Читать книгу Love, Unexpectedly - Susan Fox P. - Страница 10

The VIA Rail train from Montreal to Toronto was an old friend. I took it at least once a month on Le Cachet business. Settling into a cushy window seat, I sipped the skinny latte I’d bought in Central Station and stretched luxuriously. Yes, there would be family stresses over the next couple of weeks, but the bottom line was, my baby sister was getting married and I was on two weeks’ holiday.

I’d changed clothes at Le Cachet, leaving my work persona behind in my office. Now I wore my favorite Miss Sixty jeans topped by a bright pink camisole with a gauzy sleeveless blouse over it.

I gazed out the picture window at the intriguing hustle and bustle of the underground station, wondering who would sit beside me.

Funny how sisters could be so different. Theresa preferred academic texts to human beings, Merilee mostly hung out with Matt, and Jenna and I were true extroverts.

This afternoon I hoped I’d get a seatmate who felt like chatting for at least part of the four and a half hours it would take to get to Toronto.

Perhaps a handsome, charming man? No. It wasn’t three weeks since Jean-Pierre had dumped me. My heart didn’t rebound that quickly.

Thinking about relationships reminded me of my conversation with Nav on Saturday night. He was right that I tended to fall head over heels. It was like seeing a lovely designer dress that I just had to have. With men, I’d see an Olympic champion or a NASCAR winner, handsome and sexy and fascinating, and if he was actually attracted to me, how could I not fall for him?

Of course with the lovely dress, once I tried it on, I knew if it fit well, and the designer label assured me of quality. With a man, perhaps I did fail to look below the surface, to check for true quality and a good fit in terms of personality and values. Perhaps that was why so many men ended up disappointing me.

In other cases, I feared it was me who disappointed them. I wasn’t pretty enough, exciting enough, sexy enough, to hold their attention. They’d move on to another woman as Jean-Pierre had.

A depressing thought. But, being a woman of action, I wasn’t going to dwell on it. Instead, I needed an action plan to ensure I didn’t repeat the same mistake.

What I needed to do was avoid the head-over-heels part. Attraction was fine, but I had to hold off on love until I’d known the guy for…oh, maybe a month. Yeah, that made sense. In four weeks of dating, I’d focus on getting to know the man behind the façade, and with luck I’d identify any major flaws. Also, if he was tiring of me, likely there’d be signs of it by then.

Satisfied by my proactive approach, I focused my attention out the window, enjoying the bustle of activity in the busy station.

My gaze was caught by a birdlike woman with white hair and skin as brown and creased as a pecan, wrapped in a gorgeous burgundy and gold sari. Facing her, his back to me, was a man who, at least from the rear view, warranted a second look. His jeans—I recognized the 7 For All Mankind logo—and fitted white shirt looked great on a body with broad shoulders, slim hips, and long legs. He had glossy black hair, longish and pulled neatly back, and I guessed he might be Indian like the woman.

Beside the pair were two wheeled bags, one neatly upright, the other toppled over. The woman carried a big embroidered tote and the man had a couple of black bags over his shoulder, which he juggled as he bent to deal with the fallen luggage. Nice butt, I noted.

As he righted the bag, he turned slightly and I saw his profile. Wow. I sucked in a breath. That was one hot-looking guy, with strongly cut features and cinnamon-colored skin that was set off by the stylish white shirt. Handsome, masculine, purely wow!

There was something familiar about him. Had I met him? No, this man I would definitely remember.

White teeth flashed in a smile as he listened to his companion.

Ah, that was it. He reminded me a bit of Nav, with his athletic build, his coloring, the attentive way he listened.

He gestured the woman, likely his grandmother, toward the ticket window, then followed behind, towing the wheeled bags. I squinted, hoping he’d look back this way.

“Bonjour.” A male voice made me jump. A distinguished man with silvery hair and a beautifully cut gray suit stood in the aisle. In Québécois French, he said, “I believe I’m sitting beside you.”

“Bonjour.” I held out a hand. “Je m’appelle Kat Fallon.”

“Philippe Martineaux. Enchanté.”

