Busted in Bollywood

by Nicola Marsh

  Although I couldn’t move he had no such problems, crossing the kitchen in three strides, crowding my personal space and making my hormones haywire. I shouldn’t provoke him, I really shouldn’t. Then again, when had I ever listened to my voice of reason?

  “Tell me what you’re crazy about.” I aimed for soft and breathy, ended up sounding strangled and desperate.

  “Spicy food. Fine shiraz. Anything Indian.”

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I hoped he’d add ‘you’ to that list.

  I should’ve come back with something witty, something to diffuse the tension buzzing between us. Instead, I said the first thing that popped into my head. “I’m half-Indian.”

  I snapped my jaws shut to prevent blurting ‘does that count?’

  His eyes sparked and my heart flipped in response. “I wondered, but didn’t want to pry.”

  “Mom’s Indian, Dad’s American.”

  Pry away, I wanted to add. Ask me anything and I’ll tell you no lies, like how much I want you.

  He wouldn’t. His British stiff upper lip kicked in at the most inopportune times, reminding me of the yawning gap between our cultures. “A great combination considering the result.”

  Not bad for a backhand compliment. “Little ol’ me?”

  “You’re stunning.” He touched my arm, the barest of caresses, his fingers sliding along my skin raising goose bumps, and the gap I’d imagined between us evaporated in a second. “And yeah, I could get crazy about you.”

  He had me.

  My ball-breaking intentions wavered. Not that I’d let him off lightly.

  “Really? Because not calling for a week? Doesn’t do you any favors.”

  “Thought I already explained that.” He took a step forward, invading my personal space and I held my breath.

  Didn’t take much to ignite my latent longing, and having him this close put a serious dent in my plans to toughen up. “Doesn’t mean I bought your excuses.”

  “You’re a hard woman to impress, Miss Jones.”

  “Maybe you’re not trying hard enough?” I enjoyed our sparring as much as having him stare at me with a glint of excitement.

  He tapped his temple, pretending to think. “Let’s see. If words don’t convince you, what else can I do?”

  “Show me,” I dared him before he second-guessed his decision to add me to his list of things to get crazy about.

  “My pleasure,” he said, his lips brushing mine once, twice, lingering, increasing pressure with every glancing touch.

  I shivered in expectation as his fingertip grazed the tender skin under my jaw, edged across to the sensitive spot beneath my ear, before slowly trailing across my collarbone, lingering in the hollow at the base of my throat. He traced lazy circles, his touch feather-light and incredibly erotic.

  I swayed, lost in sensation, lost in him. I placed my palm flat against his chest, and his searing heat matched mine, palpable through the thin cotton. I was burning from the inside out, revved beyond belief. I held my breath. The taut silence stretched until I couldn’t wait another moment. My hand snaked around his neck and guided his head down.

  When his lips touched mine, my panties almost shucked off. He tasted of cloves and cinnamon and passion, and I couldn’t get enough. As he deepened the kiss to the point of no return, I writhed against him, shameless and wanton and yearning.

  His hands were everywhere, caressing my breasts, molding my waist, flaring over my hips, cupping my butt, setting every inch of me alight with an intense, overwhelming craving to have him inside me, now.

  Frantic, we tore at each other’s clothes and stumbled to the bedroom, unaware of the wan afternoon sunshine spilling through the slat blinds, unaware of my lingerie draped over the backs of chairs to dry, unaware of everything but the mind-numbing, toe-curling desire consuming us.

  The back of his knees hit the edge of the bed and he stalled, his lips trailing down my neck and up again to linger near my ear. “You sure?”

  His whisper fanned the sensitive skin beneath my ear and I shivered.

  “Does this answer your question?” I pushed him onto the bed, straddled him, and pinned his shoulders with my hands, letting my hair drape across his chest in a teasing sweep.

  “Have it your way.” His sexy grin sent my heart slamming against my ribcage as he flipped me over in one, smooth move, fumbled for his jeans on the floor, and grabbed a condom out of his wallet.

