A Business Engagement
Merline Lovelace
When editor Lady Sarah St. Sebastian’s glossy magazine names Devon Hunter one of the Ten Sexiest Single Men, he is besieged. So he plans revenge: force Sarah to play his fiancée during a business trip to Paris.But in the City of Light, their fake engagement unexpectedly leads to real desire – and dangerous complications…
In this Duchess Diaries novel, USA TODAY bestselling author Merline Lovelace shows how revenge can be sweet when you have a royal (phony) fiancée.
When the glossy magazine where Lady Sarah St. Sebastian works as an editor names Devon Hunter one of the Ten Sexiest Single Men, he is besieged by embarrassing attention. The perfect revenge? Force Sarah to play his fiancée during a business trip to Paris. Because of a recent family indiscretion, Sarah must agree if she wants to protect the St. Sebastian name. But in the City of Lights, their fake engagement unexpectedly leads to real desire—and dangerous complications….
“I’m sorry, sarah. I jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
Dev reached for her hand, trying to bridge the gap. She slid it away. “Just for the record, I didn’t know the magazine had put a photographer on us.”
“I believe you.”
It was too little, too late. He realized that with her next words.
“I am aware, however, that Alexis wanted to exploit the story, so I take full responsibility for this invasion of your privacy.”
“Our privacy, Sarah.”
“Your privacy,” she countered quietly. “There is no us. It was all just a façade, wasn’t it?”
“That’s not what you said last night,” Dev reminded her…
Dear Reader,
During our years in uniform, Al and I traveled to or were stationed at bases in North and South America, Europe and Asia. Since then, we’ve visited the remaining three continents of Australia, Africa and Antarctica.
Yet of all the wonderful places we’ve explored, Paris holds a special place in my heart. It’s the city of light and love, of glorious art galleries and soaring cathedrals, of cozy cafés and bakeries emitting the mouthwatering scent of fresh-baked baguettes. What better place for two people trapped in a fake engagement to make it real?
I hope you enjoy Sarah and Dev’s story, and that you will watch for Gina and Jack’s story in the near future.
All my best,
Merline
A Business Engagement
Merline Lovelace
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
A career Air Force officer, MERLINE LOVELACE served at bases all over the world. When she hung up her uniform for the last time she decided to combine her love of adventure with a flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her own experiences in uniform. Since then she’s produced more than ninety action-packed sizzlers, many of which have made the USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. Over eleven million copies of her books are available in some thirty countries.
When she’s not tied to her keyboard, Merline enjoys reading, chasing little white balls around the fairways of Oklahoma and traveling to new and exotic locales with her handsome husband, Al. Check her website at www. merlinelovelace.com or friend her on Facebook for news and information about her latest releases.
To Susan and Monroe and Debbie and Scott and most especially, le beau Monsieur Al. Thanks for those magical days in Paris. Next time, I promise not to break a foot—or anything else!
Contents
Prologue (#u1238380f-4094-5733-b659-2dbc4e9d5f1d)
Chapter One (#u5da1d2c3-b1e0-5924-85ab-3b0830e8f49f)
Chapter Two (#u5a97198a-c443-5375-b054-4615747d8ad4)
Chapter Three (#ua4017ed7-9599-5a43-bce8-80a2f8f45b7d)
Chapter Four (#u71d802f6-80ca-5b95-95bf-aff2e8220e3b)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue
Ah, the joys of having two such beautiful, loving granddaughters. And the worries! Eugenia, my joyful Eugenia, is like a playful kitten. She gets into such mischief but always seems to land on her feet. It’s Sarah I worry about. So quiet, so elegant and so determined to shoulder the burdens of our small family. She’s only two years older than her sister but has been Eugenia’s champion and protector since the day those darling girls came to live with me.
Now Sarah worries about me. I admit to a touch of arthritis and have one annoying bout of angina, but she insists on fussing over me like a mother hen. I’ve told her repeatedly I won’t have her putting her life on hold because of me, but she won’t listen. It’s time, I think, to take more direct action. I’m not quite certain at this point just what action, but something will come to me. It must.
