Busted in Bollywood Read online

  “Not likely.” I needed to distract Anjali before she had Drew and me halfway up the aisle. “Do you have any almond barfi? I’d kill for a piece.”

  Nodding, Anjali pulled out the second box from the bottom and ripped off the sealed wrapper before I could say flee the ghee.

  I took a piece and nibbled on the ghee-laden delicacy while Anjali mumbled something sounding suspiciously like ‘ring Drew, good husband material’ as she tut-tutted under her breath. I pretended not to understand, smiling and nodding as if she spoke Hindi rather than English.

  Anjali was right about one thing. I’d have to face Drew at the wedding next week and had scheduled a meeting for tomorrow. He’d be busy brokering a deal until then and I’d be busy plucking up courage for the confrontation.

  We were from different worlds, different socioeconomic backgrounds, and as much as I’d like to think my cultural background didn’t mean anything, in Drew’s world it would. Not immediately, but what if I were to really fall, to love him unequivocally, only to find it meant more to him than me?

  I couldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it.

  In a way, hearing about Anjali’s failed romance with Senthil only exacerbated my feeling of inevitability. If their grand passion, arranged or otherwise, had failed, what hope did I have of succeeding with so many obstacles?

  Maybe I was latching onto excuses to end it, maybe I was giving up without a fight, but I couldn’t get in any deeper.

  I had to make a clean break, do the ‘let’s be friends’ speech, and act like it wasn’t the hardest thing I’d had to do in a long time.

  As if reading my mind, Anjali frowned mid-bite. “Call him.”

  “I will. Now, tell me about the wedding.”

  Predictably, she launched into an elaborate regaling of Rita’s wedding plans as I listened with half an ear, nodding in all the right places, smiling and encouraging, while I mentally rehearsed what the hell I’d say to Drew.

  chapter thirteen

  I’d used up my bravado quota in organizing to meet Drew eight days after the Lady Muck showdown but had taken the wuss way out in arranging to rendezvous at the local Starbucks, of all places.

  Brave? No.

  Immature? Yes.

  Hoping the caffeine would give me more of a buzz than seeing him again? Maybe.

  I’d chosen neutral meeting ground for several reasons:

  The apartment held too many memories, most of them involving stripping and canoodling and doing it every which way, and I didn’t need a reminder of how hot the guy was when he’d be right in front of me looking way too doable.

  A public forum was a safer option in case he wanted to shout at me for calling Lady Muck nasty names.

  I’d be less inclined to cry in public, a distinct possibility if he started spouting all that forever nonsense again.

  I had intense cravings for Starbucks chai, a new addiction ranking alongside mojitos and cheesecake (extremely serious).

  I sipped at my chai and snuggled into an oversized armchair nearest to the cake counter, people-watching. Students with their book-laden arms and bright-eyed enthusiasm, frazzled moms downing giant cappuccinos in record time while repeatedly glancing at their watches and talking in too-loud voices about lack of sleep and diaper brands, and businessmen sneaking away from the office, hiding behind newspapers, trying to look important but spoiling the effect by reading the funnies rather than the financial news.

  Through this melting pot of New York Starbucks culture strode Drew, looking ten times better than I remembered. As he drew closer, his suit fitting like a well-made glove, his blue eyes so much brighter and sharper, his lopsided, uncertain grin made the chai slop sickeningly in my stomach. Make that a hundred times better.

  Oh God. I still had it bad.

  All my Oprah-like self talk, all the Dr Phil-isms to confront him, demand the truth, do what was right for me, etc.… would mean nothing in the face of Drew’s inherent, natural ability to charm the pants off me. Literally.

  Dragging in a deep breath, I squared my shoulders. I had to stand strong. I had to do this. For me.

  “Thanks for coming,” I rushed in, awkward and gauche and out of my depth as he leaned forward and brushed the faintest of kisses on my cheek.

  The awkwardness vanished the moment his lips touched my skin, replaced by a surge of lust/like/affection (a startling combination of all three) that blindsided me quicker than Mama Rama’s slap.

