I caved.

I let out a loud whoop and he joined in while Rakesh shook his head like a proud papa watching his two favorite kids.

"Diva, huh? I like it." I cocked my hip in a sassy 'bring it on.'

Drew's gaze drifted to my hip before slowly sweeping upward to my face, heating every inch he'd visually skimmed. "Guess I need to brush up on my insults."

"Hey, before you get into round two, I need Drew to sign off on a deal," Rakesh interrupted, surprisingly brisk and businesslike. "Time for you to head home, wife-to-be."

"In your dreams."

"In my nightmares," Rakesh said, and I flipped him a rude sign before making a dignified exit.

As dignified as can be expected considering I stumbled when my three-inch heel caught the edge of the Persian rug and threatened to land me on my expanding butt. Damn Anjali and those ladoos.

I heard a stifled snort and turned quickly, glaring at both men. "The least one of you bozos could do is escort me to the door."

Drew shrugged and smirked. "Sorry. You'd accuse me of being a know-it-all again and I can't have that. My fragile English ego can't handle it."

Ignoring him, I glared at Rakesh. "And what's your story, Lover Boy?"

"He gets Lover Boy and I get Bollywood Boy? Nice." Drew's eyes glittered with mischief and I fought the urge to run over, wrap my arms around him, and consummate the kiss we'd almost had.

Rakesh scrambled to his feet and crossed the room in two seconds flat, taking my hand and placing it in the crook of his elbow. "I was going to invent some lame excuse but after you've pumped up my ego, how could I be so ungallant?" He lowered his voice to a loud stage whisper. "Bollywood Boy? Good one."

"I thought you said we had to get back to business, Rama? So once you escort the lady to the limo, I'll see you in my office."

"Nice seeing you again, Drew." I sent him a saucy wave over my shoulder, wondering when I'd last had this much fun. Sad, because all we'd done was trade verbal banter, the odd insult, and flirted a little. Yet suddenly my world looked like a brighter place to be.

In all honesty, my life had improved since I'd arrived in this crazy, hot, melting pot of human intrigue, and I hoped my new positive karma carried over when I returned home.

"You too, Miss Jones. Look forward to seeing a lot more of you." His low, seductive chuckle left me in little doubt he wasn't just talking about my physical presence.

Damn, he was good. But I was better.

"The feeling's entirely mutual, Mr. Lansford. Though remember, divas only expect the best."

I licked my top lip in a sexy move I'd seen on TV, savoring his surprise and flare of heat as he checked me out with a silent promise of more to come.

chapter seven.

To: Shari.J@yahoo.com From: Amrita.M@hotmail.com Hey Shari, Only someone as confident as you could lob into a strange city, pull off the impersonation of all time (I hear Anu is a clever cow and if she believes you're me, you deserve the lead in the next Bollywood extravaganza), and find romance with some hot English dude.

He's hot, isn't he? All I hear is you dissing him and complaining, which tells me you have it bad! Uh-oh, let me guess. He's a Hugh look-alike?

Repeat after me: "I am not Julia Roberts. I am not Andie MacDowell. I am not living a film role. Hugh Grant is a sap."

Okay, maybe he's a cute sap but nevertheless, even if this English guy doesn't look like you-know-Hugh, don't get into a thing with a guy who lives on the other side of the world. You're only asking for more heartache, girlfriend, and you've had your fair share thanks to that lowlife scum Tate. (Please forgive slip in using the T-word.) Lover Boy, huh? If the Boy Rama is anything like the Indian guys I've met, I won't give him a second look, your recommendation notwithstanding. I don't need a master, hot bod or not, and unfortunately that's what these guys want-some docile slave to pander to their every whim while they grow fat on wifey's cooking. No way, no how.

(Note my bravado when voicing my strong opinions to you but discussing my cultural cynicism with my folks? So not happening. Wish I could make them understand I'm as Hindu as they are and respect all that stands for, but I'm a New Yorker, too, and I crave freedom of choice as much as they crave an Indian son-in-law.) Anyway, that's me for now.

