Love, Unexpectedly. Susan Fox P.Читать онлайн книгу.
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