From the diary of Charlotte,
Grand Duchess of Karlenburgh
One
Sarah heard the low buzz but didn’t pay any attention to it. She was on deadline and only had until noon to finish the layout for Beguile’s feature on the best new ski resorts for the young and ultrastylish. She wanted to finish the mock-up in time for the senior staff’s weekly working lunch. If she didn’t have it ready, Alexis Danvers, the magazine’s executive editor, would skewer her with one of the basilisk-like stares that had made her a legend in the world of glossy women’s magazines.
Not that her boss’s stony stares particularly bothered Sarah. They might put the rest of the staff in a flophouse sweat, but she and her sister had been raised by a grandmother who could reduce pompous officials or supercilious headwaiters to a quivering bundle of nerves with the lift of a single brow. Charlotte St. Sebastian had once moved in the same circles as Princess Grace and Jackie O. Those days were long gone, Sarah acknowledged, as she switched the headline font from Futura to Trajan, but Grandmama still adhered to the unshakable belief that good breeding and quiet elegance could see a woman through anything life might throw at her.
Sarah agreed completely. Which was one of the reasons she’d refined her own understated style during her three years as layout editor for a magazine aimed at thirtysomethings determined to be chic to the death. Her vintage Chanel suits and Dior gowns might come from Grandmama’s closet, but she teamed the gowns with funky costume jewelry and the suit jackets with slacks or jeans and boots. The result was a stylishly retro look that even Alexis approved of.
The primary reason Sarah stuck to her own style, of course, was that she couldn’t afford the designer shoes and bags and clothing featured in Beguile. Not with Grandmama’s medical bills. Some of her hand-me-downs were starting to show their wear, though, and...
The buzz cut into her thoughts. Gaining volume, it rolled in her direction. Sarah was used to frequent choruses of oohs and aahs. Alexis often had models parade through the art and production departments to field test their hair or makeup or outfits on Beguile’s predominantly female staff.
Whatever was causing this chorus had to be special. Excitement crackled in the air like summer lightning. Wondering what new Jimmy Choo beaded boots or Atelier Versace gown was creating such a stir, Sarah swung her chair around. To her utter astonishment, she found herself looking up into the face of Sexy Single Number Three.
“Ms. St. Sebastian?”
The voice was cold, but the electric-blue eyes, black hair and rugged features telegraphed hot, hot, hot. Alexis had missed the mark with last month’s issue, Sarah thought wildly. This man should have topped the magazine’s annual Ten Sexiest Single Men in the World list instead of taking third place.
The artist in her could appreciate six-feet-plus of hard, muscled masculinity cloaked in the civilized veneer of a hand-tailored suit and Italian-silk tie. The professional in her responded to the coldness in his voice with equally cool civility.
“Yes?”
“I want to talk to you.” Those devastating blue eyes cut to the side. “Alone.”
Sarah followed his searing gaze. An entire gallery of female faces peered over, around and between the production department’s chin-high partitions. A few of those faces were merely curious. Most appeared a half breath away from drooling.
She turned back to Number Three. Too bad his manners didn’t live up to his looks. The aggressiveness in both his tone and his stance were irritating and uncalled for, to say the least.
“What do you want to talk to me about, Mr. Hunter?”
He didn’t appear surprised that she knew his name. She did, after all, work at the magazine that had made hunky Devon Hunter the object of desire by a good portion of the female population at home and abroad.
“Your sister, Ms. St. Sebastian.”
Oh, no! A sinking sensation hit Sarah in the pit of her stomach. What had Gina gotten into now?
Her glance slid to the silver-framed photo on the credenza beside her workstation. There was Sarah, dark-haired, green-eyed, serious as always, protective as always. And Gina. Blonde, bubbly, affectionate, completely irresponsible.
Two years younger than Sarah, Gina tended to change careers with the same dizzying frequency she tumbled in and out of love. She’d texted just a few days ago, gushing about the studly tycoon she’d hooked up with. Omitting, Gina style, to mention such minor details as his name or how they’d met.
