by Nicola Marsh
Then I met Drew.
I’d exchanged air-kisses and empty hugs with Pooh, Diva, and Shrew for the required two minutes. I’d fake-smiled for camera flashes coming from all directions, and bade farewell to the rest of the family, including my new mommy. After telling Anjali I’d meet her outside, I sighed in relief I’d made it through the evening relatively unscathed—discounting Rita’s betrothed blackmailing me—when a tall figure stepped from the shadows of the Ramas’ sprawling veranda while I waited for Buddy to bring the car around.
“Hey, Drew. You’re late. Come meet Amrita.” Rakesh didn’t stumble at my name, earning him further brownie points.
He’d been the consummate performer all night, the adoring fiancé without crossing boundaries. I’d been a mess. My jaws ached from smiling, my head ached from my hair pulled into a tight bun, and I couldn’t wait to drop the charade and head back to Anjali’s, but I fixed one more polite, fake smile on my face and turned to meet Rakesh’s business partner.
“I’ve heard so much about you.” Drew Lansford moved into the light and my smile faltered as I stepped back in time.
High School. Brad Stoddard, first love. The guy had stolen my heart at the cafeteria checkout and proceeded to toy with it for months. He’d teased me, sleazed me, and almost pleased me, but I’d chickened out before he could round third base and our one brief, passionate night had ended there. Brad had never spoken to me again.
Facing his adult doppelganger transported me back to that night in Manhattan. We’d made out in the back of Brad’s grungy wagon, surrounded by McDonald’s wrappers and Coke cans. I’d been high on the fumes of his dad’s Old Spice he’d slathered on, oblivious to the stale pizza crusts lying in scrunched boxes on the floor. The joys of youth.
“Hi.” One syllable more than I thought I’d manage considering Drew’s uncanny resemblance to Brad, while registering the intelligent blue eyes, the messy brown hair tumbling over his forehead, and the slight dimple in his right cheek.
He had a serious Hugh Grant thing going on, complete with British accent. Super hot. I’d sat through Four Weddings and a Funeral; Notting Hill; Bridget Jones’s Diary; and Love, Actually several times, wondering why the oddly foppish guy who talked with a plum in his mouth had me salivating.
“Congratulations.” He thrust his hands into designer denim pockets while I tried not to ogle the charcoal T-shirt clinging to a chest that could hold its own in a roomful of GQ models.
I gaped at him like an idiot—blame it on my recall, which had me almost sniffing for a hint of Old Spice—wondering what I’d done to deserve congrats.
“Yeah, Amrita is thrilled about our engagement.” Rakesh’s pointed glare reminded me of our bizarre pact. The fake engagement to limit his dad’s stress and keep the Indian community grapevine happy until he visited New York in a few weeks and met his real fiancée. Riiiight…
He wasn’t asking much, to continue what I’d set out to do without dumping him or alienating his family. I’d asked him what would happen if the unthinkable happened, and he hit it off with Rita and they fell for each other. He’d glossed over it with a ‘my folks will be so thrilled to see their only son married they won’t worry. Besides, I’ll say you were Amrita’s lovesick friend who went behind her back and tried to win me over for yourself.’ All very logical, except for what Anu would do to me if she believed her golden boy’s little white lie. I had a feeling Mama Rama wouldn’t take kindly to thieving best friends or the deception I’d tried to perpetuate.
I did a ‘right back at you, Rakesh,’ complete with faux smile. “Thanks. Are you coming to the wedding?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Drew sounded genuine but the way he stared at me, intense, brooding, like I’d make off with the Rama valuables, set my spidey senses on high alert. Why did I get the feeling he wasn’t entirely happy with his friend’s pending nuptials? Or worse, the reason behind his reluctance had something to do with me?
It might’ve been the lack of warmth behind his smile, the lack of emotion in his eyes, but I knew I’d have to watch him. Or he’d be watching me.
