burble of sexy female laughter distracted me from the computer screen, then the unseen woman said, in French, “Oh, I definitely want to hear more about that.”
A male voice, deep and so low I couldn’t make out the words, replied.
Then the woman came into view, sauntering toward me down the aisle as she headed for the exit. Long blond hair, vivacious features, a lush body, and a killer suit I guessed to be Armani. In her hand was a gorgeous and very feminine red leather bag—either a Birkin or an excellent knockoff—that made me drool. She did a hair toss and glanced behind her flirtatiously, then her companion came into sight.
It was the man from the train station. The hot Indian grandson, as I’d thought at the time. And now here he was with a different travel companion.
He came closer; I looked at his face, and—oh, my God! “Nav?”
Or was it? If so, he’d been transformed.
His gaze flicked to mine. He raised his brows in puzzlement rather than smiling in recognition, but there was definite appreciation in the wickedly male gleam in his eye, the hint of a smile tugging at full lips.
No, it wasn’t my neighbor. The eyes were very similar, but this man—the one whose fashion sense and budget were the polar opposite of Nav’s—was older. He had a higher forehead, 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
