Busted in Bollywood (17 page)

I’d put the groceries away when the buzzer sounded.

I pressed the intercom button. “Who is it?”

“Drew. Can I come up?”

I released the button as if it’d stung. What did he want? To waltz in here like not calling me had been an oversight?

I pressed the button again. “This isn’t a good time.”

“I know it’s rude to drop around without calling first, but I really need to see you.”

I nibbled on my bottom lip, torn between wanting to let him in and hear what he had to say and busting Bollywood Boy’s balls.

The moment he’d showed up, the decision had been a no-brainer. Not that I’d make it easy for him.

“Shari, it’s important.”

I jumped as if he’d stepped into the room and crept up on me. “I’m busy.”

“Let me guess. Reading a good book, washing your hair, or have a headache coming on?”

Damn his sense of humor. Along with the accent, the voice, the bod, the face, and every other goddamn thing that made him so irresistible.

“Not even close. But you better come up before someone mugs you.” I hit the door button and waited until it stopped buzzing before bolting to the bathroom to check my makeup. Yeah, yeah, totally pathetic, but if I was going to do some serious ball-breaking I needed to look my best.

Happy I hadn’t changed when I got home—and exceedingly grateful Rita had hauled me out of my sweats in the first place—I ran fingers through my tousled hair and checked to make sure I hadn’t spilled anything on my new chartreuse linen dress.

Not bad. If Drew had to come up and see me sometime, now was as good a time as any.

I opened the door and tried not to stagger at the sight of him, extremely doable in denim, a casual white shirt, and a black leather jacket.

“Thanks for letting me up, what with all the book-reading and hair-washing you have to do.” He smiled, to add to the torture of wanting something I couldn’t have.

“Muggers would’ve attacked for sure if I’d left you down there one minute longer with those banal lines.”

His mouth kicked into a grin. “Can I come in?”

I’d been leaning on the door, trying not to drool. Stepping aside, I gestured him in.

“Nice place,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket as I tried—and failed—to avert my eyes riveted to his broad chest as the shirt stretched across it.

“It’s not mine. I’m subletting from a cousin of Rita’s. Want a drink?” I had to do something, anything, to take my mind off how unsteady this guy made me feel.

“I’d kill for a cup of tea.”

“Take the boy out of England but you can’t take England out of the boy.
I’d kill for a cup of tea
,” I imitated, complete with plum-in-the-mouth accent that turned me on so much.

I ducked down to dishwasher level and opened the cabinet below the oven, dithering over good china or chipped.

“Are you making fun of me, Miss Jones?”

Rummaging for cups and saucers, I almost slammed my head as his voice came from somewhere on my left. Somewhere very close on my left. His radiant heat made my skin prickle.

Get a grip.

Withdrawing my head from the cabinet after locating the cups brought me up close and personal with the guy I wanted to
get a grip on
as he squatted down beside me.

“Here, let me take those.”

Damn the rattling cups in my shaking hands. Dead giveaway to how I reacted with him near.

“Would you like
masala chai
? Anjali showed me how to make it. I love the blend of cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and tea. It’s delicious.” I inwardly cringed at my jabber, flicking the kettle switch on and bustling around the kitchen like Martha freaking Stewart.

“Sounds good.” He leaned against the island bench, way too comfortable. “Sorry for not calling this week, I’ve been busy.”

My golden opportunity to do some ball-breaking. I stopped fussing and looked him straight in the eye. “Is that the guy’s equivalent of hair-washing and headaches?”

“No, that’s the truth. I’ve had a lot on my plate, both business and family stuff.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a wife and kids?” I joked, my stomach somersaulting and landing with a sickening splat.

We hadn’t talked about our families. Actually, we hadn’t talked much at all. In Mumbai he’d been too busy accusing me of being a gold digger and when he’d learned the truth, all we’d done was flirt. Here in New York, we’d barely skimmed the surface when the Toad had shown up and our evening had ended shortly afterward, courtesy of Drew’s business.

Funny business, more likely; I sure as hell wasn’t laughing.

“Worse. My mother.” He rolled his eyes in the universal God-help-me sign most kids used at some point in their lives. “She discovered I was in town despite my efforts to hide the fact and hasn’t stopped hassling me since.”

I giggled, an inane, relieved laugh. “Sounds serious.”

“She hangs out at The Plaza for a few weeks a year, and this time her trip happens to coincide with my visit.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I couldn’t lie to her when she asked where I was so now I’m facing the usual ‘when are you coming home to England? When are you getting married? When are you reproducing?’ Mundane stuff like that.”

“I get the same from my mom, apart from the England bit.”

“Maybe you should get yourself a fake fiancé? Throw her off track.” He grinned, the heat notching up in the kitchen having nothing to do with the steaming kettle.

“Touché.” I busied myself with the tea, the indecipherable shadows in his eyes disconcerting.

We’d flirted a little and he’d kissed me. That didn’t mean his hormones were going crazy like mine or he was harboring the same wicked thoughts I was.

“I almost forgot.” He pulled a buff envelope from his back pocket. “This is why I dropped by.”

“Oh.”

So it wasn’t to indulge in wild, climb-the-walls sex? Shame.

He handed it to me. “I’d expect a little more excitement from Pravin’s latest discovery.”

“
You’re
the boss man?”

“Apparently so. I sign the checks, I approve new inclusions, and Pravin raved about you, so you’re in.”

I ripped open the envelope, pulled out a thick document, and quickly scanned the contract. “I thought he must’ve been joking.”

“Pravin’s a Bollywood hotshot. Produced hundreds of films, grossing billions of dollars. He’s big and if he wants you in his film, you should be flattered.”

“Yeah, right,” I said, speed-reading the fine print until a figure leapt off the page and made my eyes bulge. “Ohmigod. This has to be a mistake.”

“The contract’s standard so I doubt mistakes have been made.”

I blinked, reopened my eyes, but the figure remained the same. “You want to pay me a thousand dollars for a bit part? That’s insane. I thought extras earned a pittance?”

“Not on Pravin’s films. I don’t write the contracts, I hand out the cash.”

“Then you’re insane.”

A thousand dollars could buy me an extra month’s rent. Or kick off my savings for the trip around India I’d been craving since I returned. Either way, looked like I would make my acting debut.

“There aren’t too many things in this world I’m crazy about but when I find them, I’m pretty single-minded.”

Something in his voice made me look up. Maybe it was an inflection or a slight change in the timbre but once our eyes met I couldn’t look away. I knew exactly how the cobras on Chowpatty Beach Anjali had told me about felt—trapped, unable to move, swaying in time to a turbaned guy playing some kind of flute.

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.”