He took the aisle seat, then we did the “who are you and why are you on this train?” chat. Philippe was a lawyer going to Toronto for a series of meetings dealing with a corporate merger. I was ready to settle in for a chat, but he gave me a polite smile and said he needed to work. As the train pulled out of the station, he snapped open his briefcase and extracted a file folder.

So much for passing the trip in conversation. I might as well get my head into wedding mode. I plugged in my laptop and turned it on.

Merilee was busy making up her university semester after missing time due to illness, Mom was preparing to present a case in the Supreme Court of Canada next week, and Dad, a research scientist, was hopeless when it came to girlie stuff. So the three-pack—as our family called Theresa, me, and Jenna, each born a year apart—had volunteered to organize the wedding.

I doubted Jenna’d be much help. She didn’t even believe in marriage, not to mention she was hopelessly disorganized. We’d be lucky if she even made it back from Santa Cruz, where she’d been counting peregrine falcons and surfing, in time for the wedding. So, it was up to Theresa and me.

We had a lot to do in the next ten days. As the train crossed the Lachine Canal, I pulled up the last family e-mails, sipping coffee as I reread them.

On Saturday I’d e-mailed Theresa. After giving her my travel itinerary, I said:

How often does a Fallon girl get married? So far, only once, and you didn’t even invite us. (Bad girl!) And that obviously jinxed your marriage, so we can’t let that happen to Merilee. Not that anything could jinx her and Matt, right? I mean, they’ve only been each other’s “one and onlys” for how long? 15 yrs!

Poor Theresa. My professor sister was, quite literally, a genius. She’d done a Doogie Howser dash through school, acing her studies and failing social skills, and had fallen in love an exact total of one time in her life. She’d married the guy—a professor—and he’d turned out to be an asshole, appropriating her research and passing it off as his own.

The experience had soured Theresa on men.

I went back to my e-mail to my sister.

Do have to wonder why the kid has all the luck…You thought you’d found your guy and he turned out to be a loser. And me, yeah, I can hear exactly what you’re saying. I keep repeating the same mistake, and you at least learned from yours.

But Theresa, I don’t WANT to be cynical like you. I want to believe there’s a great guy out there for me. That I deserve love, and that I’ll find it.

It was true. And because I refused to be cynical, I kept giving my heart, and having it tossed back, bruised and battered. One day—fingers crossed for sooner rather than later—I’d meet Mr. Right-Forever.

And in the meantime, thanks to Nav, at least I could fake it with my family. I was fed up with the ribbing. And the pity. I read my e-mail to Theresa.

So, anyhow, guess what? I’m bringing a date to the wedding!!!! Yes, it’s a guy, and he’s good-looking and successful. And very, very nice. His name is Nav. Honestly, Theresa, this man is NOT another of my bad choices. You and the ’rents and the sisters will all approve of him. HONEST!! <G> He’ll probably fly out a day or 2 before the wedding.

Nav was so amazing to do this for me. Could a girl have a better friend? I was so going to owe him.

To tell the truth, I couldn’t believe he’d agreed, and didn’t really understand why. Sometimes the man seemed transparent as glass, and other times I suspected still waters that ran deeper than he let me see.

He was kind of like his photographs. On one level, they were merely excellent pictures of buildings, scenery, people—a bit unconventional when it came to angle and lighting. If you looked deeper, however, there were all sorts of things to be seen, and you never knew if you’d found them all. When you asked Nav, he’d smile enigmatically and say, “The observer makes the picture.”

Like with his photo of a giant modern office tower. You couldn’t see in the tinted windows; you were left to guess about who worked there. Instead, the windows reflected images: a flock of suited businesspeople, a couple of designer-clad women with shopping bags, a homeless guy sprawled on the sidewalk, begging.

Nav’s work was brilliant, and it made you think. I was thrilled about his exhibit at Galerie Beau Soleil.

The man beside me gave a snort and I glanced over to see him dashing bold black question marks in the margin of a document. I turned back to my e-mail to Theresa.

BTW, re the wedding. We’ll need invitations, right? M&M need to come up with a guest list ASAP. I know Merilee always wanted hand-calligraphied invitations with RSVP cards enclosed, but there won’t be time. Phone calls would be a hassle, having to provide all the info and get people to write it down. So I was thinking, why don’t we do e-vites? I’m really good with graphics, I could design something in the next couple days, if you get the list from M&M. Oh, and we could use the list to plan the bridal shower and make sure one of Matt’s friends is arranging a bachelor party. Let me know what you think.