  “You look great,” he said, slipping into the armchair opposite—deliberately placed there by moi, not wanting to chance a stray encounter with his thigh brushing mine or his hand touching my arm as we talked.

  “Thanks.” Mortified, I felt the heat surging up my neck, burning my cheeks, a blazing signal to my utter sappiness when it came to this guy.

  I’d aimed for a casual ‘I don’t care anymore and I’m not trying to impress you’ look but pride had prompted me to wear my taupe Stella McCartney ensemble, the one Rita said made me look like a goddess. If I was going out in a blaze of glory, better show the guy what he’d be missing out on.

  “Would you like another chai?” He pushed a spike of hair off his forehead in a familiar gesture, making my breath catch and my lungs seize.

  Damn, this was going to be tough.

  “That’d be great.”

  He smiled, no doubt amused by my scintillating conversation, which had consisted of ‘thanks’ and ‘great’ up to that point. I’d known this’d be hard but seeing Drew in his sexy, slightly mussed glory packed a powerful punch that had me staggering on the ropes.

  While I struggled not to check out his butt as he ordered at the counter—and lost—I marshaled my thoughts. I should’ve been angrier, more confrontational from the get-go. Maybe the weeklong break hadn’t been a good idea. All the anger and self-righteous indignation had leeched out of me.

  “Here you go.” He placed a cup of steaming, fragrant chai in front of me and pulled his chair around next to mine, undoing my carefully constructed no-physical-contact arrangement. Crap.

  I smiled my thanks and picked up the tea, hoping to hide behind the cup while thinking of something fabulously witty or clever to say.

  “Now we’ve got past the awkward stage, how about you tell me what the hell is going on?” His words didn’t hold rancor and his expression appeared calm, though the shadows shifting and darkening his eyes made me wish I’d stuck to texting for this entire conversation.

  “We’re past the awkward stage? Could’ve fooled me.”

  “This doesn’t have to be awkward.” He sat back, his relaxed posture belied by the steely glint in his glare.

  “You lied to me—”

  “You ran out—”

  We both stopped and I cringed at the all-around uneasiness. It wasn’t getting any better. It would never get any better until I took the plunge and leapt in.

  “You first,” he said, sipping his Earl Grey. Pity tea, the British panacea for all ills, couldn’t fix this situation.

  “You lied to me. You’re not just an IT magnate, you’re a lord.”

  He didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, his coolness infuriating. “My title has nothing to do with my everyday life. I’ve never used it, probably never will unless I retire to Yorkshire and live out my days in a dilapidated old castle.”

  His attempt at honesty-cum-humor didn’t help.

  “You own a castle?”

  “More like a decrepit pile of rocks that’s been in my family for generations. Anyway, what’s this got to do with us? We were having a good time, and the next thing I know Mother shows up and you won’t speak to me.”

  I accepted his logic about the title, but I still didn’t like the fact he was a lord and I’d never live up to familial expectations that went with it. Technically, he hadn’t lied to me, he’d omitte
d to tell me everything about himself, not a crime as he knew next to nothing about me. Apart from vital things like how I liked my eggs in the morning—scrambled (and unfertilized), my addiction to chai, my love of films, my awakening interest in India and its mouth-watering cuisine. Trivial stuff, inconsequential stuff, stuff you didn’t base a future on.

  Then I remembered the way he’d rub my feet exactly how I liked it—firm pressure, no tickles—how he passed the condiments tray without my having to ask, how he soaped my back and washed my hair with tenderness in the shower, how we’d talk into the wee small hours, cuddled on the sofa, dissecting an old movie before agreeing to disagree.

  I was deluding myself. He knew me, knew things about me no other man had, including Tate. That’s why I’d been so pissed at the thought of him lying to me. I’d opened up, given him a part of myself, and he’d withheld. Not fair.

  I deserved better.

  “Did your mother tell you what we talked about?”