I hated being painted as a deceiving desperado but Rakesh was so glib, so assured, I didn’t want to rattle his confidence. Besides, what were the odds Rita would fall for him? Slim-to-none. I was worrying about nothing.
The way I saw it, Rakesh would make my remaining stay in Mumbai a lot easier. I had another ally now and could relax without having to pretend to be the Bitch of Bombay for his family.
Increasingly uncomfortable with Drew’s intense stare, I blurted, “I wonder what’s keeping Auntie.”
My plan for Drew to head into the house failed when Rakesh craned his neck to look inside. “I’ll go check.” His affectionate tweak on my cheek earned a glare from Drew that Rakesh missed as he headed inside.
“So.” Drew leaned against the wall, arms folded, expression grim.
“So.” I straightened my shoulders and did a Pantene commercial hair-toss to show I didn’t give a damn. It bombed, considering I’d worn my hair in a bun.
By the groove slashing his brows, he wouldn’t have been impressed even with my hair loose. This guy didn’t like me.
His frown deepened. “Are you a Robbie Williams fan?”
Huh?
I could blame the late hour, delayed jet lag, or the sheer lunacy of what I was doing but I had a hankering to flip Drew the finger and run after my fake fiancé.
“You’ve heard of Robbie Williams?” He spoke slower, like I couldn’t keep up.
Jeez, what was it with English people? Did they think no one on the other side of the Atlantic had a brain? “I saw him live at Carnegie Hall. He’s awesome.”
Awesome? Awesome? Sheesh, memories of Brad must’ve resurrected my scintillating vocab from back then, too.
“You’re familiar with all his songs? Even the swing ones?”
Duh. Hadn’t I said as much? Where was Rakesh? I’d kill him for leaving me here with the equivalent of the British Gestapo. After protecting me all night he’d left me in small-talk hell when all I wanted to do was crawl under my mosquito net and hide for the next ten hours.
I darted frantic glances at the door, wishing for Rakesh, Anjali, or even the dreaded stepsisters to save me from this. “Yeah, I’m one of Robbie’s biggest fans.”
“You’d know my favorite song, then? ‘Have You Met Miss Jones?’”
I choked and covered it by a combined cough and fake sneeze.
He grinned, and in the wan light I could’ve sworn his eyes glittered with triumph.
Rakesh had confirmed the importance of utmost secrecy: one leak and the fiasco could blow up in our faces. Yet something about Drew’s cocky expression screamed he knew I was a fraud and was enjoying taunting me way too much.
“Not a bad choice. Personally, I prefer ‘Something Stupid’ from that CD.” Could be the theme song to my life lately. “Though Nicole Kidman singing that duet with Robbie? Debatable. She should stick to acting. Her singing career taking off is as likely as a reunion with Tom. I mean, Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman married? There’s a mismatched couple. Inevitable split. The height difference, you know. He has to be at least a foot shorter than her.”
I blathered, hoping he’d get tired and leave me the hell alone.
No such luck.
“I’m onto you.” He spoke so softly I almost missed it as he took a step toward me, invading my personal space, a lot more personal with him in it.
“Onto me?”
“Quite the little actress.” His head jerked toward the house. “So you fooled the hordes in there, including the usually astute Anu? What I want to know is why.”
And what I wanted to know was where the hell did this guy get off, thinking I’d explain myself to him? He might be used to snapping his fingers and having minions jump to his tune at work bu
t the bossy, demanding thing he had going on? Left me cold.
I’d love to tell him where to stick his questions, but alienating Rakesh’s business partner probably wasn’t the smartest thing to do.
That’s when it hit me.
Why not have a little fun at Drew’s expense? Rakesh knew the truth, and what Drew didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Let him postulate in that posh English way of his, and when I’d had my fun, I’d casually tell him the truth and watch him squirm.
My plan could be shot down any second if he actually confronted Rakesh but I didn’t think Drew would do that. With that stiff upper lip, I seriously doubted he’d risk losing face with his business partner by prying into personal stuff.