Hugs, Kat.

Theresa, flying to Vancouver from Sydney, Australia, where she taught sociology at the university, had picked up my e-mail in Honolulu and responded.

Hi Kat. Glad you got the tickets. I should be able to borrow someone’s car and meet you at the station.

Yes, you’re right about invitations. I think e-vites are a good idea. I talked to Merilee and she agrees. She and Matt are going to put together a guest list. So, when you have time, go ahead and do something up. I’m sure it’ll be great.

Just remember, this is M&M, not some ritzy hotel you’re promoting!

I gave a snort of my own. Having a superachiever for an older sister was a pain in the ass. She never gave me credit. Of course I’d design especially for my kid sister and her guy.

Oh, BTW, I won’t be in Vancouver until tomorrow night. I’m in Honolulu overnight. There’s e-mail (obviously!) and you can reach me by cell.

Overnighting in Honolulu had been a change of plans. She’d intended to connect straight on to Vancouver. Normally, my control freak sister would be royally pissed if something messed up her plans, yet she sounded surprisingly copacetic.

Heard anything from Jenna? I told her to call you. She’s trying to work out her travel plans.

Talk soon. Theresa

Ah, Jenna. No, I still hadn’t heard from her. The word “flaky” had been invented for the third sister in our three-pack. She was almost thirty, yet she’d never had a real job or a real relationship. Her motto was Variety is the spice of life. And she liked her life very, very spicy.

The next e-mail was from Merilee—the unexpected child who’d come along eight years after Jenna, making us a three pack plus one. Her message said she and Matt were working on a guest list and loved the idea of e-vites. I had e-mailed her and Theresa back.

Been doing some thinking, and there’s a couple of ways we could go. Merilee, those mags you scattered around the house were all hearts/flowers/lace, so maybe you want to go with the whole soft, romantic, traditional kind of thing. But then I was thinking how you and Matt have been M&M forever, and how you always include a bag of M&Ms whenever you give each other a birthday or Christmas present, and I thought it might be fun to use the candy as a theme.

Let me know what you think. I can do either. Whatever you guys want.

Hugs and smooches, bride to be!

Merilee had responded with,

Squeee!!!!!! Oh yeah, M&Ms! What a cool idea. It’s so “us.” You’re the best, Kat.

I smiled. Theresa might have put herself in charge of the wedding—she’d said she was drawing up a spreadsheet—but I was the one who’d made Merilee Squeee with six exclamation marks.

Last night I’d started to draft an e-vite. Now I pulled it up to work on.

Glancing out the window, I saw we were passing through the western suburbs of Montreal. Sure enough, moments later we pulled into Dorval station and some passengers gathered their belongings.

A burble of sexy female laughter distracted me from the computer screen, then the unseen woman said, in French, “Oh, I definitely want to hear more about that.”

A male voice, deep and so low I couldn’t make out the words, replied.

Then the woman came into view, sauntering toward me down the aisle as she headed for the exit. Long blond hair, vivacious features, a lush body, and a killer suit I guessed to be Armani. In her hand was a gorgeous and very feminine red leather bag—either a Birkin or an excellent knockoff—that made me drool. She did a hair toss and glanced behind her flirtatiously, then her companion came into sight.

It was the man from the train station. The hot Indian grandson, as I’d thought at the time. And now here he was with a different travel companion.

He came closer; I looked at his face, and—oh, my God! “Nav?”

Or was it? If so, he’d been transformed.

His gaze flicked to mine. He raised his brows in puzzlement rather than smiling in recognition, but there was definite appreciation in the wickedly male gleam in his eye, the hint of a smile tugging at full lips.

No, it wasn’t my neighbor. The eyes were very similar, but this man—the one whose fashion sense and budget were the polar opposite of Nav’s—was older. He had a higher forehead, sharper cheekbones, a stronger jawline. An utterly sensual mouth.

My lips curved. How could I not respond to the flattery of that eye-gleam, from such a striking, sexy guy? Even if he was with another woman, one who topped me on the beauty scale.

