Spice and Secrets (2 page)

“Never. Never again.” She slid out from beneath him. As if the very rub of his skin was a trespass. “Get out,” she whispered, clutching the sheets to her chest. “
Jao
. I never want to see you.”

He tried to touch her, to stroke the sweat damp silk of her shoulder, her throat, but she jerked away. Something shifted in the pit of his belly, and his breath caught in his lungs. So this was how it was going to be: a dirty little secret. Something she could condemn, deny and then forget. Rahul zipped and buttoned his jeans and then climbed, slowly, from the bed. Only when he was fully armored against the coldness of her eyes, did he trust himself to speak. “
Nahin
, Priya. Too bad and too late. You
will
see me again.”

She would see him again…and she would
love
him again. It was all he’d ever
wanted, and if he could not accomplish it in one night…he had eternity stretched ahead of them. Forever was a long time—just long enough for success.

Chapter Two

Two months later, Mumbai

He hated industry cocktail parties. Too much hob, too many nobs, and no substance whatsoever. Particularly when they took place at a nightclub. Then it just became about show. Who wore what, who was seen talking to whom, who
wasn’t
talking to whom—and who threw the first punch. It was pure
bakwas
. Of course, the first thing Rahul had done when he walked into Enigma was scan the room for
her
. Priya. It was precisely sixty-two days since he’d seen her in Bihar, and it felt like an eternity. Every event he went to, he searched for her. Like a touchstone. As though her very presence made it all worthwhile. But she was keeping a low profile, only out and about to take meetings and dance classes and go to the gym. He wished he could do the same, but running a production company was ninety-nine percent public relations.

Tonight’s public was gathered at the Marriott in Juhu, crowding into Enigma with its multicolored, nipple-shaped chandelier and reddish, womb-like walls. Just being here was like experiencing the noisy, messy pressure of being born. Rahul chitchatted with a couple of investors, sought refuge at the bar with his old schoolmate, Shaw, and—after Davey abandoned him to bone up for a meeting the next day—he eventually found himself loitering in a corner, hoping against hope that no one would approach him. Naturally, that meant he’d painted a bloody target on his back.

Nina Manjrekar was his father’s second ex-wife and a co-partner in Anandaloka Pictures. Her business arrangement with Papa had lasted longer than their terribly short-sighted marriage. If Rahul never had to see her again, it would still be far too soon. Nina’s character was as loose as her clothing was tight. But there was no denying her instincts were sharp. Just as she’d sensed the savvy of marrying Pratap Anand, she could sniff out a superhit film from a pitch alone. It was she, after all, who had greenlit his and Priya’s project. That her name was in the credit roll for
Hai Apna Dil To Awara
never failed to gall him.

Rahul barely suppressed a shudder as she crossed the party and came to him like a silk-clad shark navigating the choppy waters of the sea. She’d been barely older than him when she became his stepmother. Now, just shy of forty, she was a nipped and tucked Real Housewife of Mumbai. Never without a drink or an agenda. “Rahul, darling,
kaise ho
?” she simpered in a voice roughened by smoke. Girlishness didn’t suit her, but still, she used it as a tool.

“Fine.” More than a few syllables would be like tossing chum in the water.

Her pale, calculating gaze scanned his face, hunting for weakness, for something to use or exploit. “
Aur
Priya?
Woh kaise hain?
How is she? Fit and fine?”

“Is she here? Ask her yourself.” He was careful, painstakingly careful, to betray nothing but disinterest. Even six years ago Nina had despised Priya, taking every opportunity to criticize her acting, her look, her
chal
, her
baatein
. Nothing Priya did was good enough. Nina saw her as competition, viewed this all as some kind of a game, a
muqabla
to be won. As though, if Priya had never come into Rahul’s life, Nina could’ve moved from father to son. Never. Rahul would sooner have wed an actual shark. “Go away, Nina. Report back to Papa that I am up to snuff.”

She looked him up and down, lingering on the crotch of his tailored trousers. Destined to be an un-pitched tent as long as she was standing there. “Up to snuff? Hardly!” she sniped before swishing away.