Sarah had no trouble filling in the blanks now. Devon Hunter was founder and CEO of a Fortune 500 aerospace corporation headquartered in Los Angeles. Gina was in L.A. chasing yet another career opportunity, this time as a party planner for the rich and famous.
“I think it best if we make this discussion private, Ms. St. Sebastian.”
Resigned to the inevitable, Sarah nodded. Her sister’s flings tended to be short and intense. Most ended amicably, but on several occasions Sarah had been forced to soothe some distinctly ruffled male feathers. This, apparently, was one of those occasions.
“Come with me, Mr. Hunter.”
She led the way to a glass-walled conference room with angled windows that gave a view of Times Square. Framed prominently in one of the windows was the towering Condé Nast Building, the center of the universe for fashion publications. The building was home to Vogue, Vanity Fair, Glamour and Allure. Alexis often brought advertisers to the conference room to impress them with Beguile’s proximity to those icons in the world of women’s glossies.
The caterers hadn’t begun setting up for the working lunch yet but the conference room was always kept ready for visitors. The fridge discreetly hidden behind oak panels held a half-dozen varieties of bottled water, sparkling and plain, as well as juices and energy drinks. The gleaming silver coffee urns were replenished several times a day.
Sarah gestured to the urns on their marble counter. “Would you care for some coffee? Or some sparkling water, perhaps?”
“No. Thanks.”
The curt reply decided her against inviting the man to sit. Crossing her arms, she leaned a hip against the conference table and assumed a look of polite inquiry.
“You wanted to talk about Gina?”
He took his time responding. Sarah refused to bristle as his killer blue eyes made an assessing trip from her face to her Chanel suit jacket with its black-and-white checks and signature logo to her black boots and back up again.
“You don’t look much like your sister.”
“No, I don’t.”
She was comfortable with her slender build and what her grandmother insisted were classic features, but she knew she didn’t come close to Gina’s stunning looks.
“My sister’s the only beauty in the family.”
Politeness dictated that he at least make a show of disputing the calm assertion. Instead, he delivered a completely unexpected bombshell.
“Is she also the only thief?”
Her arms dropped. Her jaw dropped with them. “I beg your pardon?”
“You can do more than beg my pardon, Ms. St. Sebastian. You can contact your sister and tell her to return the artifact she stole from my house.”
The charge took Sarah’s breath away. It came back on a hot rush. “How dare you make such a ridiculous, slanderous accusation?”
“It’s neither ridiculous nor slanderous. It’s fact.”
“You’re crazy!”
She was in full tigress mode now. Years of rushing to her younger sibling’s defense spurred both fury and passion.
“Gina may be flighty and a little careless at times, but she would never take anything that didn’t belong to her!”
Not intentionally, that is. There was that nasty little Pomeranian she’d brought home when she was eight or nine. She’d found it leashed to a sign outside a restaurant in one-hundred-degree heat and “rescued” it. And it was true Gina and her teenaged friends used to borrow clothes from each other constantly, then could never remember what belonged to whom. And, yes, she’d been known to overdraw her checking account when she was strapped for cash, which happened a little too frequently for Sarah’s peace of mind.
But she would never commit theft, as this...this boor was suggesting. Sarah was about to call security to have the man escorted from the building when he reached into his suit pocket and palmed an iPhone.
“Maybe this clip from my home surveillance system will change your mind.”
He tapped the screen, then angled it for Sarah to view. She saw a still image of what looked like a library or study, with the focus of the camera on an arrangement of glass shelves. The objects on the shelves were spaced and spotlighted for maximum dramatic effect. They appeared to be an eclectic mix. Sarah noted an African buffalo mask, a small cloisonné disk on a black lacquer stand and what looked like a statue of a pre-Columbian fertility goddess.
Hunter tapped the screen again and the still segued into a video. While Sarah watched, a tumble of platinum-blond curls came into view. Her heart began to thump painfully even before the owner of those curls moved toward the shelving. It picked up more speed when the owner showed her profile. That was her sister. Sarah couldn’t even pretend to deny it.
Gina glanced over her shoulder, all casual nonchalance, all smiling innocence. When she moved out of view again, the cloisonné medallion no longer sat on its stand. Hunter froze the frame again, and Sarah stared at the empty stand as though it was a bad dream.
