Busted in Bollywood (7 page)

I slipped from the room and padded upstairs, craving a mojito. After the night I’d had I deserved a drink. Hell, I deserved a whole damn bar.

I settled for a cyber drink with my long lost pal, the same one I’d personally kill when I returned to New York for inviting me into this mess in the first place. Though that wasn’t entirely true. I’d made my clichéd bed. I had to lie in it. Complete with geckos falling from the ceiling, mosquitoes eating me alive, and the five a.m. wake-up call from the sitar-playing beggar next door.

The mail icon blinked as I powered up the computer. I clicked on Outlook, eager to get a taste of New York via my ex-best friend, but as I registered the sender, my heart sank.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

Subject: Robbie

Dear Ms. Jones,

Who knew I’d have the honor of meeting another star in the making tonight? You would do justice to a role in the next Bollywood movie I’m backing so if you’d like to audition for a part, please present yourself at the studios tomorrow at three sharp. I’ll send a car for you, and feel free to invite your ‘fiancé.’

I’m positive we’ll have much to talk about, what with our mutual regard for Robbie Williams and his music.

We have another thing in common and that’s my friend, Rakesh. I don’t like game-playing so make sure you turn up at the studio.

We need to talk.

At your service,

Drew Lansford

I read the email twice before stabbing at the
delete
key, breaking a nail in the process.

Who the hell did this guy think he was?
At your service,
my ass. Considering his business resources, made sense he’d figured out my identity and email address.

First Rakesh, now Drew. Regular Sherlock and Watson, those two.

Drew thought I was actress material?

Come tomorrow at three, I’d give him a performance he’d never forget.

chapter four

I woke to the sounds of the Punjabi sweetshop owner abusing a customer in rapid Hindi, a squawking rooster losing a fight with a rabid dog, and Anjali berating Buddy for missing a spot while polishing the car. Gotta love Mumbai mornings.

I stretched and rolled out of bed, tangled in the mosquito net like every morning since I’d arrived. Damn useless thing if the number of angry red splotches on my legs were any indication. Like Anjali, the mosquitoes had a tendency toward feeding frenzies, too.

Heading for the computer, I sat and typed as fast as my fingers could fly before I changed my mind. Last night I’d contemplated giving Rita an edited version or blurting the truth.

I decided on the latter.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT: Mix up a batch

Hey Rita,

Guess you’re dying to hear how last night went, huh?

Before we get to that, I suggest you mix up a batch in that exquisite Villaroy & Boch pitcher I bought for your b-day last year, take a seat, and pour yourself a large glass. You’re going to need it.

Okay, where to start? Firstly, Rakesh is a nice guy. I know, I know, sounds corny but it’s true. He’s gorgeous, funny, sweet, and blackmailing me. Oops! Did I actually write that last part?

Now it’s out, I may as well explain.

Your fiancé knows. Everything.

He cornered me not long after I arrived at the party. (I forgot to add intelligent to the list.) Apparently, he’s some hotshot IT guy and has access to all sorts of ’Net data, including an online PI who investigated you. Knows everything, especially what you look like, so no prizes for guessing he noticed I wasn’t you.

Being a good sport, he didn’t out me. Nuh-uh. Being the all-around great guy he is, he’s blackmailing me instead: he’ll keep our little secret (and save your family’s reputation) if I orchestrate a real face-to-face meeting between the two of you.

Isn’t that sweet? Ain’t love grand?

Looks like you’ve made quite an impression on Romeo Rama.

Had a healthy swig of mojito? Good. See? It’s not so bad. I keep up the charade for the remainder of my time here, your family saves face, and all you have to do is meet with Romeo once. Easy-peasy.

Did I mention how gorgeous and funny and sexy he is?

One more thing. Romeo’s business partner may be a problem. The guy’s invited me to a Bollywood studio today and I’ll probably go to get out of the house, but he’s got some strange power-trip thing happening so I better check him out. (Oh, did I mention he knows I’m not you, too?)

OK, gotta dash.

Have an extra slurp on me!

Hugs,

Shari xoxo

I’d debated not telling Rita about Drew discovering my identity—the poor girl would probably jump on the next plane out here—but thought better of it. I needed to offload to someone and I had a feeling following my outing this afternoon I was going to need it.

By the time I’d showered and dressed, Rita had sent a response.

TO:
[email protected]

FROM:
[email protected]

SUBJECT: WTF?