  “Extra large?” I plucked the gold foil packet out of his hand, excitement making mine shake. After all the crazy shit I’d dealt with over the last year, the karma fairy had finally gotten something right.

  “Scared?”

  “Impressed, more like it.”

  And hopeful. Very hopeful.

  “English humor.” He grinned, took the packet out of my hand, and ripped it open with his teeth. “They only come in one size over there.”

  “So it’s not true?”

  I tried to keep the disappointment out of my voice; by the amused gleam in his eyes, I failed.

  “You tell me.”

  He set about proving it. Once by bringing me to a screaming orgasm with his mouth and fingers before initiating me into the joys of positions I’d never imagined, let alone tried. Twice, by doing it in the shower. Three times, by christening every room in the apartment as a sultry New York afternoon eased into a beautiful evening.

  His hand slid across my belly, exploring my skin in delicious detail, inching downward, toying with me, coherent speech impossible as he took the meaning of foreplay to a new level. Again. “What’s the verdict?”

  My breath hitched and I arched off the bed as his fingers delved and probed. I wished this day would never end. “Size does matter.”

  “And?”

  “English condom manufacturers don’t lie,” I managed to grit out as he sent me spiraling into another cataclysmic climax.

  “You sure about that?”

  He kissed the tender spot at the base of my neck, right above my collarbone, the spot that made me weak and fuzzy—if he hadn’t already done that with his masterful fingers.

  “I’m sure. Ooh… ”

  He moved lower, sucking a nipple into his mouth, nibbling it, before moving across to the other one. “Maybe we should test another just to make sure?”

  “I like the way you think,” I whispered, as his hands and mouth played me like an instrument. A well-used, much-practiced, finely tuned instrument that sang the more he played.

  I sang—boy, did I sing. Beyonce, Pink, and Lady Gaga had nothing on me.

  Drew had me coming back for encore after encore.

  All night long.

  chapter eleven

  Twenty-four hours later, I’d cooked my first Indian meal. From scratch.

  Me, the takeout queen, the girl most likely to eat soup from a can rather than cook, the woman who adored eating but didn’t go in for the preparation.

  I could’ve asked Mom for recipes, but she would’ve wanted to know why the sky was falling in—translated: why I was cooking—and Rita would’ve ribbed me endlessly, so I settled for trusty Google instead. I’d spent the morning raiding a local spice mart and the afternoon slaving over a hot stove. If this didn’t impress Drew, nothing would.

  Interestingly, I’d enjoyed the methodical process: sourcing ingredients, preparing them, following a recipe, testing the end result. I’d hated the detail-oriented aspect of being a legal secretary, the mundane dotting of every i and crossing every t, and while I might have been good at it, now I’d had some time away (read: no one wanted to hire me) I could see I’d been going through the motions, paying the bills, funding my lifestyle, not deriving fulfillment.

  Surveying the table and the results of my culinary efforts, maybe I should start job-searching for master
chef positions. Not so far-fetched considering my other job yearnings. While scouring the publishing vacancies earlier I’d spied an ad for a new travel/food magazine columnist. Way out of my league, but it had seriously piqued my interest and I’d been crazy enough to email my resume before I changed my mind.

  Somehow, I didn’t think writing copy for legal newsletters was quite in the same league as a magazine column but hey, worth a try. Besides, they’d wanted an international flavor so I’d hammed up my Indian background, citing my recent trip to Mumbai and a long list of Indian dishes I’d written about. In emails to Mom. That was on a strict need-to-know basis.

  The intercom buzzed and the bundle of nerves in my stomach bunched. Taking a deep breath and blowing it out, I hit the button to let Drew up. After whipping off my makeshift apron I smoothed my halter top down and checked my lipstick in the mirror. If cooking a feast hadn’t been enough of an indication I was seriously into this guy, the fact I hadn’t eaten a thing all day confirmed it. I had to eat. Low blood sugar. My excuse, I was sticking to it.