  His lips thinned, drawing my attention to his mouth, reminding me of how damn good those lips were at navigating their way around my body. “She was pretty pissed, that’s all I know.” He grabbed my hand. Bad move. Catastrophic move, but I couldn’t slip out of his grip no matter how hard I tugged. “Forget whatever she said.”

  “Forget?” My voice—along with my blood pressure—shot up like steam toward the ceiling from the nearby espresso machine and I snatched my hand out of his. “It’s natural you’d defend her but you could at least hear me out.”

  Several people glanced our way and I calmed with effort, digging my fingernails into the chair’s leather to get a grip on my temper.

  “I didn’t mean to make light of the situation. I just want to put this behind us and move on.”

  “Move on to what? You’re heading back to India soon. Or is it England, to marry your fiancée?”

  “So that’s what this is about.” He took another infuriatingly slow sip of tea. “Let me guess. Mother mentioned her dream about me marrying Amelia and you jumped to all the wrong conclusions and have wasted a week of our time together because of it.”

  “Like you didn’t know.” Theoretically, I accepted Rita’s logical explanation. Emotionally, it still bugged the crap out of me I hadn’t heard the truth from him.

  “I didn’t know,” he said, staring me in the eye, willing me to believe, yet I couldn’t give in that easily.

  “Then why haven’t you pushed to tell me? You’d have to know I’d be upset to run out on you, yet you’ve been happy for me to call the shots, to wait around to hear why I was upset, to meet me here to do it?”

  My irrational accusations should’ve got a reaction out of him. Instead, he shook his head like I’d disappointed him in some way. Better now than later.

  “You’re trying to pick a fight. I’m not buying into it. You’re a grown woman capable of making her own decisions. You chose not to see me, I respected that. Yeah, I knew something major had pissed you off. Yeah, I knew my mother had a hand in it. I called you countless times, I texted you, and you wanted time out. I gave you that because I like you. A lot. Or are you so caught up in living out your own little melodrama you can’t see what’s right in front of you?”

  Feeling smaller than a sugar granule stuck on my teaspoon, I released my death grip on the chair. “What’s that?”

  “A guy who’s crazy about you.”

  My heart flip-flopped and tumbled and danced for joy but I wouldn’t be distracted. This could only end one way. “A guy who lives on the other side of the planet.”

  He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “A guy who’s mobile and who owns his own plane.” Not a trace of smugness or ego, making him all the more appealing.

  His knee brushed mine, unsettling and distracting. “A guy who’s expected to marry and produce a castle full of little Lord Fontleroys.”

  He smiled. “A guy who has no intention of getting married anytime soon and if he did, he’d probably chat with you about it first.”

  What did he mean by that? I’d be the first to know he’d be tying the knot with some Amelia-clone or I’d be the one he had in mind? Damn, he was good at this.

  My eyes narrowed. “A guy who’s not into commitment?”

  “A guy who’s willing to discuss what it means with the right woman.” His stare bore into me, loaded, unwavering.

  “A guy who hints at forever and doesn’t follow through?” I held my breath after delivering the last one. Forever was a long time and the way I saw it, the F-word didn’t belong in the same sentence as Shari and Drew.

  “A guy who wants to explore all the possibilities that forever may entail.”

  Not a bad response.

  “With you.” He laid a hand on my knee and gave a gentle squeeze, his reassurance making my heart roll over.

  Great response. Freaking fantastic response. A response that pretty much shelved my ditch-him-now-before-the-bastard-ditches-you plan.

  However, I couldn’t ignore one of Mom’s many mismatched clichés: ‘where’s there’s smoke, there’s a raging inferno.’ Lady Muck must’ve had some reason to imply Drew was almost engaged to the Greyhart bimbo and I had to know more.

  “Why did your mom tell me you and Amelia are engaged?” I scooted back a fraction and he removed his hand. Worse luck. I sipped at my chai, feigning nonchalance, as if I didn’t care about his answer.

