Busted in Bollywood Read online

  Rita didn’t push for answers on my relationship with Drew. She didn’t have to, considering the man in question crept up on me and placed his hands over my eyes. “Guess who?”

  Resisting the urge to swing around, jump into his arms, and wrap my legs around his waist, I paused. “By the feel of those strong, masterful hands, I’d say Amitabh Bachchan.”

  Rita rolled her eyes and made a beeline for Rakesh near the back entrance.

  “Hey!” Drew dropped his hands and swung me around, resting them lightly on my shoulders. “You’ve met the great man already? And if so, how do you know his hands are strong and masterful?”

  I bit back a grin. “Sadly, I haven’t had the privilege. Pravin’s been extolling his virtues.”

  “Pravin knows his stuff. A BBC poll recently voted him the biggest star of the millennium, surpassing guys like Tom Cruise. Now, tell me more about his hands.”

  I couldn’t think straight with Drew’s hands slipping from my shoulders and tracing my curves in delicious slowness, coming to rest on my hips.

  “Just teasing. Can’t a girl have a little fun?” I bit back a groan as his thumb stroked through the thin chiffon.

  “Sure. I can think of plenty more ways.” He dropped a soft, lingering kiss on my lips and I leaned into him, grateful for the privacy of the extras’ tent, surprisingly empty at this time of day.

  I guess the devoted extras were practicing stuff like posing and preening and looking suitably glamorous with the hope of being promoted to a walk-on role or, better yet, a speaking part.

  Breaking the kiss with regret—ten minutes until showtime by the clock on the wall—I blinked to dispel the erotic fog that enveloped me whenever this guy got within a foot, and registered Rita and Rakesh were in a clinch of their own.

  “Nervous?” Drew cuddled me close and I lapped up the attention, blissfully calm within the circle of his arms.

  Until a horrendous, ear-splitting shriek pierced my ears and I glimpsed the horrified face of Mama Rama over Drew’s right shoulder.

  “What the—” Drew turned as three things happened simul-taneously: I shrugged out of his embrace, Rakesh nudged Rita behind him to shield her, and the incensed Mama Rama launched herself in my direction, landing a hard slap on my cheek before I could duck.

  “Ow!”

  “Bloody hell.” Drew tucked me under the protection of his arm. “Enough.”

  “Take it easy, Mom.” Rakesh grabbed the old cow and spun her around to face him while screening my stunned best friend.

  Rita had the sense not to speak. No point alienating her future mother-in-law for a small case of mistaken identity, though she did mouth ‘fuckity-fuck’ over Rakesh’s shoulder at me.

  “Let me go.” Mama Rama wrenched free of Rakesh’s grasp and straightened like a cobra ready to strike—with the same amount of venom in her eyes, directed at me.

  “How could you do this to my son? He’s a good boy, a respectful boy.” A bony finger jabbed at my face and Drew cuddled me closer. “You’ve brought shame on our family and yours, you ungrateful girl. And you, Mr. Drew.”

  She shook her head in a sorrowful gesture though her glare lost none of its poison. “What have you done?”

  Mama Rama collapsed at our feet, beating her chest and setting up a wail that could rival the loudest NYPD siren.

  “Shit,” I muttered, while Rakesh, stunned, stared at his mother prostrate in front of us.

  Senthil, who I’d only just noticed in the background alongside Pooh, Diva, and Shrew, stepped forward simultaneously with Rakesh and drew Mama to her feet.

  “Mom, this isn’t what you think.” Rakesh shot me an apologetic glance. It soothed my conscience at perpetuating this lie but didn’t do much for my stinging cheek. “Let me explain.”

  “No. I don’t want to hear.” Mama waved him away, clutching onto Senthil like a New York princess latches onto the last Birkin. “This is too much. She has brought disgrace on our family. I knew we shouldn’t have come.”

  Her dramatic sob bordered on staged. “We traveled all this way to meet Amrita’s parents and what do we find? Debauchery.” The sobs increased. “Disgusting.”

  She clung to Senthil, darting deadly glares at me as he held her close, murmuring platitudes.

