

  Rita tugged at her sleeves and her earrings, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “Not bad? Omigod. He’s fucking unbelievable!”

  “Language, Miss He’s-an-imbecile.” I bumped her with my hip. “Told you to trust me.”

  She stopped fidgeting and stiffened. “Shit. Here he comes. How do I look? What should I say? Help me, goddamn you.”

  I glanced at Rita’s envy-inducing curves encased in an amethyst suit and the most drool-worthy pair of matching strappy Christian Louboutins. Her thick black hair hung in a sleek drop down her back, her make-up immaculate courtesy of a visit to the Red Door that morning. Rakesh didn’t stand a chance. “You look amazing, so stop freaking out. Be yourself. Besides, what do you care? He’s just an imbecile.”

  “Ssh. Here he comes.” With an impressive transformation she switched from dithering mess to coolly elegant, welcoming smile in place as she stepped forward to meet her fiancé.

  Technically her ex-fiancé if her plan had worked, but by the way they were staring at each other, I knew there’d be nothing ‘ex’ about these two. I could hear the band striking up the wedding march, or whatever the Hindu equivalent was.

  To give Rakesh credit, he didn’t falter as he strode toward us, though I noted his stunned expression as he caught sight of Rita.

  “Quick, tell me what to say. My mind’s blank,” Rita hissed, her smile wobbling the closer he got.

  In a flash, I knew the perfect opening. Time to have a little fun.

  “He’s a huge Dirty Dancing fan. Why don’t you say Baby’s first line when she meets Johnny? He’ll go for that in a big way.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Hi, Shari. Great to see you again.” Rakesh dropped a quick peck on my cheek and held out his hand to Rita, visibly rattled as she shook it. “This must be the beautiful Amrita. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I brought you a watermelon,” she blurted and I stared in amazement, shocked on several counts.

  She hated my favorite movie and didn’t have the faintest idea whenever I quoted lines at her, which was why I’d jokingly suggested the quote, not expecting her to know it, let alone say it. Secondly, the Rita I knew was polished, elegant, confident, and could twist guys around her little finger without blinking. So who was this shy, nervous woman glaring at me?

  Rakesh hadn’t lost his smarts or his sense of humor. “Another Dirty Dancing fan, huh? Great. I thought Shari was the only one on the planet.”

  “She is. I hate that film. Her way of playing a trick on us.” Another scathing glare directed at me before she turned her smiling attention to Rakesh. “She’s sick, posing as me, traveling all the way to India.”

  “We should discuss the state of your friend’s mental health.” Rakesh held out his arm and Rita slipped her hand through it, smiling up at him like she’d been handed George Clooney on a plate. Naked.

  Yeah, I’d turned into a regular Kapil. If only I could predict my own future as well.

  “Drew should be out any second. He’s rounding up the crew. Problem with a drunk producer,” Rakesh said, his attention never leaving Rita. “We’ll be at baggage collection.”

  I managed a distracted nod in the happy couple’s direction as I spotted Drew weaving among the weary masses spewing from economy class, his trademark light brown hair flopping over his forehead as he impatiently pushed it back.

  My stomach churned the same way it had in Mumbai and I swiped my clammy palms against the side of my jeans, wishing my pulse pounding in my ears would quiet. I froze the moment he saw me, heat streaking through my body, his sinful smile vindicating my choice of tight skinny jeans and long-sleeved teal tee.

  Trying not to launch at him like a depraved fiend, I shifted my weight side to side, waiting until he stood before me, six-feet-plus of corruptibly hot English male, complete with Burberry coat and loafers.

  “We meet again, Miss Jones.”

  That voice. Rich and warm, like hot honey spreading through my veins and sweetening every inch of me.

  I’d mentally rehearsed a thousand witty, casual remarks to demonstrate my sophistication and how my presence here meant nothing other than as support for Rita. Predictably, I couldn’t think of one as his smile sparked his eyes until all I could focus on was endless, gorgeous blue.

  “Don’t I get a greeting?”

  “Welcome to New York.” I sounded like a tour guide—a lousy one at that—and I inwardly cringed.

  “Not bad, but I was thinking something more along the lines of this.” His intent registered a microsecond before he lowered his head toward me, a waft of Davidoff’s Cool Water enveloping me an instant before his arms did, around the same time his lips made contact with mine.

  My stomach plummeted as his tongue swept along my bottom lip, teasing me, taunting my mouth open. I didn’t hesitate and he deepened the kiss, matching my urgent, demanding need to test the spark between us.

  Heat streaked through me, firing every nerve ending, making me tingle all over. Oblivious to passengers streaming the concourse, I clung to him, embarrassingly weak-kneed.

  As I angled my head he moaned, a raw, guttural reaction that tugged at something primitive deep within. I didn’t dare question it, didn’t want to rationalize my visceral response, didn’t want to deliberate what it might mean.

