Steve Madrino and Lance Wolfe.
Chapter Thirty-Three
I hadn’t been able to see the man carrying boxes out of the storage building. It could have been either of them. Behind the two men, I saw a figure moving across the lawn. It was like a bad B-movie moment. Hair whipped in the wind, breasts bounced up and down, and the tail of a rope dragged across the ground.
Selma.
She ran across the grass, skates still on her feet. Closer. Closer.
Manny took hold of Victoria’s handcuffs. He didn’t know about the accomplice. He headed toward the men to lead Victoria out of the building.
That’s when I saw it.
The slightest movement. The touch of his thumb to his ring finger. Lance Wolfe’s heart was breaking at the sight of his wife and the knowledge of what she’d done, while Steve stood still as a mountain lion on the hunt, ready to pounce.
“Selma!” I yelled.
Manny stopped.
The most obvious person.
Victoria was right. It had been a pretty slick operation. They made the steroid powder and Steve Madrino, the team’s trainer, had administered it to the players. He’d had tub after tub after tub of the stuff in his training room.
The most obvious suspect.
Steve turned. Perfect. I sprinted forward, did a hop-skip, and thrust a high kick to his chest. My ankle nearly exploded from the impact, but he lost his balance and stumbled back.
Lance grabbed for him, and Selma airplaned her arms as she tried to stop, nearly losing her balance on the soft earth.
“Your rope, Selma!”
Bless her naked heart. She didn’t ask questions, she just undid the knot of the rope around her waist, throwing it to me just as Steve regained his balance and started running.
Larry took off after him, his matador cape flying behind him. Hopping on one foot, I threw Jack the rope. He ran, and not twenty seconds later, Larry had tackled his brother and Jack had hog-tied Steve, Victoria’s partner-in-crime, with Selma’s pull-toy rope.
All in a day’s work.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“So Steve wrote the notes to try to scare Jennifer back into cooperating,” I muttered, fitting the last few puzzle pieces together.
I hobbled across the parking lot, leaning against Jack’s arm for support. I glanced up at him. Would we ever have normal dates that didn’t include near-death experiences?
“¿Cómo estás, Callaghan?” Mi amor, I added in my head, finally believing we had a chance.
He squeezed my shoulder. “Doing okay. Gotta love the hazards of your job. But your ankle?” He peered down at the knot under my pink and black knee socks.
“It’s not so bad.” I was sure my mother or grandmother would have some old-world Mexican homeopathic remedy for it and I’d be good as new in no time.
A smile played on his lips. “You’re a tough one, Cruz.”
“Just call me Xena. And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“No, I don’t think I would.” He put his finger on the bridge of my fake school girl glasses, pushing them back into place. “Now, about that role-playing later…” he said, his suggestive grin widening.
My nerves zinged, but before I could answer by jumping up and down and clapping in true schoolgirl fashion, Manny appeared out of the shadows. “Nice kick, Sargenta. Took him down easy.”
Jack tensed beside me, releasing his supportive hold on me, and I cursed Manny and his impeccable timing.
But I liked the hard-won compliment. “Gracias.”
Craig had called the police. The fact that Sadie Metcalf leaned against her sporty car meant that Manny had probably called her. Their love-hate relationship was still a mystery, but one to be thought about at another time.
I spotted Lucy and Zac sauntering across the parking lot. More of her balloons had popped, and judging from the lightness of his step and the curve of his lips, he was ready to go home and pop the rest. So he’d adjusted. A while ago, I wanted to kill him for telling Jack I was here, but Jack had helped me solve this case. He had my back. And he wanted to role-play. Zac was forgiven.
Reilly and Neil stood next to a thirty-something dark-haired man. He was neat and tidy in khakis and a Polo shirt. Next to him stood a rumpled man with a bad comb-over. Hijo de su madre. Detective Bennett and my old friend Detective Seavers.
Bennett watched me. He ran his finger under his shirt collar, clearly un poquito hot and bothered as I closed the distance between us. Meanwhile, Seavers’s bushy unibrow pulled together as he gave me a good once-over. “You again?” He notched his chin toward Jack. “And your friend.”