Love you, Rita xx (PS. Sorry I've been incommunicado. Been dodging Mom's questions about wedding plans-yeah, all the way from the Grand Canyon!-and busy number-crunching at Berg's. You know how it is... Later.) I reread the email, searching for a clue to substantiate the suspicious niggle I had that something wasn't right. It had taken Rita two days to respond to my email when we usually spoke/emailed/texted every day. The text messages from NYC to Mumbai had been something along the lines of "R U OK 2DAY?" but at least it'd been contact. Yesterday, there'd been nada.

While I couldn't find anything untoward in the email, I couldn't shake the feeling Rita had something stewing.

"Shari, you ready? The car's here."

"Coming, Auntie." I added an extra slick of gloss and puckered up at the mirror. Sad, I know, but it was the closest I'd get to a kiss this trip-fantasies about Bollywood Boy notwithstanding.

Drew had sent the limo for our return trip to the studio, and by the height of Anjali's nose stuck in the air, she loved every minute of it. Her smugness as she simpered at the driver, who held the door open for us, was in stark contrast to Buddy's sourness as he hovered in the background, ostensibly polishing the old Beamer while casting malevolent glares at the limo. He hadn't taken too kindly to being demoted from his driving duties for a day.

Taking pity on him, I waved and smiled, his mutinous expression brightening for a second. Buddy could rival the Lone Ranger to head up my Indian fan club. He'd been particularly attentive since the crash'n'bang duty-free incident, trying to make up for it.

As if. I liked having a man in the house to do my bidding, but if I had a choice between Buddy and a mojito right now? No contest.

The driver edged the limo through the crowd outside Anjali's gate and as he turned onto the street, I caught a glimpse of a Stetson.

I grabbed Anjali's arm. "Hey, is that the guy who delivered the letter?"

"Where?" She craned her neck and squinted at where I pointed.

"Standing behind your gawking neighbors."

"Can't see a thing." Not that she was looking all that hard, considering she waved and nodded at the onlookers like the queen from her royal carriage. "Besides, I'm sure he's harmless."

"If I get abducted by some Stetson psycho, I'll remember that."

She guffawed and settled back in her seat as the limo headed up the street. Despite scanning the crowd in our wake, I couldn't see the hat. Maybe I imagined it? Or maybe some crazy cowboy was stalking me? Just what I needed, further intrigue.

Anjali prattled for the entire trip and I listened with half an ear, nodding and ahh-ing in the appropriate places. Drew wouldn't be at Film City today, and while my head said this was a good thing, my heart wouldn't have minded another jump-start from his skilled flirting.

As the studio gates came into sight, the memory of our previous embarrassment had me fixing Anjali with a don't-mess-with-me glare. "Today you stick with me. No wandering off on your own, no interfering, and most of all, no approaching Kapil for a repeat performance."

Anjali's kohl-rimmed eyes widened in a pathetic attempt at innocence. "I'm not a child, you know."

"Then don't throw a tantrum like you did last time and I'll believe you."

"Who, me?" She batted her eyelashes in exaggerated faux innocence, and I experienced a surge of affection for this warm, funny woman who had taken me into her home and protected me from what this bizarre city could throw at me.

Reaching over, I squeezed her hand. "Yes, you. No outbursts today, right?"

"Right." She grinned like a naughty kid and I knew I'd need to keep an eye on her.

However, I didn't have time once we arrived. In Drew's absence he'd entrusted us to his deputy, Desiree, a striking Eurasian woman of indeterminate age, who guided us through the extensive grounds.

We skirted around the mayhem on two sets-a fight scene and a chase scene complete with galloping horses and cowboys, my latent paranoia kicking in as I surreptitiously checked for authentic Stetsons and sniffed the air for Brut. Unable to tell the cowboys apart, I was nonetheless relieved when we stopped at another set, this one featuring a huge fountain as a centerpiece. Fake Roman columns surrounded it, with a covered walkway leading to a gazebo, where a harem of women wearing buttercup, amaranth, and lilac saris spilled down the steps in riotous abandon.