Shari,

WHAT THE FUCK is going on?????????????

He KNOWS? Rakesh Rama KNOWS?

I’m dead.

My dad will kill me, my mom will help pile the wood on the funeral pyre and light the first match, while the entire Indian community in NYC will pelt me with stones as the fire toasts my tootsies.

I can’t believe this. Freaking Internet! Freaking men! Freaking Indians and their arranged marriages!

Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!

Mmmmmm……………

OK, I’ve screamed, I’ve vented, I’ve downed a glass of the sweetest minty mojito ever put on this earth (hope you’re drooling!) and I’ve calmed down.

Guess it isn’t so bad. I’ll meet Romeo whenever he pops up in New York. Who knows, it might never happen, right? RIGHT?

As for this other guy knowing, what’s the story there? Can he keep his mouth shut? What does he want in exchange for silence?

Shit, a taste of real Bombay bribery at its best.

Keep me posted.

Your friend indebted to you forever,

With lots of love and a cherry on top,

Rita xx

(PS. Did you talk up Romeo to cushion the blow or is he really a hottie? Just curious.)

Smiling, I closed Rita’s message. All in all, she took the news pretty well.

If only my afternoon could go accordingly.

…

My trip to the studio known as Film City to the locals was taking on similar importance to Ivana attending the Red Door for a spa treatment, complete with entourage in tow.

Rakesh and Anjali accompanied me, Anjali relishing her role as the dutiful chaperone—I thought I was a movie buff but Anjali put me to shame—and Rakesh going all-out to impress his parents with his devotion to his bride-to-be. Whatever their reasons, I was grateful for the company. Meeting Devious Drew had my insides tied up in knots—or was that the fiery
vindaloo
I’d toyed with for lunch?

“Are you into movies?” Rakesh turned his head to peer at me, smirking when he noticed my position.

I huddled in a corner of the backseat, trying to put as much distance possible between me and the garlic-infused folds of Anjali’s sari.

“Love them,” I said, excited at the prospect of seeing how real films were made. Bollywood was mega business over here, producing about a thousand films a year, grossing close to $4 billion. And with releases like
Monsoon Wedding,
Bride and Prejudice,
and
Slumdog Millionaire
in the States, the whole world had woken up to the razzle-dazzle of Bollywood at its best. (Despite Anjali chastising me those weren’t strictly Bollywood movies considering they were made by Westerners.).

I adored the three-hour-long musical extravaganzas complete with songs, dances, love triangles, comedy, melodrama, and daredevil thrills.

“What’s your favorite movie?”

“Too many.” I deliberately kept my answer vague, knowing he’d laugh his head off if I told him. He’d been playing the devoted fiancé to extremes ever since we got in the car, pretending to know all kinds of crazy stuff about me and it’d started to grate.

He wanted to know my favorite movie? Let him sweat.

“I’ll guess, then.
Pretty Woman
?”

“No.”

“
Titanic
?”

I adored Leo and cried buckets every time I watched
Titanic
but “No.”

“
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
?”

“Nope.”

“
Maid in Manhattan
?”

“No. JLO’s butt just doesn’t do it for me.”

Anjali chirped up at this point. “Children, please. You’re giving me a headache with this bickering.”

Rakesh gave me a thumbs-up sign of approval, thinking we were impressing her with our faux closeness. I hadn’t told him she was in on the original plan, too, and was enjoying having the upper hand for once.

“
When Harry Met Sally
?”

“No. I don’t fake it.”

He raised an eyebrow as if to say ‘oh yeah? Then what the hell are you doing here?’ before continuing.

“
Sleepless in Seattle
?”

“Cute, but no cigar.”

“
Runaway Bride
?”

I lowered my voice so only he could hear. “Could be the story of your life, but no.”

He made a gun with his thumb and forefinger, cocked it, and mock fired at me.

“
Shall We Dance
?” He smirked.

“No, thanks.”

“
You’ve Got Mail
?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“
Two Weeks Notice
?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Has to be
Saturday Night Fever
. All those Travolta hip thrusts.”

“Loser.”

“Tell him this instant!” We both jumped at Anjali’s sharp tone, and feeling all of twelve years old, I bowed my head and muttered, “
Dirty Dancing
.”

Rakesh grinned and cupped one hand behind his ear. “Sorry? What was that? Didn’t quite hear you.”

Pouting, I crossed my arms. “
Dirty Dancing
. There, satisfied, you big baby?”