He moved on, pulling a Louis Vuitton wheeled carry-on. I caught the flash of gold on his wrist. An expensive watch.

I glanced out the window to watch the departing passengers. Expecting to see the striking couple, I was surprised when only the woman—now pulling the Vuitton bag herself—headed for the shuttle. Walking confidently, with a sexy sway to her hips, she paused to toss a laughing remark over her shoulder.

I wondered at their relationship. Were they a couple, or had they just met on the short train trip, hit it off, exchanged phone numbers?

Would he be walking back down the aisle?

Pretending to study my computer screen, I glanced up under my eyelashes as a family bustled noisily past. The train started to move and then, there he was. Pausing to stare at me until I couldn’t pretend any longer.

I lifted my head and met his gaze.

The interested gleam was still in his eyes and it shot a tingle of acknowledgment—let’s face it, of lust—rippling through me.

Oh, wow, was he fine. But also, hauntingly familiar. Was this my neighbor, playing a joke on me?

If Nav’s hair was pulled back, his mustache and beard shaved off, and if he could be persuaded to wear designer labels, might he look like this? Surely it was too much coincidence that a near look-alike would show up on my train. But had I even told Nav my schedule? Last night I’d knocked on his door, but there’d been no answer.

“Nav?” I asked again, speaking in English, hearing the uncertainty in my voice. “Come on, it’s you. Isn’t it?”

His eyes—Nav’s eyes—danced. When he spoke, his voice was deep like Nav’s, but he didn’t speak English, nor Québécois French. In Parisian French, he said, “You break my heart.” His gesture, placing his right hand over his heart theatrically, was not one I’d ever imagine Nav making. Nor was the ring, heavy gold with a flashing diamond, something my antimaterialism neighbor would ever, in a million years, wear, or be able to afford. “I’d like to think that if you’d met me, lovely lady, you would remember.”

Then he said, “Pardon me. I’m assuming you speak French. Yes?”

“Oui.” Baffled, I switched to French. “I’m amazed by the resemblance. Are you related to Naveen Bharani?”

“No, I’m not related to Naveen Bharani, but everyone has a double. Who is this man? Your boyfriend?” Again he put his hand to his heart. “Tell me you don’t have a boyfriend.”

I chuckled and was about to respond when the lawyer in the aisle seat said, “Excuse me for interrupting, but would you two like to sit together?” He put a slight but pointed emphasis on the word “interrupting.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I know you’re trying to work.”

“I apologize, too,” the flirtatious man said. “Perhaps we might exchange seats? If the lady agrees?” He tipped his head to me, nicely shaped eyebrows raised, eyes sparkling with appreciation and challenge. He was polite, yet his confident manner suggested he was sure the lawyer and I would agree.

“I…” This person who could almost be Nav’s twin had just said good-bye to a beautiful woman, and now he was hustling me. I shouldn’t go along.

All the same, it was a long trip and my current seatmate wasn’t into chatting. The Indian guy intrigued me, and not only because of his resemblance to Nav. He was distinctly hot, and his attention was flattering.

“Well?” The lawyer’s voice was edged with impatience.

“Fine,” I said. “Thanks. And again, I’m sorry we disturbed you.”

“Not a problem.” He gathered his things, stood, then the two men headed down the aisle together.

Quickly I closed the file on my computer, touched up my lipstick, and got rid of my empty coffee container.

And then the hot guy was back. As he stowed his bags overhead, I thought that he moved the way Nav did, with strength and fluid economy.

I loved his style. Modern, classy, expensive, but not over the top. Immaculately groomed, yet not the slightest bit metrosexual with his strong features and athletic build. No, he was purely masculine, and my body tingled with sexual awareness.

He slipped into the seat beside me and a hint of sandalwood, one of my favorite scents, drifted toward me. In my apartment, I always had sandalwood candles. That spicy, earthy scent coming off a sexy man stirred my senses in a way the candles never had.

His movements reminded me of Nav’s; his scent was different. His eyes were like Nav’s, but his face was leaner, stronger. Or at least I thought it was. As best I’d been able to tell, given Nav’s overgrown hair, my friend had rounder features.

“No,” the man said, “I’m not related to your friend. Do I look that much like him?”

