Busted in Bollywood Page 22

  I remembered. I’d demanded answers, he’d explained, and the make-up sex had been memorable. Heat seeped into my cheeks at the scorching recollection.

  “That night I was with you when something came up? My assistant called, saying I had urgent business to attend to at the office so I dropped you off and headed there. The urgent business happened to be the interfering old biddy sitting on that sofa over there. Of course, Mother didn’t tell me Amelia was in town or she’d been conveniently invited in another blatant attempt to push us up the aisle, so I spent a polite hour in their company before heading back here.”

  He held up a finger when his mom opened her mouth to respond. “Mother arranged for us to have supper at the Waldorf. I’d already taken a raincheck on our date so I went along. I hadn’t seen Amelia in months and haven’t seen her since. That’s it. No cozy meeting, no secret liaison, no pre-planning. Isn’t that right, Mother?”

  He swung to face Lady Muck, his face thunderous. If Dashing Drew was seriously suave, Dastardly Drew was scarily sexy.

  His mom lifted her head and I knew she wouldn’t back down without a fight. “You’re blind, dear.” She stabbed a finger at the picture in the newspaper. “You can’t deny Amelia’s feelings for you. Look at her expression. She’s smitten. Surely you return the sentiment—”

  “Amelia’s smitten all right.” Drew touched my hand and winked. I didn’t need the reassurance. Looked like Rita’s wild theory had been right and Drew wasn’t the object of Amelia’s affections. “Here’s a heads up, Mother. Amelia is dating some guy half her age. He’s all she talks about. That look in the photo? Probably waxing lyrical about her toy boy while you visited the Ladies. Satisfied?”

  I stifled a grin at the strangled “Yes” from Lady Muck’s mouth.

  “Now that’s out of the way, it’s time to get a few things clear, Mother.” Drew glowered as he slid an arm around my shoulders. I straightened, proud to be by his side, part of me never wanting to leave. “Firstly, Amelia and I played a role around you all these years to keep you off my back. Secondly, Shari is the special woman in my life and you owe her an apology. And thirdly, you tell me right now what the hell is behind this bizarre vendetta of yours. You’ve never been racist in your life and I want to know what’s gotten into you.”

  “Leave me alone, I’m tired,” she said, her hands waving ineffectually in front of her, fluttering in helpless circles before coming to rest in her lap. In that instant, I almost felt sorry for her—almost, but not quite—as her stately frame crumpled before our eyes, turning her from an elegant older woman to a wizened crone sinking into the corner of the sofa.

  Helpless, Drew glanced at me and I gave him a gentle push in her direction.

  I was a feisty New York City girl, able to leap tall buildings and guys in a single bound, while my nemesis lay huddled in a pathetic heap. I could be gallant in the face of her humiliating defeat. Besides, I knew what it felt like to be down and out, and, at that moment, his mom’s pathetic slump surpassed me at my lowest.

  “Mother, tell me.” Drew spoke softly, as if to a child, and my heart clenched at the myriad of emotions playing across his face: anger warring with disappointment, fear with concern.

  I hoped she wasn’t faking, because if she was I’d never forgive the old witch for putting the guy I cared for through that.

  “Your father had a mistress, a half-caste woman, part African, part Spanish, a gorgeous coffee-skinned thing that stole his heart and effectively ended our marriage.”

  Drew’s stunned expression mirrored mine and I plopped into the chair I’d vacated earlier, knowing I shouldn’t be privy to this but unable to look away, like a horror-struck passerby at an accident.

  “But you and Dad were married for forty years before he died,” Drew said, laying a tentative hand over his mother’s.

  By his fleeting guilt, I could swear he wasn’t as surprised by the news of his dad’s mistress as he first made out. Perhaps his stunned expression was more about his mother knowing and how she’d kept it secret all these years.

  “A sham, all of it. A cold, lifeless marriage for the sake of appearances. That woman had your father’s love and I had nothing. I hated her.” Her voice hitched and I froze, trying not to squirm when she raised accusing eyes to me. “I didn’t want the same thing happening to Amelia. That’s why I said those horrible things. To get rid of you before the damage was done. But I’ve made a mistake.”

