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