  “Mom, listen to me—”

  “Who are you?” Mama ignored Rakesh and turned her attention to Rita, her puzzled frown deepening. “And why were you kissing my son? Chi, chi, chi,” she clucked in disgust, her horrified gaze swinging among the four of us.

  I held my breath as Rita stepped forward, placed her hands together, and gave a deferential little bow. “I’m Amrita Muthu, Mathaji. I’ve lied to you and it’s no fault of my friend’s. I’m sorry for all this trouble. It’s my doing and I’d like a chance to explain and beg your forgiveness.”

  Beg? Since when did the sassy Rita I know beg? Or call the cow Mom?

  To give her credit, she’d hit the right subservient note because Mama deflated.

  “What’s this nonsense?” Mama glared at me like I was the bad guy while risking uncertain glances in Rita’s direction.

  “Mom, she’s right.” Rakesh stepped forward and draped an arm around Rita’s shoulders. “Though I’m not going to let her take the blame for this. It’s my fault for not telling you the truth.”

  Rita stared at Rakesh with adoration and I was seriously impressed he wanted to be the fall guy for her scheme. Must be love.

  Drew cleared his throat with a discreet cough. “Why don’t we sit down, have a cup of tea, and sort this out?”

  Freaking British. Thinking they could solve the world’s problems with a cup of tea. In this case, I happened to agree with him. We could all do with a calming brew.

  “Good idea.” I stayed clear of Mama’s hard hand as I led the way to the trestle in a corner of the marquee.

  The motley crew in our very own Bollywood drama followed, though I could hear Mama’s furious mutterings disparaging all Indian kids in general, and her daughters’ low buzz as they assimilated the news.

  “Why don’t you leave this to Rita and Rakesh to clear up?” Drew pulled me aside as we reached the food. “You’re due on set in five minutes.”

  Damn. I’d been so swept up in the drama I’d forgotten my film debut and a chance at the easiest grand I’d ever get. I glanced at the clock, torn between wanting to flee or stick around and watch the fun.

  The latter won out.

  “I’ve got eight minutes and, realistically, round two between Mama versus the world isn’t going to last long. By the feral gleam in her eye, a TKO is on the cards.”

  Drew chuckled as he arranged cups and saucers. “Who’s going to wear the technical knockout? You, Rita, or her golden boy son?”

  “We’re all going down, though I’ll be damned if I lay on the canvas. I’m going out swinging.”

  “Shari—”

  I ignored Drew’s warning and swung back to face the maddening crowd, pasting a confident smile on my face. “Anyone for chai?”

  The Rama clan had discovered the truth earlier than expected and in less than ideal circumstances, considering Drew had been all over me and their son had been playing tonsil hockey with a girl they didn’t know. However, there was an upside. Rakesh and Rita had been coasting along, not making any tough decisions about their future, and this would change all that. Mama would see to it—and how.

  “I don’t want chai, I want the truth.” Mama stopped in front of Rakesh, who hadn’t released a shell-shocked Rita. “And I want it now.”

  I caught a quick flash of fear in Rita’s eyes. Not that I could blame her, considering Mama’s fighting stance: rigid neck, folded arms, feet apart, braced for confrontation, an angry Sumo ready for action.

  As Rakesh opened his mouth to respond, Rita placed a finger ove
r his lips and shook her head. “I need to do this. Please.”

  I’d never seen a guy melt but Rakesh did, his tall frame softening and all the tension seeping out of him at one, simple touch. That, combined with Rita’s absolute devotion told me these guys would make it. Love, marriage, kids, the works. A lump formed in my throat as I blinked back tears.

  Dammit, I wished they’d get this over with. I had a film to star in—who said being an extra had gone to my head?—and I didn’t have time for a makeup repair job beforehand.

  “I’m sorry, Mathaji. It’s my fault. I didn’t want to marry your son so I sent my friend, Shari, to India in my place. I wanted her to break off the engagement and sever all ties with your family. However, once she met you all, she couldn’t go through with it. You’re such a loving family and Rakesh impressed her so much she knew I had to meet him.”