  By the knowing glint in his eyes, I guess my acting skills weren’t as impressive as I’d hoped. “Amelia and I grew up together. Our families are friends, we’re the same age, so we hung out. As we got older we used each other as last-minute dates for social functions and I guess Mother read too much into it.”

  His quick look away alerted me to the fact there was more to this convenient buddy-buddy story.

  “And?”

  “And what?” His sheepish half-grin would’ve melted my heart in the past. Not anymore. Shari the Sap had taken a permanent vacation and Shari the Ball-breaker was back in town.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” I set my mug down on the coffee table, reluctant to hang onto anything that could be used as a weapon in the next few seconds, depending what he divulged.

  He sighed but didn’t look nervous or remorseful or guilty as I’d expected. He sat back, way too comfortable, way too cute, before looking me straight in the eyes. “I might’ve fueled Mother’s assumptions about marrying Amelia one day.”

  “I see.” Where was that mug when I needed it? A heavy piece of china would’ve made a great flying missile to knock some sense into him.

  “Amelia and I used to joke around in front of our folks if we were single by the time we were forty, we’d get married. Because Mother believed it, she stopped hassling me. So whenever Amelia and I get together in her presence, we play up the ‘we’re going to the chapel and we’re going to get married’ charade. It means nothing and it keeps Mother off my back. That’s it.”

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. “Like what I was doing with Rakesh to keep Rita’s mom appeased?”

  “Exactly.”

  I searched for some hint of duplicity, some glimmer of a lie, some indication he was trying to dupe me. In reality, I was looking for any excuse to end it and get the hell away from this guy who had the power to melt me like the Wicked Witch of the West beneath a deluge of water.

  He took hold of my hand, intertwining his fingers between mine, and I enjoyed the contact for a moment. I’d missed him, missed this, the simple pleasure of holding hands with a special guy. “I bet you’re thinking it’s immature behavior from a grown man but you don’t know my mother.”

  “Actually, I think I do.” I eased my hand out of his, missing his comforting touch no matter how brief it’d been.

  He frowned, staring at his hand, as if not quite believing I’d have the audacity to release it wh
en he was practically down on his knees begging forgiveness. “What did she say to you exactly? I questioned her at length but a pack of mules has nothing on Mother when she’s in one of her moods.”

  “You really want to know?”

  He nodded, that damn lock of hair falling over his forehead, making my fingers itch to reach out and smooth it back.

  I shrugged, knowing the truth wouldn’t make or break us. He had a right to know Mommy Dearest deserved the names I’d called her and more. “Trashy, half-caste slut was the main gist of it.”

  “Fuck.” Drew paled, his lips compressed in a hard, thin line and a deep frown furrowing his brow. “I had no idea it was that bad.”

  “Now you know.” I picked at a loose thread on the armchair’s seat cushion, wondering why I didn’t feel better after showing up his mother for what she was. I’d been so furious when I’d stormed out of The Plaza I could’ve easily driven a stake through the old vampire’s heart. Yet outing Lady Muck to her son didn’t bring the peace I’d hoped for. In fact, it made me churlish, like a little girl tattling on the school bully.

  “I’m so sorry.” He reached out, his thumb brushing my hairline and sending delightful shivers skittering down my spine.

  I allowed myself the luxury of savoring his caress, wondering where I’d find the strength to end this. “I’m a big girl; I can take it.”

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with that prejudiced bullshit.”

  “I didn’t.” In favor of full disclosure, I came clean. “I called her a racist old bitch.”

  His brows shot heavenward, the corners of his mouth curving with amusement. “So that’s what had her so pissed. She would’ve hated being called old.”

  I winced at his lame joke. “I’m not proud of what I said.”

  “Considering the load of bollocks she heaped on you?” He cringed. “I’m ashamed of her.”

  My shoulders slumped with the added guilt of coming between him and Lady Muck. “She’s a mom. She’s overprotective.”

  “Still doesn’t give her the right to treat you like that.” He shook his head. “I meant what I said earlier, about exploring forever with you.”