The Bollywood Bride Read Online Free PDF Page A

every step. “Okay, so something happened, but don’t you dare make some bastard journo my problem.” She picked up the pictures and stuffed them back into the envelope.
    Instead of softening, DJ’s expression stayed as dark as ever. “I don’t think you understand how bad this is.”
    Oh, she knew exactly how bad this was. He was the one who didn’t know just how much worse it could get. A reclusive Ice Princess the public couldn’t get enough of. Those comedy sketches where they mimicked her were funny enough. But an unstable star careening toward full-blown madness like her murderous mother—that was something they wouldn’t want to touch with a barge pole. The public wanted their darkness in bite-sized chunks, small enough to be entertaining. For real tragedy they had the terrorists, the rapists, the natural disasters. Film stars were for entertainment purposes only.
    For the first time since Ria had got off that ledge, instead of feeling violated and cornered, fear stirred inside her.
    Hard negotiator’s curiosity flashed in DJ’s eyes as he weighed all the pieces of the catastrophe at hand. “The only reason we got to see these pictures before they went to print is that my contact at Filmistan called me instead of printing them. I was able to track the photographer down. He’s the worst kind of bastard, all sleaze and greed. He says the pictures aren’t all he’s got.”
    Ria clutched the back of the couch. The floor beneath her seemed to tip to one side. What else could he possibly have? No one, not even DJ, knew anything about her past. Not even her real name. “He’s lying. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Her tone stayed cool, but the blatancy of the lie scalded her tongue like a too big gulp of steaming coffee she could neither spit out nor swallow.
    “I don’t know. But do we want to find it in the papers? Can we really call his bluff?”
    We? Was he the one who would lose everything if anyone started asking questions? She wanted to scream at him to do his job, to make this go away. But she didn’t, because that would make her sound as terrified as she felt. And because it would make her sound crazy.
    “Can’t we take legal action?” she asked instead. The man had, after all, photographed her in the privacy of her flat, without her consent.
    Tea spurted from DJ’s mouth. The man had a law degree and the mention of legal action made him spray milky brown liquid all over the spotless marble floor. It took him a few moments to stop sputtering. “Legal? You mean like calling the police? Like filing reports and restraining orders and shit? Babes, this is Mumbai, not LA. Sometimes you’re so naïve, I forget how long you’ve been around.”
    She threw a bunch of napkins on the tea and soaked up the mess.
    DJ paced the room. “We should call the police. So they can arrest you for attempted suicide. Then this could turn into a real media circus. Money can’t buy this kind of publicity. We could stretch it out for months if we play it right. Why doesn’t this happen to clients who want it?”
    Something warm prickled in Ria’s eyes. It had been ten years since she’d let herself cry off camera. The last time she’d cried she had been Ria Pendse, an eighteen-year-old on her back in Ved Kapoor’s bed in his fancy trailer. India’s biggest superstar had been excited by her eighteen-year-old tears. They had made him wild as he rammed into her. Don’t forget you’re getting the better end of this deal, girl, he’d told her. He had been right. Not only had he given Ria a new name and her first role, but he had pounded every last remnant of hope and innocence from her heart, and every last memory of Vikram from her body.
    Crying because some bastard wanted to make a quick buck off her was an insult to those last tears she had cried. None of this trivial shit was worthy of tears.
    She tossed the napkins in the trash and turned to DJ. “Fine. Find out what he wants. Pay him off. I don’t care