He’d caught me staring. “Sorry.” I made an apologetic face. “There really are some similarities.”

“As I said, everyone has a double.” He adjusted his seat and I got a closer look at his watch—a gold Piaget that had to be worth a small fortune.

I chuckled at the thought of shaggy-haired Nav in his old jeans and battered Timex side by side with this man. “You’re not exactly doubles.” For a moment, the thought made me feel disloyal to my friend. But that was silly. Sweet, cute Nav with his “you’re too obsessed with appearances” philosophy had chosen his style just as much as this man had.

“We’re not?” My companion crossed one leg over the other, his knee brushing my leg. Not accidentally. If there was one thing this man wasn’t, it was shy. He gazed at me, a teasing challenge in his eyes. “How am I different?”

Through my jeans, my flesh tingled pleasantly. But I drew my leg away. I wasn’t going to make this too easy for him. Besides, my heart was still bruised from Jean-Pierre—though I had to admit it was healing under the flattering balm of this hot guy’s attention.

How should I respond to his question? This man needed no boost to his male ego, and I wasn’t about to tell him he was better looking, better dressed, richer, and more confident than Nav. Keeping my face straight, I said, “You’re older.” Nav was twenty-eight, three years younger than me. This man, with his angular features, expensive style, and sophisticated aura, had to be older than me.

“Older?” One side of his mouth curved up.

“And his French is Québécois while yours is Parisian.” Though I did recall Nav telling me that as a child in London he’d learned continental French. When he’d moved to Quebec, he’d worked hard to change accents so he’d fit in with his fellow students. Doubt crossed my mind again. Those eyes were so much like Nav’s.

I narrowed my own eyes. “You’re absolutely positive you’re not him?”

He chuckled. “Would you like me to be Naveen? I can pretend, if that’s what you want.”

“I’m not sure you could. He’s a very nice person.” I said it teasingly. This man knew I was attracted to him, but I wanted him to know I had reservations.

“Ouch.” His brow wrinkled. “What did I do to deserve that?”

“You abandon your grandmother, then you see your girlfriend off at Dorval, and five minutes later you’re flirting with someone else?”

“Ma grand-mère?” He frowned in puzzlement. Then his face lightened and he snapped long, well-shaped fingers. Fingers just like Nav’s except for the excellent manicure. “You saw me at the station. How did I not notice you?” His Parisian French was so elegant, so much better suited to this kind of compliment than Québécois or English.

“Don’t go overboard on the flattery,” I said dryly, though I was a sucker for it. “And I wasn’t in the station, I was on the train.” I gestured toward the big window beside me. Outside, I saw fields of farmland bordered by lush forest. Soon we’d cross from Quebec into Ontario.

“Ah, yes. Well, the woman you saw, Mrs. Chowdary, isn’t my grandmother. I was crossing the station when her bag fell over, so I stopped to help.”

A Good Samaritan. Nav would have done the same thing. “That was kind.”

He shrugged. “The bag was far too heavy for her. She’s going to visit family in Quebec City and packed gifts for her daughter and son-in-law and six grandchildren.”

She’d told him her life story, and he’d listened. Points to him for being nice to the old lady, but that didn’t let him off the hook. “And what about the girlfriend? The Armani blond with the Birkin bag.”

“Observant, aren’t you?” He smiled and touched my bare forearm quickly. Casually. Except, I sensed that nothing this man did was casual. If his intent had been to make my skin burn, my breath quicken, to make me even more physically aware of him, he’d succeeded. “And you jump to conclusions,” he added.

“Do I?”

“She’s no more my girlfriend than Mrs. Chowdary is my grandmother. My seat was beside hers, we got talking. You know how it goes.”

“Certainement. I suppose the women you sit beside always give you their phone numbers?” I guessed the blonde had, from the comment I’d overheard. And because he was that kind of man.

The kind of man I went for. The dangerous kind.

“It’s been known to happen.” Humor danced in his eyes.

I wished those eyes weren’t so like Nav’s. They made me want to trust him. I firmed my jaw. “And is that what you want from me? My phone number?” One more to add in his PDA? If so, he wouldn’t get it. I didn’t need a man who, like Jean-Pierre—and Nav—went through women the way I went through a box of Godiva chocolates.