  He knocked, I took a deep breath and counted to ten, before opening it and ruining my cool impression by gawking like a teenager. Faded taupe T-shirt, dark denim, stubble, come-get-me smile. Oh boy.

  “Something smells great.” He ducked his head to nuzzle my neck on the way in and I refrained from tearing his clothes off. Barely.

  “You said you liked spicy and Indian.”

  He stopped in front of the dining table, dumbfounded. “You cooked all this?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised. I’m a woman of many talents.”

  His awe vindicated my chapped hands and sliced fingers—who knew stupid knives could be so sharp? “I can see that.” He lifted the lid on the first dish and inhaled, eyes closed, blissed out. “Mmm… tamarind, cumin, coriander, peppercorns. I love mulligatawny.”

  “Rasam to you.” I bumped him gently with my hip and he slid his arm around my waist, resting it there like the most natural thing in the world.

  “Can I peek at the rest?” His fingers toyed with the edge of my top and I bit back my first retort. He could peek at any damn thing he pleased.

  “Why don’t we eat? I’ll dish up the rice, you pour the wine.”

  He released me and I immediately regretted it. “Deal.”

  I bustled around the kitchen, piled pappadums on a platter, slid raita out of the fridge, and ladled steaming basmati rice into a serving dish, aiming for efficiency, but ending up hot and flustered.

  “Let me help.” He stepped into the kitchen and took dishes out of my hand, passing a glass of wine with the other. “You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble,” he said, brushing a kiss across my lips, his adoration making me glad I did.

  I could’ve replied with a trite “no trouble,” but I didn’t want lies to taint this relationship. “I wanted to impress you.”

  His expression softened. “It worked.”

  I followed him into the dining area, where we placed the dishes on the table before he raised his glass to mine.

  “Though you didn’t have to cook to impress me. You did that with your fake fiancée impersonation the moment we met.”

  I winced. “Don’t remind me.”

  His mouth eased into a lazy grin. “Should’ve seen your face when I busted you.”

  “You were such an ass.”

  He laughed and clinked his glass to mine. “Here’s to leaving Bollywood behind and moving on to a new script.”

  One involving less drama, more sex, I hoped.

  He pulled out my seat and I preened at his manners, whipping the lids off dishes in an effort to disguise my growing need to devour him.

  “Aloo gobi, avail, murgh masala, dhansak, and rasam.”

  “I’m in heaven.” He clutched his stomach as he sat. “Want me to serve you?”

  “Please, a little of everything.” I sipped at my wine as he dished spicy potato, mixed vegetable curry made from coconut and yogurt, and chicken in a tomato, ginger, and spicy sauce. He added lamb cooked with dahl and a dollop of rice, spooning rasam over the rice. I could get used to being served. Serviced. Whatever.

  “Here you go.” He placed my plate in front of me before piling food on his own, his appetite for Indian food more than a match for his appetite in the bedroom if last night had been any indication.

  Remembering last night—the decadence, the delight, the debauchery—made me want to skip dinner and head straight for Sexy Town. I forked morsels into my mouth, barely tasting the food I’d taken great pains to prepare, while he polished off his and went back for seconds.

  “Not hungry?”

  I mumbled a noncommittal answer, pushing my food around before surrendering and nudging the plate away. I couldn’t pinpoint why I was so nervous about a repeat of our bedroom antics. Until I glanced across the table at his casually mussed hair, his too-blue-to-be-true eyes, his sensual lips perpetually quirked at the corners, and I knew. Knew a repeat of last night would solidify the relentless yearning hammering my common sense into submission, insisting it’d be okay to fall for him.

  “That was amazing.” He sat back and patted his stomach before reaching across the table and snagging my hand, his thumb brushing the back of it in slow, rhythmic circles. “I could get used to this.”

  Me too, but the serious glint in his eyes scared me as much as my growing feelings for a guy I hardly knew, a guy I had nothing to offer, a guy so far out of my league we were on different playing fields.

