Busted in Bollywood (16 page)

Drew had summed up the situation in a second and had handled it with class, as opposed to the Toad acting the ass. As for his houses around the world and a private jet, I didn’t know if it was true but the fact he’d one-upped the Toad made me want to high-five him.

In true Toad-like fashion, Tate ignored the guy who had bigger toys (and probably balls) and refocused on me. “What’re you doing these days?”

“This ’n’ that.” I flashed a fabulous smile at Drew, gazing into his eyes as if he’d bestowed one of his international mansions to me, hoping the Toad would get the message.
F-off
.

“The office isn’t the same without you.” He lowered his voice, trying to suck me in with one of his old tricks, the smooth-as-caramel-latte tone, the one that had worked on me countless times before. Before I’d woken up and moved onto espresso.

“You worked with this… guy?” Drew’s incredulity, combined with the slight pause, led me to believe he’d been about to say something more accurate like ‘loser, cretin, jerk, bastard, moron, scum.’

I managed a mute nod while the Toad leapt in to fill the gap.

“Shari’s the best. We had a good thing going for a while. You know how it is, being a businessman and all.” He leered, his low voice heavy with innuendo, leaving little doubt as to our previous
business
relationship.

Bastard.

My hand fisted as I itched to slug the sneer off his face and tears burned the back of my eyes. Tears of humiliation, tears of rage, and I’d be damned if I stood there and gave the prick the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

While I floundered for the perfect exit line before my eyes spouted fountains, Drew took control again. “I doubt you and I have much in common. I wouldn’t be stupid enough to let an amazing woman like Shari go.
Business-wise
, of course.”

I could’ve kissed him, every protective inch of righteous indignation.

Ignoring the Toad, his face now a satisfying puce, Drew slipped on my coat and hugged me to his side. “The limo’s waiting, ready to go? The crowd here isn’t as classy as I thought.”

I blinked back my tears as I eyeballed the Toad. “You’re so right.”

But I couldn’t leave. Not yet. That’s the thing about closure. Whenever the opportunity presented, you had to take it.

Touching Drew’s arm, I murmured in his ear. “Could you give me a minute?”

Drew glared at Tate and nodded. “Sure, I’ll wait for you outside.”

He ran a hand over my hair in a purely possessive gesture not lost on Tate, whose upper lip snarled. Yeah, like he had the right to care, the jerk.

The moment Drew left, Tate made a move to touch me and I blocked his reach with my forearm, shoving him away. Shock widened his eyes a second before they narrowed in distaste. “Didn’t take you long to shack up with another rich guy.”

His sneer made my fingers curl with the urge to slug him. I didn’t condone diva behavior but his smarmy expression deserved a knuckle rap.

“What I do with my life now is no concern to you.”

“You didn’t always feel like that.”

“Screw you.”

“Done that too, babe.” Before I could knee him he ran a fingertip down my arm and I reacted without thinking, grabbing his finger and bending it until he winced.

“Listen up, you lying bastard.” I bent his finger further, enjoying his pain when he paled, knowing he wouldn’t make a scene because of his precious ego. “Don’t ever come near me again.”

I flung his hand away in disgust, my skin crawling with the contact. “Take your cheesy grin and fake charm and snide insults and stick it up your ass.”

He gaped and I hustled through the crowd without a backward glance.

Not too bad as an exit line. Tate was a Grade A loser, always had been, always would be, and while I’d had my dubious honor defended by an absolute sweetheart, it felt freaking fantastic to tell him to shove it myself. Totally empowering.

Hoping the evening hadn’t turned into a total fiasco, I stepped outside as Drew’s cell rang. After a few short ‘uh-huhs,’ he snapped it shut and slid the slimline into his pocket. “Sorry, something’s come up.”

“Not to worry.”

“We never got to have that drink.” His eyes deepened to midnight in the reflected light from the neon signs and I hoped it wasn’t disinterest, or worse, disgust at what he’d seen back there. It didn’t take an Einstein to work out I’d been involved with Tate thanks to his sleazy innuendos, and as much as I’d enjoyed Drew defending me I was embarrassed. Embarrassed I knew a poser like that, embarrassed I’d put up with his crap, and embarrassed Drew now knew it, too.