  Unsure whether I should respond, I settled for an imperceptible nod and deferred to Drew, who took hold of her hands and squeezed. “Yes, you have. I’m sorry about Dad and your marriage but it doesn’t excuse what you put Shari through. Isn’t there something else you’d like to say?”

  I would never know if she would’ve stooped so low as to apologize to me without Drew’s prompting but I didn’t care. She had demons of her own to conquer, that was punishment enough.

  She released Drew’s hands and stood, circumnavigating the coffee table to stand in front of me with hand outstretched. “I’m sorry, dear. I was very rude and you didn’t deserve it. I hope you can forgive me. Considering our mutual regard for my son, we may have more in common than I first thought.”

  She glanced fondly at Drew, who watched us with bemusement, as if he expected me to give his mother a hug before throwing her over my shoulder in a mock Chan move.

  I stood and shook Lady Lansford’s hand. (Abrupt change in title but I couldn’t keep calling her sarcastic pet names, even in my own head, after her apology. Didn’t seem right.)

  If the regal old duck could apologize, I had to do a bit of groveling myself. “And I’m sorry for calling you names.”

  To my surprise, a glimmer of amusement sparked her eyes. “You know, I was most insulted by you calling me old.”

  “Drew said as much.” I smiled as our hands dropped, wondering if the astute gleam in her eyes was that of a woman who’d manipulated a situation to her advantage or that of a woman who’d come to her senses. I’d probably never know and I didn’t care.

  “Mother, I need a moment alone with Shari if you don’t mind.”

  I watched Lady Lansford’s mouth tighten, expecting her to say ‘actually I do’ in that posh accent. Instead, she inclined her head toward me in a polite nod, waved to Drew, and headed into the suite’s den, shutting the door.

  “Sorry you had to hear all that stuff about your dad.” My apology ran deep, because seeing his mom’s obvious pain rammed home what I’d been doing with Tate. I’d been the other woman. I’d believed his lies about his supposedly rotten marriage, letting my sympathy for him assuage my guilt. Guilt that now flooded back, seeing the devastation it had wreaked on Drew’s mom.

  Had Tate’s wife known about his infidelity or had she been blinded by his lies, too? For her sake, I hoped she lived in ignorant bliss because the ramifications of the role I’d played in that marriage was something I had to live with every day.

  “You knew, didn’t you?”

  He nodded, grimaced. “I suspected.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “Timing, I guess.” He dragged a hand through his hair, rumpling it. “I only discovered the affair a year or so before he died.”

  “Did you confront him?”

  “Yeah. The old bastard had the audacity to paint Mother in a bad light. Said she drove him to it, he’d never been happy, sought affection elsewhere because he got none at home.” His fists clenched at his sides and his mouth twisted. “I blamed him, sure, but what kind of woman puts up with some cheating fool using her? Mortifyingly stupid.”

  My guilt coalesced into a hard, indigestible ball stuck in my chest, suffocating.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I paced a few steps, dragged air into my lungs, shaking out my arms like a prizefighter about to enter the ring.

  “You’re scaring
me.” He touched my arm and I stopped, knowing I’d have to tell the truth if we were to have any chance at a future, but hating what it could do to us. He was so moral, so upstanding, so fair. What would he think of me once he learned the truth?

  I inhaled and blew out a long, slow breath. “I was mortifyingly stupid.”

  A deep groove slashed his brow and I longed to smooth it away.

  “That jerk we ran into at the bar? Married.”

  I couldn’t bear to see the censure in his eyes so I stared at the gold light fixture over his left shoulder. “I knew but it didn’t matter because I bought his sob story. The usual ‘wife doesn’t understand me, love me, come near me, our marriage is platonic for appearances’ bullshit. I bought it because I thought I loved him and we were happy together and my life was easier being with him. We practically lived together, we worked together, and I had no reason not to believe him.”