  As his hands skimmed my waist and slid around my torso, his fingertips skated across the miniscule gap of skin between my top and jeans, sending a jolt equal to fifty volts through me. My heart revved like a prelaunch rocket and I gave in to the luxury of having his arms wrapped around me for the first time.

  All too soon he pulled away, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Now that’s a greeting.”

  Stunned by the force of my feelings urging me to step into his arms for round two, I jammed my hands into my pockets. “New Yorkers are a friendly bunch. We aim to please.”

  “Is that right?”

  I didn’t do flustered as a rule but right then, I had no idea what to say. Usually, I would’ve flirted and continued the wordplay, seeing how far this could go. Instead, my insides had moved on from churning and were curr
ently somewhere between tied up in knots and somersaulting, landing in huge, embarrassing belly flops. “Let’s go see what Rakesh and Rita are up to. Looks like they hit it off.”

  “Sure.” He slung his coat over his shoulder, a model for rumpled chic with his day-old designer stubble, slightly crumpled ivory Lauren shirt, and mussed hair.

  As he fell into step beside me, I breathed a sigh of relief. He’d bought my change of subject.

  “By the way, we’re still on for that drink.” He touched my arm and a lick of sizzle zapped me again. “If you think I’ll let you off the hook like I did back there, you’re seriously deluded.”

  So much for relief.

  Ignoring my rampaging pulse, I nodded. “A drink’s fine. As for the flirting, I’m over it.”

  “Liar,” he whispered, echoing my thought exactly.

  Rakesh and Rita saved me from saying anything else incriminating and as introductions flew, stories were exchanged, and baggage claimed, I had a chance to study Drew.

  His air of confidence, his body, and his charm all added up to one thing: trouble.

  Looked like I had a movie-trailer full of it heading my way.

  chapter nine

  A few days later, I sat across from my best friend at our favorite bar. “When’s the wedding?”

  I expected Rita to blush, swear, and protest, citing every reason why she’d never consider marrying Rakesh. Instead, she absentmindedly stirred her drink with the little green umbrella stuck on the side, her brows furrowed. If the absence of abuse and the brooding expression hadn’t been enough of a clue, the fact she’d ordered a grasshopper—blah—rather than a mojito would’ve confirmed something was wrong.

  “He’s just so… so… ”

  “Smart? Successful? Rich? Gorgeous?”

  “It’s more than that. He’s—”

  “Sweet? Funny? Perfect for you?”

  She sighed, a glimmer of tears slamming my teasing.

  “Hey, I was kidding,” I said, torn between wanting to hug her and slap her silly for letting a guy get to her like this.

  After the Toad debacle, we’d made a pact: no guy was worth our tears unless it was our engagement, wedding day, or the birth of our firstborn. Rakesh must have sideswiped Rita for her to turn on the waterworks over gentle ribbing.

  “It’s not you, it’s me.” Rita dabbed at the underside of her eyes, leaving a smear of mascara that accentuated her vulnerability and made a mockery of her usual immaculate makeup. If she hadn’t coated her lashes in waterproof mascara this morning she must be in a bad way.

  “Are you breaking up with me?” I deadpanned, relieved at the hint of a smile shimmering through her tears.

  “Ha-ha,” she said, scrunching the tissue to pulp, taking a healthy slurp of her grasshopper, and grimacing. “I’m pathetic. Stupidly, utterly, pathetic.”

  “We’re talking about your love life not mine.”

  “Love being the operative word.” She polished off her grasshopper and gestured to the cute waiter behind the bar for another. “After everything I put you and Anjali through, all the planning, all the info I made you memorize, I fall in love with the guy anyway.”

  “You love him? As in ’til-death-do-us-part love?”

  I knew things had heated up between the happy unarranged couple but I had no idea my cool, level-headed accountant friend would fall so quickly. Sure, Rakesh was a great guy and I’d foreseen them connecting… but love?

  “Yep. Head over heels. Crazy, huh?”

  The irony of the situation struck and I laughed so hard tears ran down my cheeks.

  “You think it’s funny I’m a loser?”

  Wiping my eyes, I sucked in a few breaths to quell the chuckles. “Maybe your parents and the Banana-Ramas knew what they were doing all along. Fate, kismet, and all that.”

  “All that crap, you mean. My stupid feelings complicate everything.”

  “How?”

  “If his mom’s as scary as you said, she’ll kill me.”

  I waved away her fears. “Rakesh has that part figured out. He’s going to blame me, say I was your jealous best friend wanting to snag him for myself.”

  Admiration softened her expression. “Ingenious.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll never have to see her again unless you two crazy kids march up the aisle and by then she’d be so happy to get her golden boy married off she will have forgiven me.” I snapped my fingers in front of her face. “So what’s stopping you from going for it if you love him?”

  Rita rolled her eyes, managing a pert smile for the waiter as he deposited her drink. “Simple lesson in geography. I don’t live in India. I don’t want to live in India.”

  “So? Get Lover Boy to move here.”

