Busted in Bollywood (28 page)

Tate had been a minor aberration in the overall scheme of my life and I’d learned from it (never trust a man who has a designer shoe fetish to match yours). My self-confidence had taken a beating, making me doubt any decision I had to make.

Not anymore.

Living with Drew, trusting Drew, opening my heart to Drew, had restored my faith in myself.

I’d healed, with the help of a vibrant, startling, eye-opening country and the love of an incredible man.

Best of all, I’d done this for
me
. Every step I’d taken, every risk I’d chanced, had been worth it because it led me to this moment. Realizing how far I’d come and how far I was willing to go to secure my future.

Smiling, I hugged my knees to my chest as I sat on Arnala beach.

I wouldn’t waste another minute.

I knew what I had to do.

…

Anjali helped me prepare.

She loved the intrigue, and I couldn’t blame her. While I was terrified he’d think I was a lunatic for doing this, considering we’d only been living together two months, I couldn’t wait to see Drew’s face.

I hadn’t seen Anjali for three weeks, and while she helped me dress, she caught me up on the latest gossip. She’d met someone, another musician (sitar player this time)—groupie!—and had lost twelve pounds. Amazing what a new love interest could do to subdue
ladoo
cravings.

Rita and Rakesh were flitting around Europe and nauseatingly in love. We Skyped them, and by Rakesh’s devotion it looked like Mama Rama was out of the picture and he’d walk on hot coals for his new wife. Rita appeared radiant, and we made a pact to continue Mojito Mondays once we were back in New York. Or Mumbai, if I was lucky.

Not much had changed with the Ramas. Anu continued to terrorize Senthil, who in turn spent more time at Film City. Diva had given up her crush on Drew and moved onto someone more attainable, a guy from her local call center. Pooh had hooked up with the owner of a sweetshop. Shrew continued to watch everyone and became so good at it she was a hit at local parties, weeding out crashers.

As Buddy drove me through Mumbai’s chaotic streets I forced myself to sit back, relax, and not hold onto the seat for dear life.

Despite the traffic, the pollution, the people, and the food (I patted my expanding waistline and vowed to never allow another
ladoo
to pass my lips) I’d grown to love this place. In a bizarre way, Mumbai rivaled New York City: buzzing, cosmopolitan, with a vibe all its own.

Throw in a few extra billion people, the heat, the congestion, the vile black fumes that hung over everything, the traffic mayhem (I would never curse a New York cabbie again), and a caste system that confused the hell out of anyone who didn’t live here, and you get the general idea.

Mumbai dazzled and frazzled and had a unique smell—a mix of diesel fumes, smoke from burning cow patties, and sandalwood—and I’d fallen for the madness in a big way.

When we reached Film City, Buddy dropped me off inside the gates and I headed for the main office, where my man would be after returning from his business trip an hour ago.

My man
.

Had a nice ring to it.

Desiree, in on the plan, gave me a thumbs up sign of encouragement as I snuck into the office. I smiled my thanks, turned the knob, and eased the door open.

Drew had his back to me, cell glued to one ear while gesticulating with his free hand, brokering some deal involving megabucks. His ivory business shirt stretched across his shoulders and my fingers tingled with the urge to touch his back as the muscles bunched and shifted beneath the crisp cotton.

I soundlessly shut the door and waited, shifting from side to side, desperate to run across the office and fling myself at him.

My chest constricted when he caught sight of me, his eyes lighting with excitement and pleasure and joy mirroring mine as he hung up mid-sentence.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too.” He stalked around the desk and my heart flipped. “You’re wearing a sari.”

I gnawed on my bottom lip, botching Anjali’s makeup job. “Uh-huh.”

“A red sari.”

He took a step.

“Yep.”

Another step.

“Edged in gold
jeri
.”

“Hmm.”

“A bridal sari.”

Three more steps, bringing him within touching distance.

“But you’re not Hindu.”

I whacked him playfully on the chest. “Play along with me.”

He smiled. “I love the color.”

He picked up my hands, studied them. “Your hands are henna-ed.”

“You like?”

“Yeah.” He raised my hands to his lips, brushing his lips across my knuckles, kissing each and every one until I almost keeled over. “Let me get this straight. We’ve been apart less than a week and you can’t wait ’til I get home to see me. You’re dressed like a bride. Something you’re trying to tell me?”

I flung myself into his arms and he hugged me with a fierceness I reciprocated. “These last few months have been amazing. I’m not being impulsive; I’ve had time to figure this out, and my feelings haven’t changed.” I took a steadying breath and went for broke. “Scratch that. They have changed. I love you and I want to marry you if you’ll have me and—”

“Whoa. Back track a second.” He eased away, searching for confirmation I wasn’t going crazy on him again. “You love me?”

“Like you didn’t know.” I patted his chest, my heart skipping a beat at the indescribable elation lighting his eyes. “I thought you were smarter than that, Bollywood Boy.”

“I am, Miss Jones.” His tender smile almost made me swoon. “I knew we were destined to be together from the moment we met. Took you a while to catch on.”

He captured my face, stared into my eyes shimmering with tears. “I love every stubborn, outrageous, independent inch of you, and when you’re ready we’ll have the biggest wedding both continents have ever seen. What’ve you got to say about that?”

“Can Sassoon’s cater?”

He laughed and wrapped his arms around my waist, lifting me up and swirling me around until I couldn’t breathe.

“Put me down, you crazy man.” I playfully pummeled his back and he obliged, sliding me down with measured consideration, our bodies in tantalizing full-frontal contact.

“Crazy about you,” he said, a second before his lips claimed mine and I surrendered to the addictive pleasure of his kiss. When Drew locked the door and unwound my sari with gradual deliberation, his fingertips grazing my neck, my waist, my hips, lingering, teasing, I gave in to the unparalleled sizzle of starring in a scene not fit for Bollywood consumption.

Cue the music.

Roll the closing credits.

The kicker?

For us,
THE END
was just the beginning.

acknowledgements

Heartfelt thanks to the following people for helping turn this book into a reality:

Liz Pelletier, Heather Howland, and the dedicated team at Entangled Publishing. Your professionalism, tirelessness, and transparency are a breath of fresh air. Kudos.

My fabulous editor Libby Murphy, for her insight, enthusiasm, and general championing. You rock, Libby!

Lewis Pollak, my publicist, for his dedicated efforts in promoting my book.

My writing allies Natalie Anderson, Fiona Lowe, and Joan Kilby, your support means so much. Whether writing, revising, brainstorming, or cyber chatting, you’re always there for me. Huge hugs.

Iris Leach (dear I.I.) for the laughs, cheers, and belief in my books. Thanks from the bottom of my heart.

Serena Tatti, who read this book in its original form many moons ago. Thanks for your keen editorial eye, honest suggestions, and the best choc-mint ice cream cake ever!

Sindhu Venkadesh, for setting me right with names. And for reigniting my taste for rasam!

Ajit & Sulabha Nimbkar, for assisting with Arnala & Hindu wedding research.

My parents, Olly and Millie, for instilling their love of India in me (& for consistently whipping up incredible Indian feasts!).

My husband, Martin, who makes me laugh daily and believes I can achieve anything.

Last but not least, my littlest heroes, Heath and Jude. Thanks for your patience while mummy pounds away on the computer in the midst of Lego & Play-Doh. Your smiles, snuggles, and squishiest hugs are the best. Love you to the moon and back, my gorgeous boys. xx