If only the
Jaws
soundtrack could warn others of her approach. Rahul finished the last, flat, swallow of his G&T and searched for dry land.

The nights in the city were the worst. Cold from the artificial chill of the A/C units, lonely and unnaturally quiet. From Priya’s high-rise flat, she couldn’t hear the noise and bustle of the street—the blare of lorry horns and the squeal of auto tires—that had kept her such close company in Kolkata. Juhu was as different from neighborhoods like Garia Hat and Boubazar as night was from day. Sure, there were parties she could attend, sparkling, busy affairs with the
Who’s Who
of Bollywood…but it wouldn’t fill the emptiness. Not really. She feared nothing ever would…

So, she threw herself into her routine, changing into workout clothes and counting out one hundred sit-ups. She stretched and danced until her body was sore, and the only respite came from the hot spray of the shower on her skin. She sent e-mails and phoned home, whispering “
Bhalobasha
, kisses and hugs!” until the tears choked her voice. Her sister, Anita, peered all-too suspiciously at the damp shine, and Priya cursed the advent of video chat. “I’m fine,” she told her. “Everything is okay.”

But she did not have sisters in Bombay. She didn’t have so many friends. Bollywood’s boys traveled in packs, but the girls were a different story. For the most part, they had non-industry friends and clung safely to the bosoms of family…all to better hide the knives they sharpened for their rivals’ backs. It was a lonely existence for her, and a careful one—watching everything she ate, everything she said, for fear of losing her figure and her place.

It would be folly to share birthday photos with the makeup girls,
bilkul
stupid to trade tales of school uniforms and
tiffin
. Such talk was forbidden. Impossible. And how could she connect with anyone when she couldn’t share the purest part of herself?

Each day, she rebuilt the wall around her heart, fortified the stronghold brick by brick. But there were cracks in the façade, weaknesses in the foundation and vulnerabilities with precious names and beautiful faces.
And, if she dared allow herself to admit to it, there was also her greatest weakness…with a proud, fierce, look and a body that felt like hot silk under her palms.
Rahul.
Always Rahul.

Damn
him. Damn him for taking what had once been memory and making it the here and now. When she was at last tucked into bed, Priya rolled to her side, cradling her body pillow against her chest like a lover. How many nights had a
kol balish
taken the place of real, human warmth? She couldn’t give proper count. Too many. Not that she and Rahul had really
slept
those few precious times they’d been together. But, sometimes, she’d imagined being cocooned in his arms the whole night through. Sometimes she
still
allowed herself the foolish fantasy…the fantasy she could so easily have brought to life in Premnagar. If only she hadn’t thrust him away, pushed him from her bedroom, her hotel suite, her entire world. He would have held her all night.

The boy was so handsome. No, not a boy…he was already a man, with a beard shadowing his cheeks and the wide shoulders of a footballer. “Hi, I’m Rahul.” He gave her the quick flash of a confident smile, along with his hand for a shake.

“I’m Priya,” was what she meant to say, but when their fingers brushed, the words became stuck in her throat, twisted in a gasp as literal sparks flew between them.

“Wow.” He laughed, pulling his hand back and making a show of checking his fingertips for burns. “You’re dangerous, Miss Pree. Take care that our film reels don’t catch fire.”

“
Boka,
” she whispered in Bengali.
Stupid
. She was endlessly idiotic for holding on to the childish ideals of a Priya who no longer existed…and to the memory of a Rahul who’d never been real at all.

Chapter Three

“Excuse me, I’m…”

Lost.
She knew how these sentences always ended. Of course, the poor bastard was lost. Sunny frowned at the man who’d interrupted her quiet—and rather liquid—lunch. He wore khaki pants, a loose-fitting linen shirt, and those terribly ugly Birkenstock sandals. That was never a good sign.

“I know what you are,” she dismissed, gaze fixed on her BlackBerry once more. “You’re one of those hippie types who comes to India just to smoke
ganja
. My ex-husband smoked
ganja
.” Along with anything else he could get his hands on. “I know the type. So, just turn round, find a taxi to take you to Goa and leave me in peace.”