  “What happened?”

  “His wife got pregnant.”

  He swore and I reiterated the sentiment. “Yeah, he took advantage of me but I let him. I believed him. And I was selfish for not thinking about his wife.”

  I dredged up the courage to eyeball him, not surprised by the condemnation I glimpsed. “I’m not proud of what I did and seeing your mom’s pain reinforced what an idiot I was, putting up with Tate’s toxic shit and not caring about anyone else.”

  The stern lines bracketing his mouth faded as I dared to hope. “Is it too late to take back the mortifyingly stupid comment?”

  “Why? I deserved it.”

  He shook his head. “You deserved a guy who respected you enough to tell you the truth.”

  I opened my mouth to self-flagellate further but he silenced me with a finger against my lips.

  “That bastard used you. Are you guilty by association? Probably. But you could only go on what he told you and if those were a bunch of lies, that’s his fault, not yours.”

  “So you don’t think I’m a bad person?”

  His expression softened as he cupped my cheek. “I think you’re a great person.”

  I fell in love with him a little bit more at that moment.

  Maybe a lot.

  He hadn’t judged me or berated me; he’d accepted me, faults and all.

  This one was a keeper.

  Only problem was, how to keep him when he’d be flitting back to India shortly? Needing to change the subject before I blurted my feelings, I jerked my thumb toward the door. “Will your mom be okay? Perhaps you should go comfort her.”

  “You’re rather magnanimous.”

  I chuckled. “She wasn’t that bad once she started groveling.”

  “A rare sight, believe me.” He smiled. “I’ll leave her for a bit. Besides, I wouldn’t put it past her to pull the sympathy act just to look good out of all this. For all I know, she might’ve been onto the sly codger for years and is using this as an excuse for the shabby way she treated you. She’s pretty headstrong, and hates being wrong.”

  “I kind of got that impression.”

  He pointed at the newspaper and the den door, encompassing the dramas of the last half hour. “Sorry you had to put up with all that.”

  “You’re forgiven,” I said, snuggling into his arms and letting his scent infuse my senses and calm me better than a shot of valerian. Calm was good. Calm would keep me grounded when he left. Calm would fortify me in the lonely months to come, when I rehashed every reason why we couldn’t be together and how I shouldn’t have fallen for him in the first place.

  “Prove it.”

  I kissed him without hesitation. Not surprisingly, the kiss quickly escalated to a hot meshing of lips and tongues, notching up my temperature, feeding my desperation to ease the burning ache I’d never experienced until this guy.

  “What’ll Mommy Dearest think?” I managed to gasp out when we came up for air, my fingers bunching his shirt, wishing I could pop the buttons in one, swift rip.

  “Don’t know, don’t care.” He tunneled his fingers through my hair, making me shiver with the sensual pleasure of it. “Where were we?”

  “About to head to my place if you think your mom’s fine? And only if you’re interested—”

  “She’s fine. She probably has her ear pressed to the door and if she wasn’t fine we’d hear about it.”

  He released me long enough to cup his hands around his mouth. “Mother, I’m taking Shari home. See you later.”

  Much later, if I had a say.

  …

  “Want to know a secret?”

  I braced for the worst. Secret fiancée? Secret family? Secret fetish? If Drew divulged anything less dramatic, I could deal with it.

  Considering we’d discussed the fake fiancée, I scratched that off my list and waited.

  “You’ll tell me eventually.”

  He laughed and hugged me. If I were any closer I’d be on his lap rather than the limo seat next to him. “You’re no fun. I expected you to pester me.”

  I shrugged, nonchalant on the outside, dying of curiosity on the inside.

  “Fine, I won’t tell you.”

  I elbowed him.

  He laughed. “I’ll show you.”

  He tapped the partition, waiting until it lowered before telling the driver to take the next left. I hadn’t been noting the surroundings, what with the serious make-out session in the back seat since we’d left The Plaza, and as I glanced around I didn’t have a clue where we were.