“Nobody puts Baby in a corner.” His perfect imitation of Patrick Swayze made me smile. Anyone who could quote a line from
Dirty Dancing
was okay in my book.

“What about you?”

By the mischievous glimmer in his dark eyes, I could tell the game was about to start all over again but Anjali put a stop to it.

“Yes, tell us, Rakesh.
Now
.” Anjali frowned and pursed her lips. With her overly made-up face, black-kohled eyes, and orange-coated lips, she looked scarier than the pictures I’d seen of the Indian goddess Kali who had four arms, hair braided with serpents, and a face that could make a grown man quiver.

“It’s an oldie,” he said, intimidated by Anjali at her most ferocious. I’d have to add lily-livered to the list of attributes I’d given Rita. It wasn’t entirely fair, though—I’d be downright terrified if Anjali looked at me like that. “
Casablanca
.”

My eyebrows shot upward. No way. That was Rita’s fave film, too. Spooky.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…” Looked like it was one of Anjali’s favorites, too, and her expression softened.

“What’s yours, Auntie?”

Anjali sighed theatrically, her double chin quivering with intensity. “
An Affair to Remember
. Now that’s a movie.” She swiped at her eyes and Rakesh lifted a questioning eyebrow in my direction.

I shook my head. My nerves were shot, courtesy of confronting Drew shortly. I wasn’t in the mood for Anjali to regale us with whatever tale had elicited those tears.

“Are we there yet?” I changed the subject, glancing out the window on endless barren land, people foraging on the roadside, and an all-pervading dust that covered everything in a red haze.

Rakesh chuckled. “You sure know how to impress a guy. Name-this-movie games,
are we there yet?
conversation, and that sullen pout.”

“Who said I’m trying to impress you?”

He blew me a kiss and I couldn’t help but smile. “Is that any way to talk to your number one guy? Your betrothed? Your fiancé? The man of your dreams? Your—”

“Okay, okay. I get the picture.”
Wiseass
, I mouthed, aware we had to maintain the façade for Buddy—loose lips sink ships and I had no intention of letting Rita’s ship go the way of the
Titanic
—and wondering exactly how far I’d have to go before the end of this trip.

“Isn’t that Film City now?” Anjali craned her neck and pointed through the dusty windshield, bringing an end to the briefest round two on record when I was getting warmed up for the bout.

“Uh-huh.” Rakesh smirked at me and directed Buddy to a back gate, my first glimpse of Mumbai’s movie mecca somewhat disappointing.

I’d been to Universal Studios in California once as a kid, and I’d envisioned India’s movie-making capital as similar, but on a grander scale. Instead, a nondescript short man wearing a uniform from the Sixties opened a solid wrought iron gate by hand and ushered us through with a brisk wave and a frown.

Once past the gate, my head swiveled every which way, taking in the giant sets, enough electrical equipment to rival Sony’s head office, and the mandatory thousand people swarming everywhere, give or take a few hundred.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Rakesh beamed like he owned the joint. Given the home he lived in—paid for by him, a snippet I’d learned courtesy of mommy Anu last night—the casual Armani pants and shirt he wore, and the gold Rolex on his left wrist, he probably did.

Drew had mentioned backing a film in his email and I wondered if that meant the company he ran with Rakesh, or him personally. Either way, these guys were loaded. Not that I cared. Drew didn’t impress me despite the whole smart, sexy thing he had going on. The fact I’d noticed his sexiness? Probably some long-suppressed media mogul fantasy. My excuse, and I was sticking to it.

Besides, his high-handedness annoyed the shit out of me, and the only reason I’d come today was to tell him exactly that. And advise him to leave me the hell alone.

Anjali clapped her hands like an excited kid before collapsing back in her seat and clutching her heart. “Isn’t that Hrithik Roshan?”

I’d seen my fair share of Bollywood movies while living with Rita the last three months but couldn’t remember Hrithik. “Who?”

I followed her line of vision, wondering who had turned her into a swooning, sighing fangirl.

“India’s equivalent to Gerard Butler,” Rakesh said dryly, rolling his eyes at Anjali’s antics but grinning nonetheless.

Gerard Butler’s equal? This I had to see.

“Which one is he?”

“The tall one over there trying to beat off those seven girls with a stick.”

“Jealous?” Not that he needed to be. From what I could see, he could hold his own against Indian Gerard.