“It’s Byzantine,” he said drily. “Early twelfth century, in case you’re interested. One very similar to it sold recently at Sotheby’s in London for just over a hundred thousand.”
She swallowed. Hard. “Dollars?”
“Pounds.”
“Oh, God.”
She’d rescued Gina from more scrapes than she could count. But this... She almost yanked out one of the chairs and collapsed in a boneless heap. The iron will she’d inherited from Grandmama kept her spine straight and her chin up.
“There’s obviously a logical explanation for this, Mr. Hunter.”
“I very much hope so, Ms. St. Sebastian.”
She wanted to smack him. Calm, refined, always polite Sarah had to curl her hands into fists to keep from slapping that sneer off his too-handsome face.
He must have guessed her savagely suppressed urge. His jaw squared and his blue eyes took on a challenging glint, as if daring her to give it her best shot. When she didn’t, he picked up where they’d left off.
“I’m very interested in hearing that explanation before I refer the matter to the police.”
The police! Sarah felt a chill wash through her. Whatever predicament Gina had landed herself in suddenly assumed a very ominous tone. She struggled to keep the shock and worry out of her voice.
“Let me get in touch with my sister, Mr. Hunter. It may...it may take a while. She’s not always prompt about returning calls or answering emails right away.”
“Yeah, I found that out. I’ve been trying to reach her for several days.”
He shot back a cuff and glanced at his watch.
“I’ve got meetings scheduled that will keep me tied up for the rest of this afternoon and well into the night. I’ll make dinner reservations for tomorrow evening. Seven o’clock. Avery’s, Upper West Side.” He turned that hard blue gaze on her. “I assume you know the address. It’s only a few blocks from the Dakota.”
Still stunned by what she’d seen in the surveillance clip, Sarah almost missed his last comment. When it penetrated, her eyes widened in shock. “You know where I live?”
“Yes, Lady Sarah, I do.” He tipped two fingers to his brow in a mock salute and strode for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
Lady Sarah.
Coming on top of everything else, the use of her empty title shouldn’t have bothered her. Her boss trotted it out frequently at cocktail parties and business meetings. Sarah had stopped being embarrassed by Alexis’s shameless peddling of a royal title that had long since ceased to have any relevance.
Unfortunately, Alexis wanted to do more than peddle the heritage associated with the St. Sebastian name. Sarah had threatened to quit—twice!—if her boss went ahead with the feature she wanted to on Beguile’s own Lady Sarah Elizabeth Marie-Adele St. Sebastian, granddaughter to Charlotte, the Destitute Duchess.
God! Sarah shuddered every time she remembered the slant Alexis had wanted to give the story. That destitute tag, as accurate as it was, would have shattered Grandmama’s pride.
Having her younger granddaughter arrested for grand larceny wouldn’t do a whole lot for it, either.
Jolted back to the issue at hand, Sarah rushed out of the conference room. She had to get hold of Gina. Find out if she’d really lifted that medallion. She was making a dash for her workstation when she saw her boss striding toward her.
“What’s this I just heard?”
Alexis’s deep, guttural smoker’s rasp was always a shock to people meeting her for the first time. Beguile’s executive editor was paper-clip thin and always gorgeously dressed. But she would rather take her chances with cancer than quit smoking and risk ballooning up to a size four.
“Is it true?” she growled. “Devon Hunter was here?”
“Yes, he...”
“Why didn’t you buzz me?”
“I didn’t have time.”
“What did he want? He’s not going to sue us, is he? Dammit, I told you to crop that locker-room shot above the waist.”
“No, Alexis. You told me to make sure it showed his butt crack. And I told you I didn’t think we should pay some smarmy gym employee to sneak pictures of the man without his knowledge or consent.”
The executive editor waved that minor difference of editorial opinion aside. “So what did he want?”
“He’s, uh, a friend of Gina’s.”
Or was, Sarah thought grimly, until the small matter of a twelfth-century medallion had come between them. She had to get to a phone. Had to call Gina.
“Another one of your sister’s trophies?” Alexis asked sarcastically.