“We don’t have to reschedule. You’re a busy guy, you’re not in town for long, I get it.”

“Do you get this?” He captured my face between his hands, not giving me room to move, and lowered his head. My heart jackknifed as he edged closer, hovering an inch from my mouth, tension crackling between us like a live wire.

I yearned to close the gap, craving the heady, addictive optimism that accompanied kissing a hot, new guy. I strained toward him, his breath tickling a moment before he touched his lips to mine.

The world tilted in an earth-shattering explosion of heat and desperation as his lips grazed mine, once, twice, taunting and provocative and incredibly tantalizing.

He deepened the pressure until I sagged against him, boneless, mindless, each long, hot, French kiss surpassing every erotic fantasy I’d ever had. That scintillating greeting at the airport? A prelude to this cataclysmic, indescribable sexual attraction combusting whenever we touched.

When his lips reluctantly eased from mine, he left me gasping for air.

Stunned and disoriented, I gaped like a love-struck fool.

His tender smile jabbed at my heart. “Raincheck on our drink date?”

I managed a mute nod.

“Great. Need a lift?”

I hoped my mouth and brain would work in sync. “You really have a limo waiting?”

“Of course. Would I lie to you?”

Probably. It was a design fault in the entire male species on the planet but after he’d played the knight-in-shining-armor to perfection, I owed it to him to cushion his ego a tad.

“After seeing the way that jerk treated you in there, perhaps I should rephrase that.”

Was he fishing for info? I needed to tell him something even if it was only a fraction of the ugly truth.

“About Tate—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation. I was merely making an observation.”

“An accurate one. The guy’s a jerk and, unfortunately, it took me a while to realize it.”

“How long?”

“A year.”

“Ouch.”

Saying it out loud made the truth seem more ludicrous. Had I really put up with him for twelve months, listening to his empty promises to leave his wife, storing away our infrequent happy interludes like a starving squirrel hoarding its nuts?
I
was nuts for being so gullible.

I waved my hand in the air as if getting rid of a nasty odor. “Thanks for the sympathy vote but I don’t deserve it. I was stupid. Live and learn, I guess. Now, how about that ride?”

Drew opened his mouth as if wanting to say more before he closed it, nodded, and guided me to the sleek black limo parked around the corner.

I liked his style. He could’ve prodded me for more info, made some droll remark not remotely funny, or generally agreed with my astute observation that I’d been stupid in giving my heart to the Toad. Instead, he handed me into the limo’s plush interior, gave the driver my address, and chatted about New York during the drive.

Grateful for his understanding, I fumbled for my purse as the limo drew to a halt outside my loft. I hated this part of an evening and as short as our ‘date’ had been, I didn’t know whether to leap from the limo, mumble something unintelligible, or plant a quick thank-you peck on his cheek. Thankfully, he took matters out of my indecisive hands.

“I’ll call you, Miss Jones,” he said, dropping a slightly-longer-than-friendly kiss on my lips.

“You do that, Mr. Lansford.” I touched his cheek in a poignant, fleeting gesture that wouldn’t have been out of place in one of my favorite rom-coms before bolting, afraid I’d acted like an ass.

I willed myself not to look back in case the rumor about not appearing too eager if you looked back at the person held up. No use jinxing this before it’d begun. I let myself into the building and waited until I got inside the apartment before collapsing in an undignified heap on the couch. I kicked off my shoes, flexed my ankles, and wriggled my toes. Didn’t help relax me like it usually did.

I’d been uptight before this evening started and now my neck muscles roped with tension. I needed some stress relief, a hot lavender bath followed by watching a Robbie-singing-swing DVD (the one where he’s in a tux, drool, drool).

First, sustenance. I grabbed a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, ripped off the top, and stuck a dessert spoon into the sticky heaven, shoveling it into my mouth with the desperation of a woman who needs a fix of something sweeter than ice cream but making do anyway.

I didn’t want to think about Drew or the way he made me feel: gorgeous, special, and after his Sir Galahad act, protected. I didn’t need protection (unless it came in a little foil packet and was ripped open with Bollywood Boy’s teeth in the throes of passion).