  I gawked at Rita but she refused to look my way. Lucky, considering we would split our sides at the bullshit she was shoveling. Not that her lie was too far off the mark—the bit about Rakesh was spot-on. As for the Banana-Ramas being a loving family, I’d rather be raised in a nest of vipers than surrounded by Mama and her three cohorts.

  “I’m sorry for my deception. I need you to forgive me because I love your son very much and—”

  “You love me?” Rakesh gripped Rita’s arms and swung her to face him. “You mean it?”

  “You know I do.” Rita’s whispered response had everyone leaning forward to hear it.

  The happy couple fell into each other’s arms and sealed their love with a scorching kiss. Drew, Papa, and I clapped (guess the movie buffs in this crowd? Suckers for a happy ending every time), Mama’s expression softened, and the girls smiled.

  Drew tapped his Rolex in front of my face. “Four minutes.”

  “Thanks.” With determination I ignored the butterflies free-falling in my stomach as I fiddled with the sleeves of my salwar kameez. “Do I look okay?”

  “You’re gorgeous.” He dropped a lingering kiss on my lips. “Now go break a leg. I’ll be out in a second.”

  Casting one last look at the Rama drama, I waved and dashed out of the marquee, heading for Pravin and my date with film destiny.

  …

  My screen presence dazzled Pravin so much he plucked me from the forty extras in his Central Park sequence and thrust me into the limelight, pledging to make me a superstar.

  In my dreams.

  Instead, my film debut—and encore performance, as I didn’t see many job opportunities for an inexperienced extra in Indian films in New York—was anticlimactic as I waited for an hour, watching the masterji (dance master) put his lead charges through their paces. He bellowed orders, flapped his arms, and performed too many obscene hip-thrusting moves, a bad cross between Elvis and JLO.

  As I waited for my shot at stardom, I watched a scene being filmed. Things became interesting when the hero did a bit of chamcha—which literally means tablespoon—and ‘tablespooned’ himself quite snugly around another gorgeous heroine. I guess she didn’t like what he’d had for lunch because the closer he got, the more she shrugged, elbowed, and shoved him away. Probably exes. Or maybe he attended the Anjali school of curry consumption where garlic seemed to be the primary ingredient.

  When it was my turn, I hid in the last row of a large, clapping chorus that cheered as the hero and heroine rode off in a horse-drawn carriage. The scene shot in five takes, nice and quick according to the dancer next to me (an expert in these matters, considering this was her tenth extra’s role—she’d slept with the cameraman).

  Rita, Rakesh, and the Ramas hadn’t waited around, not that I’d expected them to, and as I came off set Drew welcomed me with open arms.

  “You were brilliant.”

  I snuggled into him, thrilled he’d shown up and stuck around until the end, knowing I shouldn’t feel this good wrapped in his arms. Yet going with the flow regardless. This was the new, improved Shari, remember? My resolve faded into oblivion the minute his lips brushed mine.

  “That good, huh?”

  “Better.” He draped an arm around my shoulders and led me toward the makeshift dressing room. “Have I told you how sexy you look in that Indian getup?”

  “No.” I batted my eyelashes, loving the falsies the makeup artist had pasted between my own. They’d fall off in the next few weeks but in the meantime I intended on making the most of the only enhanced part of my body. “You have a thing for Indian girls, huh?”

  “I’ve lived in the country on and off for the last five years, so you tell me.”

  “I’m only half-Indian, remember? That still turn you on?”

  His lips nuzzled the tender skin beneath my ear and I shuddered with expectation.

  And fear. Deeply-submerged, soul-destroying fear that watching Drew walk away would tear me apart.

  It shouldn’t feel like this. I’d known what I was getting into at the start: liking a guy who traveled extensively but was based in Mumbai and London, two cities that couldn’t be farther from NYC if they tried. It should’ve been easy: having fun, growing closer, saying good-bye.

  I’d known the fantasy would end in the next few weeks. So why did the thought of losing Drew leave me absolutely petrified?

  “Everything about you turns me on, Miss Jones. How about we head back to my place and I show you exactly how much?”