“Solved another case for you,” I said, hopping the last few steps to alleviate the shooting pain in my ankle. I felt my cleavage jiggling and under the downturned parking lights, I was pretty sure my tight white shirt didn’t leave much to the imagination.
“So I hear,” he said.
A breeze kicked up my skirt. I pushed it down, but not before anyone who was curious got a glimpse of my sheer thong and bare behind.
Bennett cupped one hand behind his neck and quickly turned away. Manny’s entire face darkened, his eyes smoldering. Sadie scowled.
So plenty of people were curious. But only Jack was entitled to the whole shebang.
I patted Neil’s shoulder as I passed him. He had a lovesick-puppy expression on his linebacker face and only had eyes for Reilly.
And Seavers? He was made of steel. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. Wasn’t fazed at all by my skimpy clothing, my belly button ring, or the quick glimpse of my bare skin. He cleared his throat. “You’ll go that last mile to close a case, won’t you, Ms. Cruz?”
Reilly silently clapped, cheering me on. She threw me a thumbs-up sign, then snuggled close to Neil.
I thought about what Seavers had said. Would I go that last mile? That had been the big question. How far was I willing to go for my job? What were my boundaries?
I answered Seavers, but my words were mostly for Jack. He had to know, once and for all, that there were some lines I wouldn’t cross. “I used to think so, Detective, pero my mother taught me well. There are some things I won’t do and some lines I won’t cross.”
Jack had folded his arms over his bare chest, his expression a mix of a wolf ready to protect his mate and a lion ready to devour her.
Which meant he was ready to devour me.
Turns out my costume wasn’t too far off the mark. I was a good Catholic girl who pushed the boundaries, yes. But unless Jack Callaghan was in the picture, and the setting was muy privado, I kept my clothes on.
Acknowledgments
I like to say that Lola Cruz is my alter ego—if I were a twenty-nine-year-old smokin’ hot Latina detective. She lives in my head, and thanks to my husband’s family and culture, she comes alive on the pages of the Lola Cruz novels. So thank you to Carlos for his love, support, and for bringing such a rich culture into my life.
As always, a big thanks goes to Holly Root, Lola’s first and loudest cheerleader; to Libby Murphy for her tireless—and, at times, laborious—editing; to Stacy Abrams and Suzanne Johnson; to Danielle Barclay for all that is to come; to the Lit Girls; to Lyn Bement for her teaching moments, her Spanish expertise, and attention to accent marks; and to the real Selma Mann, an inspiration and a great sport. Thanks to Heather Howland for her artistic vision and to Liz Pelletier and the Entangled team for…everything!
Keep reading for sample chapters of
BUSTED IN BOLLYWOOD
by USA Today Bestselling author Nicola Marsh
Shari Jones needs to get a life. Preferably someone else’s.
Single, homeless and jobless, Indo-American Shari agrees to her best friend’s whacky scheme: travel to Mumbai, pose as Amrita, and ditch the fiancé her traditional Indian parents have chosen. Simple. Until she’s mistaken for a famous Bollywood actress, stalked by a Lone Ranger wannabe, courted by an English lord, and busted by the blackmailing fiancé.
Life is less co
mplicated in New York.
Or so she thinks, until the entourage of crazies follows her to the Big Apple and that’s when the fun really begins. Shari deals with a blossoming romance, an addiction to Indian food and her first movie role, while secretly craving another trip to the mystical land responsible for sparking her new lease on life. Returning to her Indian birthplace, she has an epiphany. Maybe the happily-ever-after of her dreams isn’t so far away?
Chapter One
Look up stupid in the dictionary and you’ll find my picture.
Along with revealing stats: Shari Jones, twenty-nine, five-seven, black hair, hazel eyes, New Yorker. Addicted to toxic men like my ex, cheesecake, and mojitos (not necessarily in that order), and willing to do anything for a friend, including travel to India and impersonate aforementioned friend in an outlandish plot to ditch her fiancé.
See? Stupid.
“You’re the best.” Amrita Muthu, my zany best friend who devised this escapade, cut a wedge of chocolate cheesecake and plopped it on my plate. “Have another piece to celebrate.”
