who was sipping champagne. Could he sweep her off her feet? Did he have the guts to do something so bold?
He might be an easygoing guy, but he was no coward. In England, he’d spent his childhood being ruled by parental expectations. Then he’d reached the breaking point. He couldn’t be what his mum and dad wanted, so he’d left to follow his passion for photography even though it had cost him their approval.
Well, his passion for Kat was even stronger, and he was fed up with letting her expectations govern their relationship. Things between them damned well had to change.
Hell, yeah. He could reinvent himself. As the old saying went, All’s fair in love and war.
Adrenaline fizzing through him, he leaped to his feet. “Time to head home. I have things to do, and you need a good night’s sleep.”
“But we still have wedding details to work out,” she protested. “Your suit. Airline tickets. We need—”
“We’ll work things out later.” He cut her off and held out his hand. “Come on.”
She put her hand in his and let him haul her to her feet. “There’s something different about you tonight.”
“Is there?” The good buddy would have gathered the dishes and stacked the dishwasher, but Nav walked straight to the door.
Kat followed. “I can’t put my finger on it.”
“I have a lot on my mind.” He fought to keep a straight face.
“I know. Congrats again on the exhibit. It’s fabulous. And thanks again, too.” She threw her arms around him. “You’re the best, Nav.”
“That I am.” The best man for her. On a subconscious level she had to know it.
He couldn’t resist brushing her cheek with the lightest of kisses. Oh, yeah, there was a disadvantage to his facial hair. He could barely touch her skin. That would change very soon.
She stepped back quickly, gave a nervous laugh. “Tickles.”
“Does it?” The next time he kissed Kat, he’d make damned sure she had a very different reaction.
Chapter 4
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