Busted in Bollywood Read online

  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.

  I’d put the groceries away when the buzzer sounded.

  I pressed the intercom button. “Who is it?”

  “Drew. Can I come up?”

  I released the button as if it’d stung. What did he want? To waltz in here like not calling me had been an oversight?

  I pressed the button again. “This isn’t a good time.”

  “I know it’s rude to drop around without calling first, but I really need to see you.”

  I nibbled on my bottom lip, torn between wanting to let him in and hear what he had to say and busting Bollywood Boy’s balls.

  The moment he’d showed up, the decision had been a no-brainer. Not that I’d make it easy for him.

  “Shari, it’s important.”

  I jumped as if he’d stepped into the room and crept up on me. “I’m busy.”

  “Let me guess. Reading a good book, washing your hair, or have a headache coming on?”

  Damn his sense of humor. Along with the accent, the voice, the bod, the face, and every other goddamn thing that made him so irresistible.

  “Not even close. But you better come up before someone mugs you.” I hit the door button and waited until it stopped buzzing before bolting to the bathroom to check my makeup. Yeah, yeah, totally pathetic, but if I was going to do some serious ball-breaking I needed to look my best.

  Happy I hadn’t changed when I got home—and exceedingly grateful Rita had hauled me out of my sweats in the first place—I ran fingers through my tousled hair and checked to make sure I hadn’t spilled anything on my new chartreuse linen dress.

  Not bad. If Drew had to come up and see me sometime, now was as good a time as any.

  I opened the door and tried not to stagger at the sight of him, extremely doable in denim, a casual white shirt, and a black leather jacket.

  “Thanks for letting me up, what with all the book-reading and hair-washing you have to do.” He smiled, to add to the torture of wanting something I couldn’t have.

  “Muggers would’ve attacked for sure if I’d left you down there one minute longer with those banal lines.”

  His mouth kicked into a grin. “Can I come in?”

  I’d been leaning on the door, trying not to drool. Stepping aside, I gestured him in.

  “Nice place,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket as I tried—and failed—to avert my eyes riveted to his broad chest as the shirt stretched across it.

  “It’s not mine. I’m subletting from a cousin of Rita’s. Want a drink?” I had to do something, anything, to take my mind off how unsteady this guy made me feel.

  “I’d kill for a cup of tea.”

  “Take the boy out of England but you can’t take England out of the boy. I’d kill for a cup of tea,” I imitated, complete with plum-in-the-mouth accent that turned me on so much.

  I ducked down to dishwasher level and opened the cabinet below the oven, dithering over good china or chipped.

  “Are you making fun of me, Miss Jones?”

  Rummaging for cups and saucers, I almost slammed my head as his voice came from somewhere on my left. Somewhere very close on my left. His radiant heat made my skin prickle.

  Get a grip.

  Withdrawing my head from the cabinet after locating the cups brought me up close and personal with the guy I wanted to get a grip on as he squatted down beside me.

  “Here, let me take those.”

  Damn the rattling cups in my shaking hands. Dead giveaway to how I reacted with him near.

  “Would you like masala chai? Anjali showed me how to make it. I love the blend of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and tea. It’s delicious.” I inwardly cringed at my jabber, flicking the kettle switch on and bustling around the kitchen like Martha freaking Stewart.

  “Sounds good.” He leaned against the island bench, way too comfortable. “Sorry for not calling this week, I’ve been busy.”

  My golden opportunity to do some ball-breaking. I stopped fussing and looked him straight in the eye. “Is that the guy’s equivalent of hair-washing and headaches?”

  “No, that’s the truth. I’ve had a lot on my plate, both business and family stuff.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got a wife and kids?” I joked, my stomach somersaulting and landing with a sickening splat.

  We hadn’t talked about our families. Actually, we hadn’t talked much at all. In Mumbai he’d been too busy accusing me of being a gold digger and when he’d learned the truth, all we’d done was flirt. Here in New York, we’d barely skimmed the surface when the Toad had shown up and our evening had ended shortly afterward, courtesy of Drew’s business.

  Funny business, more likely; I sure as hell wasn’t laughing.

  “Worse. My mother.” He rolled his eyes in the universal God-help-me sign most kids used at some point in their lives. “She discovered I was in town despite my efforts to hide the fact and hasn’t stopped hassling me since.”

  I giggled, an inane, relieved laugh. “Sounds serious.”

  “She hangs out at The Plaza for a few weeks a year, and this time her trip happens to coincide with my visit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I couldn’t lie to her when she asked where I was so now I’m facing the usual ‘when are you coming home to England? When are you getting married? When are you reproducing?’ Mundane stuff like that.”

  “I get the same from my mom, apart from the England bit.”

  “Maybe you should get yourself a fake fiancé?
Throw her off track.” He grinned, the heat notching up in the kitchen having nothing to do with the steaming kettle.

  “Touché.” I busied myself with the tea, the indecipherable shadows in his eyes disconcerting.

  We’d flirted a little and he’d kissed me. That didn’t mean his hormones were going crazy like mine or he was harboring the same wicked thoughts I was.

  “I almost forgot.” He pulled a buff envelope from his back pocket. “This is why I dropped by.”

  “Oh.”

  So it wasn’t to indulge in wild, climb-the-walls sex? Shame.

  He handed it to me. “I’d expect a little more excitement from Pravin’s latest discovery.”

  “You’re the boss man?”

  “Apparently so. I sign the checks, I approve new inclusions, and Pravin raved about you, so you’re in.”

  I ripped open the envelope, pulled out a thick document, and quickly scanned the contract. “I thought he must’ve been joking.”

  “Pravin’s a Bollywood hotshot. Produced hundreds of films, grossing billions of dollars. He’s big and if he wants you in his film, you should be flattered.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, speed-reading the fine print until a figure leapt off the page and made my eyes bulge. “Ohmigod. This has to be a mistake.”

  “The contract’s standard so I doubt mistakes have been made.”

  I blinked, reopened my eyes, but the figure remained the same. “You want to pay me a thousand dollars for a bit part? That’s insane. I thought extras earned a pittance?”

  “Not on Pravin’s films. I don’t write the contracts, I hand out the cash.”

  “Then you’re insane.”

  A thousand dollars could buy me an extra month’s rent. Or kick off my savings for the trip around India I’d been craving since I returned. Either way, looked like I would make my acting debut.

  “There aren’t too many things in this world I’m crazy about but when I find them, I’m pretty single-minded.”

  Something in his voice made me look up. Maybe it was an inflection or a slight change in the timbre but once our eyes met I couldn’t look away. I knew exactly how the cobras on Chowpatty Beach Anjali had told me about felt—trapped, unable to move, swaying in time to a turbaned guy playing some kind of flute.