I loved how she always had cheesecake stocked in her apartment freezer but as I stared at my favorite dessert I knew I couldn’t afford the extra calories. Not with my destination of Mumbai—land of food hospitality—where I’d be bombarded with rich, sugar-laden treats that I’d have to eat to be polite.
Despite my Indo-American heritage, jalebis, gulab jamuns, and rasmalai are not my idea of heaven. The sickly sweet morsels were a testament to years as a fat kid, courtesy of an Indian mother who wasn’t satisfied until my eyes—as well as my waistline—were bulging from too much food.
“Eat up, my girl,” Mom used to say, shoveling another mini Mount Everest of rice and dahl onto my plate. “Lentils are strengthening. They’ll make you big and strong.”
She’d been right about the big part. Still waiting for my muscles to kick in.
But hey, I survived the food fest, and thanks to hours in the gym, smaller portions of dahl (yeah, I’d actually become hooked on the stuff), and moving away from home, I now had a shape that didn’t resemble a blimp.
“Shari? You going to eat or meditate?”
“Shut up.” I glared at Amrita—Rita to me—then picked up my fork and toyed with the cheesecake. “Too early for celebrations.” Commiserations were more likely if this wacky plot imploded. “You’re not the one spending two weeks in Mumbai with a bunch of strangers, pretending to like them.”
“But you don’t have to pretend. That’s the whole point. I want you to be yourself and convince the Ramas I’m not worthy of their son.” Rita stuck two fingers down her throat and made gagging noises. “Bet he’s a real prince. Probably expects the prospective good little Hindu wife he’s never seen to bow, kiss his ass, and bear him a dozen brats. Like that’s going to happen.”
She rolled her perfectly kohled eyes and cut herself another generous slab of cheesecake. Curves are revered in India and Rita does her heritage proud with an enviable hourglass figure.
“You think my naturally obnoxious personality will drive this prince away, huh? Nice.”
Rita grinned and topped off our glasses from the mojito pitcher sitting half-empty between us. “You know what I mean. You’re flamboyant, assertive, eloquent. Except when it came to your ex.” She made a thumbs-down sign. “I’m a wimp when it comes to defying my folks. If anyone can get me out of this mess, you can.”
Debatable, considering the mess I’d made of my life lately.
“No way would I marry some stooge and leave NYC to live in Mumbai. Not happening.”
She took a healthy slurp of mojito and ran a crimson-tipped fingernail around the rim of the glass. “Besides, you score a free trip. Not to mention the added bonus of putting Tate behind you once and for all.”
That did it. I pushed my plate away and sculled my mojito. The mention of Tate Embley, my ex-boyfriend, ex-landlord, and ex-boss turned my stomach. Rita was right—I was assertive, which made what happened with him all the more unpalatable. I’d been a fool, falling for a slick, suave lawyer who’d courted me with a practiced flair I’d found lacking in the guys I’d dated previously.
I’d succumbed to the romance, the glamour, the thrill. Tate had been attentive and complimentary and generous. And I’d tumbled headfirst into love, making the fact he’d played me from start to finish harder to accept. Maybe I’d been naïve to believe his lavish promises. Maybe I should’ve known if something’s too good to be true it usually is. Maybe I’d been smitten at the time, blinded to the reality of the situation: an unscrupulous jerk had charmed me into believing his lies to the point I’d lowered my streetwise defenses and toppled into an ill-fated relationship from the beginning.
“Oops, I forgot.” Rita’s hand flew to her mouth, a mischievous glint in her black eyes. “Wasn’t supposed to mention the T-word.”
I smirked. “Bitch.”
“It’s therapeutic to talk about it.”
Morose, I stared into my empty glass, knowing a stint in India couldn’t be as bad as this. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s rehashing the mess I’d made of my love life. “What’s there to talk about? We’re over.”
“Over, schmover. If he came groveling on his Armani knees you’d reconsider.” She jabbed a finger at me. “If he comes sniffing around you again I’ll kick his sorry ass to the curb.”
