Love, Unexpectedly Read online

  “I’m a woman and I work in PR, and I’m telling you both things count,” she said firmly. “Look at Le Cachet. We offer a lovely, luxurious image, and what lies beneath matches up. It’s pure quality. And every one of us who works there conveys that image with our clothes, our grooming, our attitude.”

  Hmm. That did kind of make sense. But…“How about those guys you date? You go for façade there.”

  “I do not! I want substance. Depth.” The protest came quickly, then she pressed her lips together, frowning a little.

  He waited, giving her time to reflect. To his mind, any guy with depth would see how amazing Kat was, and not let her get away.

  Slowly she said, “Okay, maybe I do get blown away by style, charm, good looks. Successful, fascinating men with exciting careers. I suppose I’m a little, uh, dazzled.”

  Dazzled into blindness so she didn’t look beneath the surface. “Gee, you think?”

  “What’s wrong with wanting someone who’s attractive and presents themselves well?” she said heatedly. “Someone who does interesting things, who’s successful?”

  Damn. Now she’d made him think. Yes, of course he found Kat attractive and there was no question she presented herself well, whether in stylish business suits, slinky evening wear, camisoles matched up with designer jeans, or the salwar kameezes he’d had made for her in New Delhi. Oh, yeah, he liked looking at her.

  Of course he found her interesting, and no question she was successful. Grudgingly he admitted, “I guess there’s nothing wrong with that. But shouldn’t you look at personality first, not appearance? And if you care about someone, does it matter whether they’re beautiful or plain? Whether they’re an Olympic gold medalist or a, er…” He couldn’t say “photographer.”

  “Schoolteacher? Ditch digger? Maybe it shouldn’t, but I want someone who’s more than just…average.” She muttered something under her breath that sounded like, “I’m average enough myself.”

  He must have misheard. About to ask, he stopped when she said, “It’s like when I go window-shopping. It’s not the plain dresses that catch my eye, it’s the gorgeous ones.”

  Gorgeous dresses and dazzling, successful men.

  What was he thinking, with this crazy plan of his? Even if he did show up on the train in a suit, he’d still be Nav. A man three years younger than her, just starting his career, who was anything but dazzling. She’d give him the same old line about seeing him as a friend, yada yada.

  Speaking of his career, he should stay at home and concentrate on the exhibit that might well launch it to the next level. Why put that in jeopardy to tilt at the windmill of winning Kat’s love?

  Let’s face it, it was time to get on with his life. He should put his feelings for Kat behind him and give other women a fair chance. He’d thought he’d been doing that, but maybe his efforts had been doomed because he’d still been hoping Kat would one day return his love.

  He was too sunk in his own gloom to realize she had been quiet for a while, too.

  Then she said, “It’s not necessarily the gorgeous men I go for. It’s the ones who make the most of what they’ve got. The way I do. I’m not beautiful—”

  He couldn’t hold back a sound of protest.

  She chuckled. “Aw, that’s sweet, but I know I’m not. Jenna’s the beauty in our family. I have a decent build, okay features, nice hair. If I stay in shape, get my hair styled, wear a little makeup, and dress well, I look more attractive than I really am.”

  “You always look great to me.” He tried not to sound hopelessly besotted and resisted glancing toward her, afraid his face would give him away.

  “Spoken with the loyalty of a good friend.”

  Nav gritted his teeth, buddy trap echoing in his head.

  “A male friend.” She jabbed him lightly in the shoulder. “A woman would’ve made a detailed assessment of my strengths and weaknesses, like my sisters and I did when we lived at home. Women are more analytical and objective about appearances than men.”

  “More obsessed.” He crossed his arms.

  “But this stuff is important for guys, too.” She curled up on the couch, facing him. “Nav, you ought to be able to relate to this. Your work is all about visual representation and the message it conveys. What did you say the name of the exhibit is?”

  He glanced at her. What was she getting at? “‘Perspectives on Perspective.’”

  “Right. Perceptions, messages. Image, and what’s beneath it.”

  His brain was trying to come to terms with what she was saying, but she rushed on. “Think about the opening night of your exhibit. That elegant gallery, your work on the walls, framed, lit, displayed to perfection.” Kat waved her hands, as if conjuring up the scene. “People with glasses of champagne.” She lifted hers in a toast. “Admiring your photos.”

  Oh yeah, he had to smile at that vision.

  “They want to meet the artist,” Kat said. “And there you are, ta da! Naveen Bharani, the brilliant photographer. Dressed in…sweats? An old rugby jersey?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What then? Jeans and a shirt?”

  He hadn’t thought about it. But now that he did…“Not a business suit. Too stuffy.”

  Her face lit up like he’d handed her a box of Godiva chocolates. “Exactly! Now you’re thinking about image. You shouldn’t look stuffy, nor like a starving artist. You need to look like a successful photographer. Jeans could be okay, but they need to be designer jeans. Paired with a classy shirt, or a light sweater. A V-neck sweater, maybe black. Something that shows off your great build, your wonderful coloring.”

  She thought he had a great build and wonderful coloring?

  “You need to do what I do,” she said. “Make the most of what you’ve got.”

  He’d written off her obsession with appearance as the same kind of snobby thing he’d grown up with and hated. However, now that she was explaining, her viewpoint made some sense. Yes, he of all people ought to understand about perspectives and perceptions.

  When he looked at his problem from that angle…from Kat’s perspective, he was an old friend. He needed to alter that perception and make her see him as someone different.

  As…a stranger? Part of the mystique of trains was meeting a fascinating stranger.

  Excitement rushed through him. This was brilliant. He could show up on the train as a stranger, the kind of man who dazzled her. Ritzy clothes, a haircut, a shave. The flashy diamond ring his parents had given him for his twenty-first birthday, which he kept stored in a safe-deposit box. He’d create a radically different image, not just Nav-in-a-suit.

  She’d know it was him, yet it wouldn’t be him. Could he create a sexy “stranger on a train” game and persuade her to buy in?

  He glanced at Kat, 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 t
he 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 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 pi
ty. 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!! 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.