They clapped and twirled and cast coy glances at the male chorus, resplendent in burgundy turbans. My head spun with the noise and color and sheer numbers of extras involved.

Watching a scene shot live would change the way I viewed Bollywood films forever, the vibrancy and animation astounding. The fantastic blur of color and music mesmerized me as I tapped my foot in time with the catchy tabla rhythm, wishing I could demonstrate the same joie de vivre of the actors. I was particularly impressed with the stunning sari-clad women dancing chakkars (pirouettes) and dhak dhaks (a dance step involving loads of titillating breast jerks), their grace and liveliness inspiring.

Apparently, most male movie fans loved the dhak dhak. Not surprising, considering onscreen kisses were rare, and nudity nonexistent, so the odd breast shimmy-often in the rain for a little extra attention-was about as raunchy as it got. Movie audiences would have a group coronary if Stanley Kubrick produced here.

As the music picked up tempo and the dancers whirled in compelling color, I didn't know where to look first, like a kid on a trip to Disneyland.

"You'll like this, child. Holi is the Hindu festival of color and often used in film sequences. Look." Anjali grabbed my arm in excitement and I followed her line of vision.

"Wow." I stared as a cast of hundreds threw bright powders and sprayed water on one another, dancing and singing and leaping in an astonishing kaleidoscope of color. Peacock blue mingled with emerald, ruby with sunshine yellow, a gorgeous mayhem free-for-all like a bunch of hyperactive preschoolers let loose with finger paints. I yearned to play.

"Watch the heroine," Anjali said, giggling at my goggle-eyed surprise. "More titty action."

Sure enough, the beautiful heroine with exotic almond-shaped green eyes and thick black hair falling to her waist in a sleek curtain emerged from the writhing masses, drenched from head to foot. Color speckled her sheer white chiffon sari and clung to her voluptuous body.

Anjali shook her head. "Men are perverts."

I watched the heroine's graceful movements, perfect body, and gorgeous smile, not blaming guys for a second.

"If you've got it, flaunt it," I said, a small part of me wishing I had one-tenth of the va-va-va-voom the actress had.

"Girls of today have no shame," Anjali said as the heroine flounced off with the handsome hero hot on her heels.

I switched to watching another scene, where a group of women wearing micro-minis and crop tops was trying to entice a tall, leather-clad guy-the hero-away from a demure village girl, the love of his life by the way she made sickening goo-goo eyes at him.

"The vamps in these films always wear scandalous Western clothes," Anjali said, her frowning glance flicking over my own tight white bootleg jeans and flowing pink peasant top as if assessing my vamp factor.

I must've passed the test because she returned to watching the action, including barsaat (rain) and wet saris, jhatkas (the jerks and dhak dhaks of many choreographed songs) and shy glances from the Queen Bee, the industry's top heroine at the time. I'd never seen anything like the constant whir of motion, the frenetic pace, or the mind-boggling spectacle that went into making a Bollywood film.

When the action wound down half an hour later and the director called 'cut,' sweat trickled down my back in rivulets from standing too long and I jumped at Desiree's offer of a drink.

We wound our way between giant sound stages and trucks filled with electronic equipment to a small refreshment tent teeming with actors. Desiree parted the crowd and we bustled to the front, organizing our tea before I gratefully sunk into a canvas chair.

I sipped my chai, half-listening to Anjali and Desiree gush, debating the assets of megastar hotties Shah Rukh Khan, Salman Khan, and Akshay Kumar while ogling some seriously prime beefcake. If I didn't live half a world away and had sworn off guys, I could've easily fallen in lust with any number of the buffed guys strutting around the tent.

When we'd finished, Desiree took us behind the scenes of another film, an epic featuring star-crossed lovers, a murdered father, a vengeful son, and a ghost, making my taste in rom-coms seem decidedly tame.