“I didn’t have time to get all the details. Just that he’s in town for some business meetings and wants to get together for dinner tomorrow.”
The executive editor cocked her head. An all-too-familiar gleam entered her eyes, one that made Sarah swallow a groan. Pit bulls had nothing on Alexis when she locked her jaws on a story.
“We could do a follow-up,” she said. “How making Beguile’s Top Ten list has impacted our sexy single’s life. Hunter’s pretty much a workaholic, isn’t he?”
Frantic to get to the phone, Sarah gave a distracted nod. “That’s how we portrayed him.”
“I’m guessing he can’t take a step now without tripping over a half-dozen panting females. Gina certainly smoked him out fast enough. I want details, Sarah. Details!”
She did her best to hide her agitation behind her usual calm facade. “Let me talk to my sister first. See what’s going on.”
“Do that. And get me details!”
Alexis strode off and Sarah barely reached the chair at her worktable before her knees gave out. She snatched up her iPhone and hit the speed-dial number for her sister. Of course, the call went to voice mail.
“Gina! I need to talk to you! Call me.”
She also tapped out a text message and zinged off an email. None of which would do any good if her sister had forgotten to turn on her phone. Again. Knowing the odds of that were better than fifty-fifty, she tried Gina’s current place of employment. She was put through to her sister’s distinctly irate boss, who informed her that Gina hadn’t shown up for work. Again.
“She called in yesterday morning. We’d catered a business dinner at the home of one our most important clients the night before. She said she was tired and was taking the day off. I haven’t heard from her since.”
Sarah had to ask. “Was that client Devon Hunter, by any chance?”
“Yes, it was. Look, Ms. St. Sebastian, your sister has a flair for presentation but she’s completely unreliable. If you speak to her before I do, tell her not to bother coming in at all.”
Despite the other, far more pressing problem that needed to be dealt with, Sarah hated that Gina had lost yet another job. She’d really seemed to enjoy this one.
“I’ll tell her,” she promised the irate supervisor. “And if she contacts you first, please tell her to call me.”
* * *
She got through the working lunch somehow. Alexis, of course, demanded a laundry list of changes to the ski-resort layout. Drop shadows on the headline font. Less white space between the photos. Ascenders, not descenders, for the first letter of each lead paragraph.
Sarah made the fixes and shot the new layout from her computer to Alexis’s for review. She then tried to frame another article describing the latest body-toning techniques. In between, she made repeated calls to Gina. They went unanswered, as did her emails and text messages.
Her concentration in shreds, she quit earlier than usual and hurried out into the April evening. A half block away, Times Square glowed in a rainbow of white, blue and brilliant-red lights. Tourists were out in full force, crowding the sidewalks and snapping pictures. Ordinarily Sarah took the subway to and from work, but a driving sense of urgency made her decide to splurge on a cab. Unbelievably, one cruised up just when she hit the curb. She slid in as soon as the previous passenger climbed out.
“The Dakota, please.”
The turbaned driver nodded and gave her an assessing glance in the rearview mirror. Whatever their nationality, New York cabbies were every bit as savvy as any of Beguile’s fashion-conscious editors. This one might not get the label on Sarah’s suit jacket exactly right but he knew quality when he saw it. He also knew a drop-off at one of New York City’s most famous landmarks spelled big tips.
Usually. Sarah tried not to think how little of this month’s check would be left after paying the utilities and maintenance fees for the seven-room apartment she shared with her grandmother. She also tried not to cringe when the cabbie scowled at the tip she gave him. Muttering something in his native language, he shoved his cab in gear.
Sarah hurried toward the entrance to the domed and turreted apartment building constructed in the 1880s and nodded to the doorman who stepped out of his niche to greet her.
“Good evening, Jerome.”
“Good evening, Lady Sarah.”
She’d long ago given up trying to get him to drop the empty title. Jerome felt it added to the luster of “his” building.
Not that the Dakota needed additional burnishing. Now a National Historic Landmark, its ornate exterior had been featured in dozens of films. Fictional characters in a host of novels claimed the Dakota as home. Real-life celebrities like Judy Garland, Lauren Bacall and Leonard Bernstein had lived there. And, sadly, John Lennon. He’d been shot just a short distance away. His widow, Yoko Ono, still owned several apartments in the building.