He gave me a knowing smile. “What do I want from you? Many things. Starting with pleasant company on a long train trip. Fair enough?”

I’d have happily spent the trip chatting with the silver-haired lawyer, so why not with this sexy, flirtatious man? “Fair enough.” I held out my hand. “I’m Kat Fallon.”

He took it, but rather than shaking, held on to it. “Just to be clear, you don’t want me to be Naveen?”

A warm glow spread up my arm. “Cute. No. There’s only one Nav, and he’s my best friend.”

“Best friend.” He echoed the words slowly, thoughtfully.

He must think it unusual for a woman to have a male best friend, but it was the truth. A truth I’d never actually told Nav. It seemed kind of pathetic that an outgoing woman of my age had never had a friend I felt as close to as I did him.

“Well, then.” My seatmate lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a slow, soft, sexy kiss to the back of it. “You can call me Pritam.”

My breath caught. God, he had sensual lips, and that kiss had me imagining the way they’d feel on other, more intimate parts of my body. As he’d no doubt intended.

I tugged my hand away. “No last name?”

He shook his head. “I use only Pritam.”

“Really?” The single name, the clothes, the jewelry—he definitely wasn’t the normal guy you met on the street. “What line of work are you in?”

“Entertainment. And what do you do?”

Entertainment? That fit his image. I was curious, but answered his question. “I’m director of public relations at a hotel in Old Montreal. Le Cachet. Do you know it?”

“I do. It’s charming.”

“Have you stayed there? Or do you live in Montreal?”

“I’ve eaten there a time or two. And yes, at the moment I’m based in Montreal.”

“At the moment?”

“I’m doing business in Montreal. How about you? Did you grow up there? Your French is perfect, yet I sense you’re not a native Québécoise.”

“No, I’m from the West Coast. Vancouver.”

“Ah. Mountains and ocean. I hear it’s lovely. What brought you to Quebec?”

I was about to give him the edited version that had nothing to do with escaping family pressures, when a uniformed steward stopped beside us. “Madame, Monsieur, would you care for a drink before dinner?”

“I’d like a glass of white wine,” I told him.

“For me also,” Pritam said. “And it’s my treat.”

“We have a chardonnay from Château des Charmes or an Inniskillin pinot grigio,” the steward said.

“I’ll take the pinot grigio,” I said. Then, to Pritam, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I’ll have the same.”

The steward poured our wine. “I’ll leave dinner menus and check back shortly.”

We thanked him, then when he’d gone Pritam raised his wineglass. His shirt cuffs were unbuttoned, his wrist brown and masculine.

Very, very masculine and touchable. My nipples tightened against the silky fabric of my camisole.

“To two strangers meeting on a train.” There was a seductive huskiness to his voice that told me, if he had his way, we wouldn’t stay strangers long.

My body responded with another thrill of arousal. I touched my glass to his. “And to a pleasant journey.”

“A very pleasant one.” He drew the words out slowly and, over the glasses, our gazes met. There was no mistaking the sexual spark in his.

And no mistaking the sparks that heated my blood and made my pussy throb. This was exactly the kind of man who attracted me. Charismatic, sexy, and sure of himself. Attracted to me, and totally focused on going after what he wanted. Pritam’s attention both soothed my heartache and ignited my sexuality. I hadn’t felt so alive, so feminine and desirable, in months.

I could allow myself this indulgence, and give him my phone number at the end of the trip if I wanted, but I had to remember my new one-month rule. Attraction was one thing, but no head-over-heels stuff.

He took a sip of wine. “Speaking of which, do you go all the way?”

I choked on my own wine. “Excuse me?”

Eyes dancing, he said, “All the way to Toronto, I hope?”

He’d set me up neatly. In fact, wasn’t that a line from the movie Silver Streak? I chuckled. “Yes, all the way to Toronto.”

“Good, then we have lots of time to get to know each other. Now, where were we?” He gave me an encouraging smile. The man really did have the sexiest lips, full and sensual and very, very kissable.

“Uh…” Damned if I could remember. “Tell me what you do in the entertainment industry.”

“First, you were going to tell me how a girl from Vancouver ended up in Montreal.”