I didn’t need a guy in my life. But wouldn’t it be fun to audition Bollywood Boy for the part?

As I happily consumed a pint of ice cream, I ignored the voice of doubt in my head, the voice whispering,
He used the tried-and-true line of Jerks United, “I’ll call you.”
And he probably wouldn’t.

I also ignored the slightly sick feeling in my gut (blaming too much honeycomb) if he didn’t.

chapter ten

After six days, twelve hours, and forty minutes, I acknowledged Drew Lansford was a fully paid-up, participating member of Jerks United.

Not that I waited by the phone. Okay, I admit it, I checked my cell’s voice mail and messages rather frequently. Sad but true.

Between job interviews—and there’d been many—I’d turned into a partial recluse, heading out for essentials only: pints of Ben & Jerry’s, Doritos, and Moonlight Mojito Mix, a weird premixed concoction that tasted like 7UP with zip. Gorging on comfort food wouldn’t help my mood, but I needed something familiar in my topsy-turvy world.

Adding a top coat to my nails, I wiggled my toes, facing facts. Despite pawning almost everything and dipping into my nest egg—the size of a sparrow’s—I’d nearly blown it all on living expenses. I needed a job pronto before my funds ran out.

Twelve interviews and two call-backs in the last week, not terribly inspiring considering I’d broadened my job search criteria. Along with the usual executive assistant applications, I’d taken the plunge and applied for a few publishing positions. Copyeditors mostly, but considering the publishers’ lack of enthusiasm, Subway sandwich artist was starting to look good. I’d pinned my hopes on the call-backs. If they didn’t work out, better get out my knife and loaf and start toasting.

The buzzer rang and my heart did a weird flip-flop, wishing Drew would drop by, before reality set in. If a guy didn’t call for almost a week, the possibility of him visiting unannounced was as likely as Bergdorf’s throwing out their Hermes bags at cost.

It pealed out again and I waddled to the intercom, not wanting to smudge my nails.

Rabidly antisocial, I stabbed at the intercom button. “Yeah?”

“Let me in, the wind out here would freeze the
cojones
off a brass monkey.” Rita added a chimp imitation for good measure, earning a reluctant smile.

“Come on up.”

I pressed the button to let Rita in, though my grouchiness hadn’t improved at the sound of her voice. As much as I loved her I wasn’t in the mood to hear about her budding relationship with Romeo Rama. She’d been trying to get me out all week, inviting me to join them for dinner at Nobu, drinks at Michu, skating at Central Park.

Politely declining, I’d cited a tummy bug, a migraine, and a twisted ankle. Guess she hadn’t bought the last excuse when I’d used kickboxing with Jackie Chan as the reason. After I’d OD’d on rom-coms, action flicks were my change of pace. Besides, if I saw a hint of Hugh on the screen, I might throw the remote.

Zipping up my pink hoodie to hide a chocolate stain on the front of my grey T-shirt underneath, I opened the door.

“Hey. What brings you by?”

Rita’s contemptuous glance flicked from the top of my lank hair to the bottoms of my frayed yoga pants before settling on my face, devoid of M.A.C. or Bobbi Brown all week.

“You look like shit,” she said, breezing past me, leaving a cloud of Chanel No. 5 in her wake.

“Wish I could say the same.” I tried not to turn Kermit-green as I noted a new ebony Prada suit with a cherry silk shell underneath, four-inch black Jimmy Choo pumps, and matching handbag. She looked incredible, glowing from the inside out, while I resembled washed-out slop.

Note to self: Rule number one in acting like all is right with the world: get dressed, wash hair, wear makeup. And no lies about kickboxing Jackie Chan.

Rita swept a pile of
Inside Styles
off the couch and wrinkled her nose at the two empty ice cream containers on the coffee table before perching precariously on the edge of the cushions as if she’d pick up couch cooties by getting comfy.

“What’s going on with you?” She pinned me with a determined stare and before I could open my mouth to lie, she continued, “And save the bullshit. The truth, this time.”

I wandered around the room, swiping at not-so-imaginary dust and tidying a stack of DVDs on the TV.

Rule number two: don’t blow off best friend with lousy excuses. She only gets madder and swears at you.

