by Susan Fox
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.”
“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?”
Chapter 5
How would she answer? If she said “Nav,” he’d be flattered, but his fingers were crossed for Pritam.
Pritam. The name he’d chosen because it meant darling, beloved. How he enjoyed hearing Kat call him by that name rather than referring to him as a doll.
She had definitely been attracted, and had interacted with him differently, but she’d only had an hour with Pritam. That wasn’t enough to break a two-year pattern. When she thought of him as Nav, she was still all about the friendship.
Nav needed this game. Needed her to opt into a fantasy world he’d create.
He wanted Kat to relate to him as if he were a man she’d just met. A man who made her eyes spark, her nipples tighten. Like NASCAR Guy, Actor Guy. She’d said she was dazzled by style, good looks, charm, success, exciting careers. So that’s what he would give her.
For Kat, he had done the thing he’d sworn to never do: he’d used his wealth to create a façade.
He had also lied when he’d said things would be the same, back in Montreal. Yes, he’d always be her friend—probably always love her—but he couldn’t live in good buddy limbo any longer. Either he won her love or he’d get on with his life and put some distance between them. He felt crappy about deceiving her, but he didn’t know how else to win her.
Finally, she opened her mouth to respond. Her voice was soft, breathy. “You want us to pretend Pritam really exists?”
The man had damned well better exist. Nav had spent a small fortune on clothes, train tickets, and a fancy watch, and he’d done appallingly metrosexual stuff like getting a manicure. He’d also devoted a couple of hours to researching an intriguing career.
He’d been speaking to her in Nav’s English, but now he switched back to Parisian French, which was so deeply ingrained it had come back easily. “But I do exist. And I was having a great time getting to know a beautiful stranger. I thought she was having fun, too.”
“She was,” she said in English. Then, after a moment, in French, “I was having a good time with Pritam.”
“Then let’s get back to that.”
“But how can I? You’re Nav.”
“Have you no imagination, woman? Were you never in a school play?”
“I was. I played Betty Rizzo in Grease. I’ve told you that.”
Of course she had, and he knew she’d enjoyed getting into the role. “No, you’re mistaken. So far, all you’ve told me is about how you moved from Vancouver, and your job. But I’d very much like to hear more about your life.”
She stared at him intently, then her lips kicked up at the corners. “I think I’d rather hear about Pritam’s life. Like, what do you do in the entertainment industry, for example? Oh, wait.” She touched a finger to her cheek, widened her eyes disingenuously. “Let me guess. You’re a photographer.”
Nav gave a mischievous grin. “No. Try again.”
“Excuse me,” a male voice interrupted, and Nav turned to see the steward. “Have you decided what you’d like for your entrée?”
“Oops,” Kat said, and hurriedly opened her menu.
Nav did the same. He saw that today’s appetizer was prosciutto with melon and asiago cheese, and dessert was strawberry ginger cheesecake. They had options for their entrées: beef tenderloin with morel mushrooms, Atlantic salmon with lemon butter, or four-cheese spinach tortellini in alfredo sauce. “What are you going to have?” he asked Kat.
Knowing she loved rich, cheesy pasta, he was surprised when she said, “The salmon. How about you, Pritam?” Her eyes gleamed as she said his name.
“The tortellini.” He’d be sure to offer her a taste.
After the steward had refilled their wineglasses and moved on, Kat said, “Tortellini. Are you vegetarian, Pritam?”
A number of Indo-Canadians were, but she knew Nav wasn’t. For him, a Sindhi, there were no particular food taboos, though his family avoided beef on religious holidays like Diwali. He decided to make Pritam vegetarian, to emphasize that he wasn’t Nav. “Mostly, but I’m not rigid about it.” If she offered him a taste of her salmon, he wouldn’t refuse.
“Well, we’ve established one fact about Pritam. An encouraging start. Now, let’s get back to your job. In entertainment.” She raised her eyebrows in an exaggerated query.
“Have you heard of Bollywood?” Knowing she was attracted to larger-than-life men, he’d figured, what was bigger and more glamorous than Bollywood? He’d be Bollywood Guy.
A surprised, pleased laugh. “Indian movies. Glitzy musicals that go on for hours.”
“Yes. Have you seen any? Do you like them?”
“A couple, with my friend Nav.” Her eyes glinted mischievously. “He’s Indo-Canadian and has a relative in India who’s involved with Bollywood. He’s not that keen on the movies. Says many are more glitz than substance. I gather you think differently, Pritam?”
It was true, Nav wasn’t big on musicals in general, whether they were Bollywood or Hollywood ones. But today he was Pritam. “Some have substance, but those tend to be difficult for Westerners to relate to, because Indian values and culture are so different. But, anyhow, there’s a place for substance and a place, too, for escapist entertainment.”
“I totally agree. So, you’re involved with Bollywood?” She leaned close eagerly, her bare arm brushing his sleeve on the armrest. Making a show of he
r play-acting.
She was so pretty, with auburn curls framing her heart-shaped face, her full pink lips parted. That seductively see-through top, worn over a tight pink camisole that hugged soft curves and perky nipples, which, right now, unfortunately weren’t budded with arousal. Slim legs clad in body-hugging denim, her thigh tantalizingly close to his. Smelling the way she always did, of jasmine.
Damn, but he wanted to touch her.
It was too soon, though. She still saw him as Nav. Pritam had to spin a story, draw her into the fantasy. Get her to buy in, to flirt genuinely as she’d been doing earlier.
“I’m a producer.” His cousin Laksha was married to a Bollywood producer, Vijay. On Nav’s last trip to India, he’d visited them in Mumbai, where he’d had a tour of the studio and heard lots of talk about the movies. And about the growing ties between Bollywood and Canadian filmmaking. Yesterday he’d supplemented his memories with a couple of hours’ research, and now could talk the talk, to a point.
Kat widened her eyes theatrically. “Wow, a producer! How cool is that?”
“I enjoy it.”
The steward served their appetizers. Kat tasted hers, murmured, “Nice,” then said, “Do go on, Pritam. You’re a Bollywood producer, yet you’re living in Montreal? Why are you in Canada?” It was a definite challenge. She hadn’t bought into his game yet, but she was intrigued.
“Bollywood is expanding its scope.” He paused, cutting matching slices of prosciutto and melon, capturing a sliver of asiago cheese, then savoring the mouthful. “The concept of the movies has changed a little over the years, but most are still based on the idea that the best entertainment is a mix of music, dance, romance, and violence, wrapped up in a glamorous shell. An escapist fantasy, usually with a dollop of poetic justice at the end.”
She nodded reflectively. “That fits the couple I’ve seen. Bollywood movies have been quite successful, haven’t they?”
He chuckled. “As in, ‘Bollywood produces more films and sells more tickets than Hollywood’?”
“You’re kidding.”
He shook his head. “Not at all. And that’s with an audience that’s mostly South Asian. The movies appeal to different castes, occupations, income levels.”