  Drew was a keeper.

  But what if I wasn’t enough to keep him?

  “What’s up? You’ve hardly said a word.”

  I gestured toward the dishes. “I had no idea cooking would wear me out.”

  “Not too tired, I hope?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

  I laughed. “Why? What did you have in mind?”

  “Let me show you.” He stood, held out his hand, and when I placed mine in his, he tugged me to my feet flush against him.

  We swayed for what seemed like an eternity, savoring the contact, the heat, the growing tension.

  I closed my eyes, laid my cheek on his chest, and breathed in a heady combination of Cool Water, freshly laundered cotton, and pure Drew.

  We moved to an imaginary song, our feet gliding toward the bedroom.

  Lucky I’d bought the kulfi and hadn’t slaved over the ice cream.

  We never made it to dessert.

  …

  Drew and I went for long walks jostling alongside frenetic New Yorkers with things to do and places to be, drank chai lattes at Starbucks, ordered in spicy Indian (I conserved my energy for more important activities), and had amazing sex whenever we could.

  We curled up on the couch and watched Seinfeld and Friends reruns. We visited trendy jazz clubs and ate late-night deli suppers. We took decadently long baths and slept in most mornings and couldn’t get enough of each other.

  I existed in some weird fantasy-reality sphere, like being caught in the Matrix but better. Bolder, sexier, and scarier. The rotten thing about living a fantasy is you know it’ll unravel eventually.

  “Wow, you look amazing.” Rita held me at arm’s length. “That shade of fuchsia highlights your hair perfectly.”

  I twirled and struck a Vogue pose. “You like?”

  “You’re like a glam Indian babe. That salwar kameez looks fab on you.”

  “This old thing?” I smoothed the crystal-embroidered chiffon over my belly, enjoying the silky slide beneath my fingertips. If this was an extra’s costume I’d love to slip into a star’s outfit.

  “You’re going to knock ’em dead.” She fussed around me, fluffing my hair, adjusting the neckline, fiddling with my earrings, and straightening my billowy sleeves straight out of a harem. “And if you don’t, who cares? You’ve made an e
asy grand.”

  “This isn’t about the money,” I deadpanned for two seconds before joining in her raucous laughter.

  Thankful the makeup artist on set prescribed to Maybelline’s promise of waterproof mascara I dabbed under my eyes and checked my fingertips for telltale black. “Where’s Rakesh? You two are inseparable.”

  “He had a business lunch with Drew and some corporate bigwigs. Said they’d swing by later.”

  A sliver of anticipation shimmied through me. “Drew’s coming?”

  Rita patted my cheek. “This is me you’re talking to. Of course he’ll be here for your auspicious debut.”

  “He didn’t mention it.”

  Drew hadn’t mentioned much of anything to me the last day or two, appearing distracted the few times we’d caught up. Or been caught up between the sheets, more to the point. As much as I loved the incredible sex, I knew this wouldn’t last forever. But I couldn’t help craving a little intimacy.

  Late twenties, single, female. Do the math.

  Flirty flings were fabulous until you hit the big three-O, all downhill from there. Biological clocks started ticking like time bombs waiting to detonate, gravity exerted more force on your life than your mom, and suddenly, the dog-ugliest creep looked like Jake Gyllenhaal.

  I nibbled the cuticle of my thumbnail, putting my lipstick to a quick budge-proof test. If I hadn’t been nervous about my acting debut before, thoughts of my impending thirties set me positively trembling.

  “He probably wanted to surprise you and I’ve spoiled it,” Rita said, averting her eyes but not before I glimpsed a flash of concern.

  “Drew and I aren’t serious so don’t worry about it. If he shows up, he shows up. If not, no biggie.” I could’ve almost believed my nonchalant act if I didn’t feel so empty at the thought of him not being here today. He’d teased me about being Pravin’s protégée, about using my looks to get ahead, making light of something that secretly meant a whole lot to me.

  Pravin had seen something in me I rarely saw myself, my inner Indian.