“And sit down. That fiddling’s driving me nuts.”

Taking a deep breath, I plopped into a chair. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m exhausted, what with the breakup—”

“That was four months ago.”

I continued like she’d hadn’t spoken, “—and flying halfway across the world to save your butt, then job-hunting like a maniac. It’s caught up with me. I’m taking a break, having a little ‘me’ time.”

By her doubtful expression, she didn’t buy my excuses for a second. We’d been best friends too long. “It’s got nothing to do with Drew?”

“’Course not.” I thanked God for my olive complexion. A blush at this point would incriminate.

A triumphant glint lit her eyes. “Good. In that case, you’re coming with me to Central Park.”

Rule number three: be wary of clever accountant friends who are way smarter than stupid ex legal secretaries who consistently make wrong choices, especially concerning guys in their lives.

“Central Park?” I acted dumb—maybe the acting part wasn’t so hard—knowing the park would be the last place I’d want to be if Drew was there.

“They’re filming a few scenes. Should be a blast.”

I shrugged, trying not to look triumphant. Getting out of this would be too easy. “Thanks, but I’ve already seen the real thing, remember? I saw them shooting in Bollywood and as interesting as it is I’m all ‘filmed’ out. But you go, you’ll have a ball.”

That should get rid of Miss Goody-Two-Choos.

“It wasn’t an invitation, it’s an order. You’re coming. Be ready by two. I’ll swing by and pick you up then.”

Rule number four: smugness is not a good thing, particularly if victory isn’t assured.

“But—”

“Talk to this,” she said, holding up her hand as she waltzed out the door, spouting another of her talk-show sayings she knew I hated. At least this one sounded like an Ellen, marginally better than a Dr. Phil.

Cursing under my breath, I checked the time: 12:51. Great, I had just over an hour to do a major grease and overhaul. Who did Rita think I was, a Kardashian?

I didn’t have a hair stylist, makeup artist, and clothes consultant on staff. I had a Remington ceramic straightener, an eclectic mix of Lancôme, Lauder, M.A.C., L’Oreal, and Maybelline cosmetics, and a half-decent designer wardrobe, most residing in plastic suit bags because I’d been too lazy to get off my ass and unpack them.

As I bolted for the shower, I glanced at my watch. 12:52

Rule number five in acting like all is right with the world: when in doubt, improvise. They’ll never know the difference.

By my skanky reflection in the bathroom mirror as I peeled off my day-old clothes—yeah, I’d slept in them, gross—I was about to pull off one hell of an improvisation.

…

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Rita grabbed my arm, her face lighting with excitement as her head swiveled from the sixty-odd sari-clad dancers twirling in rhythm to the mock fistfight taking place a few paces away.

“Yeah, in Mumbai. Remember?”

As much as I pretended Rita bringing me here was a drag, I couldn’t help but join in her enthusiasm. The minute I’d seen the dancers and inhaled the fragrant mix of greasepaint, sweat, and curry powder, I’d been instantly transported back to India and an unexpected wave of nostalgia swept over me.

Rita ignored my pithy tone. “It’s so colorful. I watch these movies all the time but they run way too long and skip the sex. Bor-ing.”

She’d said the same as we’d watched them almost nightly when I’d crashed at her place for three months. Raiding her stack of old Bollywood DVDs had been fun and a good distraction from my relationship woes. She would’ve rather grabbed the latest films from Netflix but I’d pulled the ‘recently brokenhearted’ excuse and she’d capitulated. Her cynical commentary had been annoying but I’d tuned out, captured by the glamour and performance. Nothing had diminished my enjoyment. I’d been virtually glued to the screen, hooked on the drama and tension and spectacle.

“Wait for the simulated rain. That gets the guys going.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t you think it’s time Bollywood moved into the twenty-first century? No kissing, no bonking, just lots of fierce hugging and bees flying into flowers and spurting waterfalls. Real symbolic. Not.”

I chuckled. “You obviously haven’t seen some of the latest flicks—they’re hot. Personally, I think there’s nothing wrong with a bit of mystery. It’s cute they’re not so explicit. Hails back to the good old days of Hollywood.”

“You’re sounding more Indian than my mom. Mumbai made quite an impression on you.”