When it was clear that the hippie had no intention of moving, she glanced upward once more. Seriously,
yaar
, why did they even
let
people like this walk around Versova instead of shipping them to the opium dens in bulk? And he was
smiling—
in that tight, British way that didn’t involve teeth. How he spoke through the crookedly formed wall, she couldn’t even begin to guess. That, too, was an English talent. “I’m afraid you have it all wrong, Ms. Khanna. I’m your lunch meeting. Davey Shaw. Your new producer.”

“What?” She blinked. Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. “I’m meeting Devi Shah at twelve. I have it right here.” She called up her address book—Jai had taken great pains to teach her how—and waved the appointment at him.

“Then I’m afraid your secretary scheduled it incorrectly. It’s Davey, short for Davin, and Shaw, like George Bernard.” He helped himself to the empty white wicker chair across from her, keeping the strap of a leather briefcase securely looped across his chest as he made himself otherwise quite comfortable at the café’s small table. “Happens all the time since I’ve been in India. Honest mistake.”

“That’s what all the British invaders say,” she muttered before she could think better of it.

This Davey like-George-Bernard Shaw took immediate offense, his flinty, blue eyes sparking. “I’m Welsh on my mother’s side and Irish on my father’s. I’m a colonizee, not a colonizer. Same as you.”

She was a divorced
desi
woman of thirty-three with a gay, recovering-addict ex-husband and a teenage son who had entirely too much material for a tell-all book. “You are definitely
not
the same as me, Mr. Shaw,” she assured, realizing just how easy it was to speak through clenched teeth. “And I don’t need a new producer.”

“Obviously the network feels differently. They thought I could bring a more global feel to the program.”

She knew the international ratings were constantly fluctuating, but Sunny made a habit of never listening to the network boys. If she hadn’t taken a stand against them, her last season would’ve become another
Sa Re Ga Ma Pa
music competition show with a panel of judges all jockeying for attention. This, surely, was their revenge. This.
Him
. Tall and patrician, with that sharp, aristocratic nose and fierce, hooded eyes. He was as far from Sam as one could imagine. Her short, ill-tempered,
haram kohr
of an ex…nearly fifteen years they’d been split up, and still she judged every man by that standard. Boys were different: lovable and kind and
teachable
. Men, she’d learned the hard way, could not be changed. Just tolerated. She’d tolerate Davey Shaw if she had to.

Sunita Khanna was even more magnificent in person. Not pretty, not beautiful—her features were too broad, the thick slashes of her eyebrows and her mouth too bold—but simply arresting. Her dark eyes snapped with life, her husky voice made even scorn sound sexy. Even her hair was wild, a riotous mass of curls barely tamed by the enormous green sunglasses atop her head. He couldn’t look away, not even to peruse the menu or hail the harried waitress flitting about the outdoor restaurant. It was like watching a four-act play made flesh. This…this was why viewers didn’t turn the channel. His old mate Rahul had been right: she was the perfect match for him, the job he’d been looking for since leaving his post at BBC 3.

He grinned, which only seemed to incense her more. It was like watching a fire being stoked. “What?” she demanded. “What are you looking at, you
angrezi ulloo ka patta
?”

An English son of an owl, was he? His mother would be so proud to hear that. Davey leaned back in his chair, gesturing for the waiter and taking his sweet time before giving her a reply. When she was fairly twitching in her seat, vibrating with annoyance and ready to repeat her question as though he hadn’t heard it the first time, he finally let her off the hook. “
Hummara aanewala kal,
” he said in flawless Hindi. “I’m looking at our future.”

To her credit, she didn’t even flinch. The only thing that betrayed her surprise was a slight shake of her hand when she reached for her drink. She took a sip of her mimosa and shrugged. “So you can speak Hindi. So what? Do you want a medal? I still think you’re a hippie and an
ulloo
.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help himself, throwing his head back and letting the mirth wash over him. God, she really was quite something. “I’m an owl, and you’re a bitch,” he said when he’d got himself under control. “I think we’ll get on very well.”