“Oh, right.” Yes, that’s what we’d been talking about. “By the way, do you speak English?” The first thing I’d said to him had been in English, and he’d understood.

“Avec compétence, mais je préfère Français.”

“Then we’ll stick with French.”

“It is, after all,” he said in French, “the language of love.”

I chuckled. “Give me a break.”

He laughed, too. “What can I say? Frenchmen are known for being outrageous, especially when a beautiful woman is involved. And for the moment I live in Montreal, so I’m a Frenchman and entitled. Now, tell me why you moved so far from home.”

Most men I’d dated had been more eager to talk about their exciting lives than my more mundane one. And I’d hung on their words, fascinated. Curious as I was to learn about Pritam, it was refreshing that he was interested in me.

All the same, I didn’t want to bore him to tears, so I gave him the short version. “I went to the University of Toronto for undergrad. I wanted to see a new place, meet new people.”

“Toronto? For a particular academic program?”

“No. I didn’t know what career I wanted.” Which had pissed off my parents no end. They were career driven and so was my older sister. But I’d had no outstanding talent and hadn’t felt really drawn to any subject in school, nor to a particular line of work. Trying to show myself in the best light, I said, “I’m creative but practical, too, and I’m very social.”

“An excellent combination. So, how did you decide on your career?”

“Through experimentation.” I sipped wine. “I took different courses, worked at part-time and summer jobs, figured out what I liked and what I was good at.”

He nodded. “An intelligent approach.”

It had felt more like muddling around, and my parents had complained about my lack of focus. They’d urged me in the direction of law, my mother’s field. Not medical research, my dad’s specialty, because I didn’t have a scientific brain.

“And how did you end up in Montreal?” Pritam leaned toward me, his sleeve brushing my bare arm on the armrest.

I tried to focus on the question rather than on the way I thrilled to his touch. “I wanted to be fluently bilingual, so after two years in Toronto I went to study in Montreal, at McGill. I loved Montreal. After I graduated, I worked in several hotels, and was assistant to the director of PR at Le Cachet. Then he moved to New York. I got his job, and I love it.”

“What do you love about it?” His expression was attentive.

How to put it into words? I wasn’t big on analyzing feelings, I just experienced them. Like, when I walked toward the front doors of Le Cachet, my step was bouncy and I felt like singing. It would sound silly to say that though. “It makes good use of all my skills. The other staff are great to work with, and I love the hotel itself. I’m challenged, alive; each day is different.”

As I spoke, Pritam had begun to smile. Now he rested his hand on my forearm, making me tingle again. “You’ve found your niche. It feels wonderful when that happens, n’est-ce pas?”

“Yes, you’re right, that’s exactly it.” If he could relate to the feeling, he must consider the entertainment industry to be his niche. Again, I was about to ask him what he did, but he was going on, a quizzical expression on his face.

“Your niche in your career, oui. Now, what about your personal life? You’re a beautiful, intelligent woman who has chosen to be single.”

Chosen? No, I sure hadn’t chosen being single.

I must have frowned, because he said, “Wait, I’m making an assumption. You’re not single?”

“Yes, of course I am. I wouldn’t be—” Flirting with him.

And then something occurred to me. The question I should have asked before I let him flirt with me. “Are you single?”

“Mais oui.” His brows drew together. “If I was married, I’d never behave this way with you. How could you think that?”

“Because I don’t know you. You could be one of those men who takes off his wedding band the moment he’s away from his wife.”

He frowned. “You can’t know, of course. But I give you my word. When I marry, fidelity will be part of the deal.” His dark eyes looked sincere, and in that moment exactly like Nav’s. It was so disconcerting.

Then he gave a small, mischievous smile. “And no, as you say, you don’t know me. I hope to remedy that in the hours of this trip, Kat.”

Kat. I stiffened. It was the first time he’d spoken my name. My heart raced. It seemed to me, he’d said Kat exactly the way Nav did. With a Brit accent, not a Parisian one.

One syllable. I stared at him. Maybe I’d been mistaken. How much could I read into one syllable? “Say my name again. All of it. Kat Fallon.”

Muscles tightened beside his eyes; amusement flickered in their depth.

I realized I was holding my breath.

“Katherine Fallon,” he said, giving it a Parisian flair.