We watched a dazzling dance sequence; a huge cast of whirring, gyrating, hand-thrusting demons dressed in rainbow-colored saris bounced around in the scorching heat. They maintained smiles during the high-octane performance, until the cameras stopped rolling and they flopped onto the nearest crate/chair/piece of ground to moan about the bastard producer and the lousy pay.

The chai revived me because I could've sat and watched Bollywood at its best forever. Every aspect fascinated me. When the scene wound down, we moved indoors to a vast area where musicians dubbed the score for the films.

Anjali glanced around. "Is Senthil Rama here today?"

"He sure is," Desiree said, with a beaming smile for the first time today. "He's the best tabla player in Mumbai and we're lucky he works here. Do you know him?"

Anjali shrugged. "We're old friends."

"Then you must say hello."

"Just a quick one. I'm sure he's busy." Anjali appeared disinterested but I couldn't figure why she wanted to say hi to Senthil. It wasn't like she had to impress the guy on my behalf considering I wouldn't see him again once I headed back to NYC. And Anu wasn't around, so it couldn't be to aggravate her. Unless her deviousness extended to hoping Senthil would report back to Anu? Considering her loathing for the woman, I wouldn't put it past Anjali. Or maybe the mystique in Rita's plan was getting to me and I was searching for clues that weren't there.

Desiree nodded. "Yes, he's in great demand."

I didn't feel like greeting my pretend father-in-law. In fact, I'd been extremely lucky so far, only seeing the Ramas at their house once. Though I knew my luck wouldn't hold, as Rakesh had mumbled something about a farewell dinner when I'd left Eye-on-I yesterday.

A dinner party with Mama Rama ranked right up there with my annual gyno visit: things we have to do but hate.

I waved them away. "Go ahead. I'll rest here while you say hello."

"We won't be long." Desiree and Anjali chattered about their favorite Bollywood films as they went in search of the Tabla King.

I sat on the nearest director's chair, wondering whose famous butt graced the canvas before mine. Hoping Senthil's groupies wouldn't be long, I slouched into it, the combination of a full stomach and the heavy afternoon heat acting like a sleeping drug. As my eyelids drooped, I caught a strong waft of Brut as someone sat next to me and I registered their feet before I dozed.

Nice boots.

My eyelids drooped.

Fancy cowboy boots.

I needed matchsticks to pry open my eyelids, they were that heavy.

Shit.

My eyes sprung open as I registered where I'd seen a pair of these great boots recently. And the psycho they were attached to.

Faking a yawn, I sat up straighter and reached for my bag, rummaging in it for any weapon I could find. My choices were limited: stab him with a Sky High Curl mascara wand, clamp him with an eyelash curler, or gloss him with Glam Shine.

Fight wasn't an option so I prepared for flight, not that my heels had anything on the Nikes I kept in storage back home. Before I could spring/leap/dash like I'd seen Cameron Diaz do in Charlie's Angels, I sensed movement and braced for the Lone Ranger's lasso.

"Excuse me, but I had to tell you I'm your greatest fan, Miss Rai. I know you must hear this all the time but your work far surpasses anyone else's and your screen presence alone brings joy to my heart."

A polite stalker. Who would've thought?

Ready to settle this confusion once and for all, I deliberately voided any expression from my face and turned toward him.

Yep, it was the guy who'd stared at my window that night and probably the same one who'd delivered the stinky note. The Lone Ranger in the flesh, complete with Stetson shading his face.

Though his body could've rivaled Mr. Universe, his face was nothing to rave about: average brown eyes, average nose, and thin lips. In fact, everything about his face read average, which probably helped in his line of work: Stalking 101.

"Sorry, there's been a mistake. I'm not who you think I am. I'm not an actress. Never have been, unless you count my pathetic rendition of Sandi from Grease in high school and-"

I came to an abrupt stop, realizing I was babbling and the Ranger's eyes gleamed now that his supposed idol had deemed to talk to him. Not that I wasn't the teensiest bit flattered. He thought I was Aishwarya Rai Bachan, a former Miss Universe and stunning screen star. If he had to confuse me with someone, she was a glamorous start.