  “You’re not abducting me? Whisking me away to have your nefarious way with me? Making me take a Pilates class with Amelia—”

  As a silencing technique, his kiss effectively shut me up and wiped my mind.

  The limo slowed, preventing us from picking up where we’d left off and I craned my neck, confused by the dingy street, mollified by the sidewalks teeming with people carrying takeout bags.

  “Where are we?”

  “Best Indian snack shop in NYC.”

  He had me at Indian snack shop.

  “Want to come in or wait here?”

  My stomach rumbled. “What do you think?”

  He chucked me under the chin. “I love a woman with a good appetite.”

  I leaned into him and nuzzled his neck. “We’re talking about food, right?”

  “For now.” His lips brushed mine and I forgot to breathe.

  “If we stock up quick, we can satisfy both those insatiable appetites of yours,” he whispered against the side of my mouth and I almost skipped the Indian snacks. Almost.

  “Come on, I’m starving.”

  He held the door open for me and gripped my hand as I stepped onto the sidewalk. Immediately jostled by the bustling hordes, the rustle of plastic bags banging against my legs, stray elbows, and curry powder aroma heavy in the air instantly transported me back to Mumbai.

  “Can’t believe you’ve never been to Sassoon’s,” he said, tugging me toward the nearest doorway, leading into a brightly lit shop.

  “I can’t believe it either,” I said, stepping into the shop and feeling like I’d come home.

  The aromas hit me first and I inhaled deeply, the heady mix of cumin and mustard seeds and garam masala making me salivate. Food covered every surface, from the samosa-filled platters on the spotless stainless steel counters to the layered shelves in glass cabinets lining every wall. I didn’t know where to look first: the tiffin snacks, the street vendor food, or the sweets, arranged in towering pyramids that made my waist as well as my eyes bulge by looking.

  “What do you fancy?”

  “Apart from you?”

  He squeezed my hand. “I love a good comeback. But right this minute, I want you to make a fast choice so we can head to your place, where I’m going to—”

  He ducked down and whispered in
my ear exactly what he was going to do. In exquisite, erotic detail.

  I gulped, the heat from ghee sizzling in kadais nothing to the heat surging through me.

  “Choose. Quickly.”

  I didn’t have to be told twice. I’d made my choices by the time we reached the counter a long five minutes later.

  “You choose savory, I’ll grab sweets, my treat,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze before he released it and moved down the counter, looking delightfully out of place in his suit, tall and commanding and utterly gorgeous.

  My stomach flipped—not from hunger—as he sensed my stare and half-turned, his lop-sided smile making me want to shove aside the people separating us and fling myself into his arms.

  I was in over my head with this one.

  Floundering and yearning and craving a happily-ever-after that probably wasn’t feasible.

  With a wistful sigh I swiveled toward the counter and ordered singharas (Bengali version of a samosa), masala vada (deep-fried spicy lentil snacks), vegetable bhaji (vegetables mixed with chickpea flour and fried), shrimp pakoras (same as bhaji but with shrimp), kachoris (fried flat bread stuffed with spicy dahl), and aloo tikki (potato patties).

  Enough food to keep us fed for ages. Enough food to keep us locked away in my apartment without having to venture out.

  My shoulders sagged as I snagged the heavy bags a second before Drew joined me.

  I eyed the boxes of sweets stacked in his arms and laughed. “A man after my own heart.”

  He shrugged. “Didn’t want to leave the apartment for a while.”

  I jiggled the bags. “Same here.”

  His eyes darkened with passion and my body buzzed in anticipation. “Let’s go.”

  I’d wanted to memorize the route from the shop to my apartment so I could revisit but the fifteen-minute limo ride passed in a blur of unbridled tension and loaded glances and whispered promises.

  By the time we made it back to my brownstone I could barely stand, my knees wobbling with the thought of what was to come. Admirably chivalrous, Drew managed to hold the bags, juggle the sweet boxes, and hold my hand as we stumbled up the steps, through the main door, and into the elevator.