I puffed out breath, shook my head, glared at him. “Uh-uh. In English. Kat Fallon.”

A grin started on his face. Widened. Speaking in Nav’s posh English accent, he said, “Kat Fallon, it took you long enough.”

Oh! I was right. “Nav! Oh, my God! What are you doing? What’s going on? Where did you get those gorgeous clothes and the expensive jewelry?”

I put my hands to my cheeks, laughing, shaking my head in amazement. “What crazy game are you playing? I can’t believe you took me in. And here I said you were older, by years. It’s your face; it looks so much leaner without all the hair. Why did—”

“Kat,” he broke in.

His tone was so serious, I lowered my hands and stared at him. At that totally intriguing face that was his, yet not his. My friend Nav’s, yet also the sexy stranger Pritam’s. “Yes?”

“You meet fascinating people on a train,” he said in English. “A train’s a special world. Normal rules don’t apply.”

The words were my own. And now, the truth really sank in. He’d deceived me. Stiffly, I said, “So you decided to play a trick on me?”

His lips twisted in a small, wry smile.

Even though I was growing increasingly pissed off, I had to marvel at the sensual, expressive mouth he’d been hiding behind the mustache and beard.

“A game,” he said. “I knew you’d call me on it eventually.”

Remembering how I’d responded to his flirting, the way I’d become aroused, I flushed. “Not a very kind game. You made a fool of me.” Nav would never let me live this down. If he’d finally listened to my advice about cleaning up his appearance, he ought to have been honest with me. Instead, he’d tricked me, and even borrowed fancy jewelry to do it.

Annoyance was rapidly turning to anger.

He shook his head. “No, that wasn’t my intent, Kat. I only—”

“You jerk, Nav! What the hell were you thinking?”

He gazed steadily into my eyes. “That you might enjoy Pritam’s company on the train trip to Toronto. And I knew Pritam would enjoy yours.”

Confused, I shook my head. “I don’t understand.” Maybe he hadn’t meant it as a nasty joke. After all, Nav had never, in two years, done anything mean to me.

“Nav and Kat are good friends, and that friendship is important to them. Right?”

“Of course.” Why was he speaking in that one-step-removed fashion?

“But there’s an attraction between them, right?”

Did he have to talk about it? I tried to avoid thinking about that attraction. “Okay, sometimes,” I admitted. “But the friendship is more important.” For me, our friendship was unique and wonderful.

“Kat doesn’t want to risk losing that friendship, and Nav doesn’t want to risk losing her.”

I nodded, glad that he, too, valued what we had together. But I still didn’t understand what he was up to with this game of his.

“But Pritam’s a stranger,” he said. “A stranger she met on a train. If he and Kat flirt, if they—” he waved a hand in one of Pritam’s suggestive continental gestures—“what does that have to do with what she and Nav have together?”

“But you’re both of them. Pritam and Nav. I don’t understand.”

“Pritam is a…fantasy. People can enjoy a fantasy without it affecting reality.”

This reminded me of Nav’s photography, which was all about different perspectives and realities.

What was he saying? If he played this Pritam role, we could flirt as if we were strangers and—oh, God, maybe even have sex—without jeopardizing our relationship back home? My breathing quickened. “You mean, afterward it’d be as if Pritam never existed? We—Kat and Nav—go back to being good friends as if…as if Nav had never left Montreal?”

He swallowed. “Do you like that idea?”

It was crazy.

But tempting. Because he was Nav, I could trust him. But with the “stranger,” Pritam, I could let go, give in to the powerful attraction I felt.

I could satisfy my curiosity. The sexual curiosity I’d felt since the day I’d first seen Nav in the hallway, eyes sparkling, muscular brown arms clasping an elephant. When I’d begun to flirt with him before Jase Jackson had come along and I’d remembered I was in love with him.

Nav and I could even, if we wanted, be lovers in an anonymous hotel room in Toronto and not jeopardize our friendship. If I could buy into this game and pretend he was a sexy stranger named Pritam.

His face was all lean, unfamiliar angles, his eyes dark with a determination and challenge I’d never seen before. A very male and very appealing one.

“Who do you want to sit beside on this journey to Toronto?” he asked. “Nav or Pritam?”