  She shook her head, sleek black hair billowing around her shoulders. I’d kill to have Pantene-perfect hair like that. “He can’t. His business is everything to him.”

  “Make him choose. You or Eye.”

  “I won’t do that. Besides, he’s Indian. The chances of him cutting Mommy’s apron strings for New York are zilch. Less than zilch.”

  “You’re making this way too complicated. If a trip up the aisle is what you both want—and don’t forget I told you so the minute I saw him—nothing will stand in your way. You’re lucky to have found someone.”

  Unlike me, I thought, though I wisely kept that particular gem to myself. I’d copped enough flack over Drew from Rita and Rakesh since the Bombay Bobbsey twins had arrived. I’d hardly seen Drew since our earth-shattering lip-lock at the airport, but that didn’t stop Rita and Rakesh from teasing me incessantly.

  “You’re right, but it seems too hard.”

  “I bet it does,” I purred, sliding my fingers up and down my mojito glass in a lewd gesture.

  “Stop that. You’re getting the waiter horny.”

  “He’s not the one I want to feel like that.” Right then, I caught a glimpse of Drew pushing his way through the twenty-deep crowd behind us, typical for a Manhattan Monday at Michu’s.

  “God, he’s gorgeous.” Rita sighed and I glanced at her in surprise, until I followed her line of vision and saw Rakesh four steps behind Drew, his face lighting up like fireworks during Diwali as he locked onto Rita.

  “You don’t mind if we split up? My man and I have some things to discuss.”

  I nodded, glad to see her determination. At least love hadn’t rendered her catatonic or stupid like it had me with the Toad. Though looking back, I’d never been in love. Lust, initially. Security in the middle. Pain at the end. Heartbreaking pain, most of it for my trampled pride and loss of benefits like a job, an apartment, and regular sex with someone who wasn’t a psycho or into S&M.

  I’d settled. Settled for a posh lifestyle, but I’d given up my self-worth in the process and I’d be damned if I ever fell into the same trap again.

  “Go ahead, Drew and I’ll be fine.”

  More than fine if I had anything to do with it.

  I’d had days to think about this. Long, boring days between job hunting spent cocooned in my apartment, drinking masala chai, subduing the odd ladoo craving, and daydreaming about Drew.

  So we hit it off? Didn’t mean anything. He’d invited me for a drink, nothing more, nothing less. We’d make small-talk, flirt a little. Good, clean, harmless fun. I didn’t have any cause to be nervous. A date I could do. A decision about my future phony Kapil had predicted? No way.

  I liked Drew but I didn’t want a fling; I wanted something real, something tangible, something I could believe in. A relationship with substance this time, not the farce I’d had with Tate.

  Was I chasing a dream? Maybe. Shame about the economical and logistical obstacles between us. He was mega-wealthy and lived in India, I was embarrassingly poor and entrenched in NYC. Otherwise I would’ve had
a ball exploring the attraction between us.

  “How are the two most beautiful girls in New York tonight?” Rakesh gave us each a peck on the cheek, though his hand slid around Rita’s waist and stayed there, a possessive gesture that brought a lump to my throat.

  I’d never been part of a couple in public with Tate. He’d been a big shot in the corporate world and so image-conscious he never risked our relationship being discovered. He’d cited the firm’s reputation as being the main reason behind his reticence, saying his wife wouldn’t have cared one way or the other.

  I’d believed him. I didn’t like it but I’d bought it, an ostrich in designer shoes, happy to stick my head in the sand as long as the fantasy world I’d created spun in its correct orbit. Monumental idiot.

  Rita leaned into Rakesh, snuggling like a confident woman sure of her man, and I couldn’t be happier for her. Sure, I’d teased her about our anti-love pact, but we both knew the score. Our lives as sassy New York City girls were filled with mojitos, Bergdorf cosmetics (God bless Rita’s staff discount), and fashionista frenzies, but there was more to life than that.

  Give us the security of a stable relationship with a great guy, a guy who could deliver on promises, and we’d be in heaven. By Rita’s glow, one of us had earned our angel wings.

  I winked. “We’re fine, now the two hottest guys in New York have shown up.”

  Lame, but Rakesh had started it with his corny two most beautiful girls in NY line.

  Rakesh laughed. “Later,” and almost tripped in his haste to get Rita all to himself. She wiggled her fingers in a jaunty wave and followed at a similar breakneck speed.

  Drew propped a foot on the rung of my barstool, cool and casual and confident. “Looks like one hot guy and one beautiful girl left. Those odds okay with you?”

  “Perfect.” Longing rippled through me, a reckless craving that had me wanting more from him. Like the two of us naked.

  The guy knew how to dress. Charcoal pinstripe pants teamed with a crisp white shirt, dressy yet casual, all class. He leaned forward, his signature scent washing over me, tempting me to do uncharacteristic things like ditch the drinking part of our date and go for broke. “I promised you a drink. What would you like?”