Me, on the other hand, he seemed content to grill. I didn’t like him delving into a situation that didn’t concern him. In reality, my plan was less about fun and more about teaching Mr. Inquisitive a lesson.
I bit back a grin. “You’re onto me.” I snapped my fingers. “Better stay away in case you become embroiled in my devious plot.”
Buddy screeched to a halt in front of us at that moment, and I heard Anjali shrieking her good-byes to all and sundry.
Drew stared at me through narrowed eyes and I wiggled my fingers in a taunting wave. “See you around.”
“This isn’t over.” He stepped back as Anjali descended on us in a flurry of sari, smiling at Drew and whisking me down the steps before I had a chance to reply.
Breathing a sigh of relief as I slid onto the worn leather seat of Anjali’s battered Beamer, I slammed the door, shutting out Drew’s tuneful whistling rendition of “Have You Met Miss Jones?” and wondering what the hell I’d got myself into this time.
…
An hour later, in the comfort of her lounge room, I filled Anjali in on the new plan. Pensive, she sipped her chai and popped another ladoo into her mouth. “All things considered, the evening went well, don’t you think?”
I’d rather not. Think, that is. The more I did, the more convinced I became I was starring in a Bollywood extravaganza where the lying heroine gets her just desserts—no pun intended—in the end, and I’d muck up my lines any moment.
“Mmm,” I mumbled, sipping the ayah’s special masala chai, a mouthwatering concoction featuring cardamom and cinnamon and cloves, vowing to try Gloria Jean’s chai when I returned to New York—in ten days, twenty-three hours, and thirty minutes, exactly. Who’s counting?
“You fooled that upstart Anu good and proper.” Anjali chortled into her cup like a witch peering over her cauldron. “Stupid cow.”
“She didn’t seem too bad.”
I hoped this would get a reaction and reveal her vendetta against the Rama woman.
She didn’t disappoint.
“Not bad?” Anjali shoved away a plate of half-eaten sweets in distress. “Not bad? The woman’s a curse. She’s a lying, thieving slut and I’ll not have you say one good word about her, not in my house.”
“Did she steal from you, Auntie?”
“Steal? Steal?”
By now, Anjali’s voice had reached record levels and I doubted the neighbors appreciated the ear-splitting symphony at two in the morning.
“I’ll never forgive her. Ever!”
O-kay. Curiosity urged me to discover the rest but her eyes misted over and I couldn’t do it. Not when her lower lip wobbled, too.
I patted her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Inadequate, but I had to say something to soothe the wildness in her eyes. “She’ll be sorry, too, once we pull this scam over her.” Anjali’s maniacal laughter made me shrink into my chair. Everything in this city involved noise and it would take months for my eardrums to recover.
Now that she’d mentioned it, that’s something else I’d been dying to know. Her real reason for helping Rita perpetuate this sham, beyond the brush-off answer she’d given me during our tour. “You mentioned supporting our scheme so Rita can choose her own happiness. What did you mean by that?”
She wrinkled her nose, her mouth twisted in disgust. “Because I don’t want my darling Amrita ending up trapped like me.”
Clueless, I raised a brow and she cast an evil eye at the photos on the mantle behind me. “My arranged marriage was a disaster. My husband?” She made a horrific hawking noise in the back of her throat. “We argued day and night. Totally incompatible. My parents made a terrible mistake in arranging my marriage.”
She tore her bitter gaze away from the photos. “I don’t blame Amrita wanting to make her own choices, and I’ll do whatever it takes to support her.”
Wow, for a Hindu woman I had pegged as traditional, Anjali sure knew how to surprise.
Smiling, I nodded. “I think it’s great you’re helping her.”
“You too, my dear.” Her gaze flitted to the photos again and I stood, eager to make an exit before I heard any more tales of her dreadful marriage.
“I’m tired, Auntie. Think I’ll head to bed.”
“Good night.” Anjali said, though I could tell her mind was elsewhere, lost in memories best left forgotten.
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?)