“I already tried kicking him to the curb and now I’m homeless and unemployed.”
Three months later, I couldn’t believe he’d played me, thrown me out of his swank Park Avenue apartment, and fired me all on the same day. So what if I’d called him a lying, sleazy bastard with the morals of a rabid alley cat? If the Gucci loafer fit…
Rita refilled my glass, her stern glare nothing I hadn’t seen before. “He’d reduced you to ho status. He paid your salary, your rent, and left you the odd tip when he felt like it.”
She stared at the princess-cut ruby edged in beveled diamonds on the third finger of my right hand and I blushed, remembering the exact moment Tate had slipped it on. We’d been holed up in his apartment for a long weekend and in the midst of our sex-a-thon he’d given me the ring. Maybe I’d felt like Julia Roberts getting a bonus from Richard Gere for all of two seconds, but hey, it’d been different. I loved the guy. He loved me.
Yeah, right.
Tate had strung me along for a year, feeding me all the right lines: his wife didn’t love him, platonic marriage, they never had sex, they stayed together for appearances, he’d leave her soon, blah, blah, blah.
Stupidly, I believed him until that fateful day three months ago when someone at Embley Associates, one of New York’s premier law firms, revealed the latest juicy snippet: Tate, the firm’s founding partner, was going to be a daddy. After years of trying with his gorgeous wife, nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Say no more.
Unfortunately, Tate had tried some schmoozy winking with me to gloss over his ‘I was drunk, she took advantage of me, it won’t change a thing between us’ spiel. I’d nudged him right where it hurt and things had spiraled downhill from there.
Hence, my homeless, unemployed, and dumped status.
I folded my arms to hide the offending bauble—which was so damn pretty I couldn’t part with it despite being tempted to pay rent. “Your point?”
“Forget him. Forget your problems. Go to India, live it up.”
“And save your ass in the process?”
Rita grinned and clinked glasses with mine. “Now you’re on the right track.”
“I must be crazy.”
“Or desperate.”
“That, too.” I shook my head. “Have you really thought this through? Word travels fast in your family.”
“We’ve been planning this for a month. It’ll work.” Rita lowered her glass, an uncharacteristic frown slashing her brows. “You’ve been living here. You’ve seen my mom in action. You know why I have to do this.”
She had a point. While every aspect of Rita’s Hinduism fascinated an athe
ist like me, her double life was exhausting. Her folks would be scandalized if they knew she drank alcohol and ate beef, forbidden in her religion. But according to my inventive friend, who liked to stretch boundaries, cows in New York weren’t holy and the alcohol helped her assimilate. Likely excuses, but living beneath the burden of her family’s expectations—including an arranged marriage to a guy halfway around the world—had taken its toll. She needed to tell her folks the truth, but for now she’d settled on this crazy scheme to buy herself time to build up the courage.
I could’ve persuaded her to come clean, but I went along with it because I owed Rita. Big-time. She’d let me crash here, she’d listened to my sob story repeatedly, she’d waived rent while I fruitlessly job-searched. Apparently out-of-work legal secretaries were as common in job interviews as rats were in the subway. Didn’t help that the low-key, detail-oriented job bored me to tears in my last year at Embley Associates, and I’d been wistfully contemplating a change. Therein lay the problem. I needed to work for living expenses and bills and rent but my personal fulfillment well was dry and in serious need of a refill.
Another reason I was doing this: I hoped traveling to Mumbai would give me a fresh perspective. Besides, I could always add actress/impersonator to my résumé to jazz it up when I returned.
“Telling your family would be easier.” On both of us, especially me, the main stooge about to perpetuate this insanity. “What if I mess up? It’ll be a disaster.”
Oblivious to my increasing nerves, Rita’s frown cleared. “It’ll be a cinch. My aunt Anjali’s in on the plan, and she’ll meet you at the airport and guide you through the Rama rigmarole. She’s a riot and you’ll love staying with her. Consider it a well-earned vacation.” She clicked her fingers and grinned. “A vacation that includes giving the Ramas’ dweeby son the cold shoulder so he can’t stand the thought of marrying me. Capish?”
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