  His eyes, the exact color of the clear Manhattan sky today, gleamed with wicked intent and I smiled.

  “You’re on.” I slipped my hand into his, quashing my fears, eradicating my doubts, focusing on the moment. “And if you’re really lucky I’ll keep this outfit on just for you.”

  He growled. “Don’t expect to keep it on for long.”

  I laughed. “Let’s go.”

  We strolled through the park hand-in-hand, two people with loads in common, living worlds apart.

  Life sucked.

  Big time.

  …

  We headed to Drew’s place, the penthouse suite at The Plaza.

  I sure knew how to pick them; I just couldn’t hold onto them.

  In the week since we’d started sleeping together—not that you could call what we did during nocturnal hours sleeping—I’d stayed over once, only to be freaked out by the butler ironing all my clothes (lingerie included) and blown away by room service, which managed to find us authentic samosas and ladoos at two a.m.

  We’d barely made it to the suite clothes intact when a call came through for Drew. Considering how often his damn cell had interrupted us, the timing of being an IT/media mogul/high-flyer left a lot to be desired.

  He winced and covered the phone with his hand. “Sorry, have to take this. Conference call between CEOs in London, Mumbai, and here.”

  “How long will it take?” I pretend pouted while toying with the neckline of my top, enjoying the carnal gleam in his eyes as they riveted to my breasts beneath.

  “I’ll make it snappy.” He winked and headed into the office off the main room while I sat on an elegant chaise longue and flipped through the latest edition of Vogue, trying to ignore the irrational niggle of worry I would never be a priority in this guy’s life.

  I turned a few pages when the doorbell rang and I hoped it wasn’t Bert the butler returning to iron more panties. When the door didn’t open via Bert’s key card, I crossed the floor to answer it. “May I help you?”

  Drew’s visitor didn’t respond. She gawked at my outfit, not liking what she saw if the tiny wrinkles on the bridge of her aristocratic nose were any indication.

  I placed her in her mid-seventies, with an arrogant air that came with old money. Her powder-blue suit with cream lace inlay screamed Chanel and the gorgeous matching bag and shoes were Prada—I’d drooled over them in the window the other day. With her coiffed pale blonde hair, powdered face, and disap
proving frown, she looked like a cross between the queen and Barbara Walters.

  “Do you have the right room?” I prompted, secretly relieved Queenie had knocked on the door and not some tall, voluptuous blonde. If Drew had to have visitors, I’d prefer old and wrinkly to young and perky any day.

  “Is Drew Lansford in?” Her toff English accent sounded a hundred times more stuck-up than Drew’s, and she tilted her nose higher and clutched her purse tighter as if I were a bag-snatcher.

  Queenie thought I was scum? Two could play this game.

  “He might be. Who should I say is calling?” My imitation of a posh accent was lousy at best and Queenie didn’t seem impressed.

  “His mother.”

  Oh shit.

  His mother. Two words guaranteed to strike fear into any girl’s heart, especially if aforementioned girl was bonking buddies with the uptight mother’s son. And if aforementioned girl had just tried to rip off Mother’s posh accent.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  “Please come in.” I tried my best apologetic smile and threw the door open, stepping aside to let Her Majesty in.

  Drew’s mother—I couldn’t think of her as a mom because “mom” implied warm and friendly, two things this woman definitely wasn’t—sailed across the threshold without a backward glance, leaving a powerful waft of Christian Dior’s Dune behind her.

  She surveyed the room, ascertained Drew wasn’t hiding behind the plush velvet drapes, and turned back to me. “Where’s my son?”

  “Taking a business call. He shouldn’t be long.”

  “Oh.”

  How Queenie could instill so much disapproval into one tiny syllable I’d never know.

  “Would you care for some tea?” I said, sounding like the subservient serf she obviously thought I was.

  “No, thank you.”

  So much for the universal English icebreaker.

  “Please sit down and make yourself comfortable.”

  Ignoring my forced smile, she perched on the edge of the couch, clutching her bag and eyeing me with barely concealed contempt.

  Jeez, and I’d thought posing as Rita for Mama Rama had been tough.