Trust Rita to home in on my feelings. What was she, the New York version of Kapil?

I shrugged. “I guess.”

She didn’t buy my nonchalance for a second. “I’m your best friend, not some bimbo you can give the runaround to. You’ve changed.”

I blinked back the sting of tears, knowing this wasn’t the time or place to try and explain something I could hardly put into words myself.

Even though I’d taken steps to erase the past and secure my future, I couldn’t help but feel a tad lost. I lived in a low-rent apartment, I job-searched. I should be happy. Why the persistent nagging I was missing out on something?

“I’m doing the best I can, okay? Lay off.”

Rita’s eyes widened in horror as she registered my tears. “Sorry, hun, didn’t mean to—”

“You!”

Rita’s words were cut off by a guy in a white
salwar kameez
bustling between us, his hands outstretched toward me, joined at the tips of his thumbs with fingers spread as he framed my face.

“You’re perfect.”

At last. A guy who recognized my true worth.

“Butt out, bozo,” Rita said, her scathing glare capable of withering any guy, let alone one with corny opening lines.

He ignored her, his hands moving around my face while his head tilted from side to side, assessing all angles. “You’ll do nicely.”

His hand shot out and he grabbed my arm. “You’ll be in my movie, yes? Come, get into costume. Stand in back row. Smile. Look perfect.”

I should’ve shaken off his hand and given his skinny ass a swift kick, but he sounded serious. Plus he kept saying I was perfect.

“Where are my manners?” He released my arm to smack himself in the head in true dramatic Bollywood fashion. I wouldn’t need to take part in his film if he kept up these theatrics—he could do it himself. “Let me introduce myself. I’m Pravin, the producer.”

Rita snorted. “Of what? Phony lines to get women to notice you?”

Once again, he ignored Rita, who made stirring the pot signs behind his back. She may be trying to bait Pravin but he wasn’t biting. Instead, he kept staring at me like he’d discovered the Indian equivalent of Jennifer Aniston, and I found it unnerving. Very unnerving, considering his head tilted every which way to get a look at my jawline, cheekbones, and side profile.

“I’m the biggest producer of Bollywood films in India. My credentials are impeccable. You want proof, yes?”

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, as Rita simultaneously blurted, “Yes.”

He waved Rita away as if shooing a pesky fly. “What’s your name?”

“Shari Jones.”

The longer Pravin continued staring, the easier it was for me to imagine my name up in lights, twice as large as the Hollywood sign in California, and just as impressive. Chalk up another one to Kapil. Maybe his fame prediction wasn’t far off?

Pravin nodded. “You’ll be in my movie, Shari Jones. I speak to the boss man, he vouch for me, you sign contract, everything B-OK, as they say in New York?”

“I think he means A-OK,” Rita said, a hint of a smile playing about her mouth. “And I think you’ve just been discovered.”

“This is crazy,” I muttered, torn between wanting to send Pravin packing and flattered he thought me movie material. As if my life wasn’t strange enough.

Pravin took my hesitation as a sign of approval as he clapped his hands twice. “Good, good, all settled. You leave number, boss man contact you, everything A-OK.”

He strode away, the white cotton hanging loosely on his lanky frame and pooling around his ankles, doing little to enhance his image as India’s number one producer. Indian clothes tended to flatter but in Pravin’s case he needed to eat a few more
parathas
or his tailor needed a new measuring tape.

Shaking my head, I glanced at Rita, whose smile could’ve been a shining ad for Colgate. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

Chuckling, she slipped an arm around my shoulders and hugged me tight. “Welcome to show biz.”

…

I expected Pravin’s boss man to be some high-falooting executive producer who had the final say on newly discovered Bollywood stars and I assumed I’d never hear from him. I had that effect on guys, the standard “I’ll call you” that never eventuated. Besides, how many people get discovered? Claudia Schiffer, maybe. Me? Like hell.

After a quick stop at the corner store where I bought fruit, veggies, and dairy to balance out the Moonlight Mix and ice cream, I headed home. Rakesh had waylaid Rita in Central Park and I’d been happy to leave the lovebirds alone, though I had to promise to have dinner with them tomorrow night before they let me go.