“The Duchess returned from her afternoon constitutional about an hour ago,” Jerome volunteered. The merest hint of a shadow crossed his lean face. “She was leaning rather heavily on her cane.”
Sharp, swift fear pushed aside Sarah’s worry about her sister. “She didn’t overdo it, did she?”
“She said not. But then, she wouldn’t say otherwise, would she?”
“No,” Sarah agreed in a hollow voice, “she wouldn’t.
Charlotte St. Sebastian had witnessed the brutal execution of her husband and endured near-starvation before she’d escaped her war-ravaged country with her baby in her arms and a king’s ransom in jewels hidden inside her daughter’s teddy bear. She’d fled first to Vienna, then New York, where she’d slipped easily into the city’s intellectual and social elite. The discreet, carefully timed sale of her jewels had allowed her to purchase an apartment at the Dakota and maintain a gracious lifestyle.
Tragedy struck again when she lost both her daughter and son-in-law in a boating accident. Sarah was just four and Gina still in diapers at the time. Not long after that, an unscrupulous Wall Street type sank the savings the duchess had managed to accrue into a Ponzi scheme that blew up in his and his clients’ faces.
Those horrific events might have crushed a lesser woman. With two small girls to raise, Charlotte St. Sebastian wasted little time on self-pity. Once again she was forced to sell her heritage. The remaining jewels were discreetly disposed of over the years to provide her granddaughters with the education and lifestyle she insisted was their birthright. Private schools. Music tutors. Coming-out balls at the Waldorf. Smith College and a year at the Sorbonne for Sarah, Barnard for Gina.
Neither sister had a clue how desperate the financial situation had become, however, until Grandmama’s heart attack. It was a mild one, quickly dismissed by the iron-spined duchess as a trifling bout of angina. The hospital charges weren’t trifling, though. Nor was the stack of bills Sarah had found stuffed in Grandmama’s desk when she sat down to pay what she’d thought were merely recurring monthly expenses. She’d nearly had a heart attack herself when she’d totaled up the amount.
Sarah had depleted her own savings account to pay that daunting stack of bills. Most of them, anyway. She still had to settle the charges for Grandmama’s last echocardiogram. In the meantime, her single most important goal in life was to avoid stressing out the woman she loved with all her heart.
She let herself into their fifth-floor apartment, as shaken by Jerome’s disclosure as by her earlier meeting with Devon Hunter. The comfortably padded Ecuadoran who served as maid, companion to Charlotte and friend to both Sarah and her sister for more than a decade was just preparing to leave.
“Hola, Sarah.”
“Hola, Maria. How was your day?”
“Good. We walked, la duquesa and me, and shopped a little.” She shouldered her hefty tote bag. “I go to catch my bus now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night.”
When the door closed behind her, a rich soprano voice only slightly dimmed by age called out, “Sarah? Is that you?”
“Yes, Grandmama.”
She deposited her purse on the gilt-edged rococo sideboard gracing the entryway and made her way down a hall tiled in pale pink Carrara marble. The duchess hadn’t been reduced to selling the furniture and artwork she’d acquired when she’d first arrived in New York, although Sarah now knew how desperately close she’d come to it.
“You’re home early.”
Charlotte sat in her favorite chair, the single aperitif she allowed herself despite the doctor’s warning close at hand. The sight of her faded blue eyes and aristocratic nose brought a rush of emotion so strong Sarah had to swallow before she could a reply past the lump in her throat.
“Yes, I am.”
She should have known Charlotte would pick up on the slightest nuance in her granddaughter’s voice.
“You sound upset,” she said with a small frown. “Did something happen at work?”
“Nothing more than the usual.” Sarah forced a wry smile and went to pour herself a glass of white wine. “Alexis was on a tear about the ski-resort mock-up. I had to rework everything but the page count.”
The duchess sniffed. “I don’t know why you work for that woman.”
“Mostly because she was the only one who would hire me.”
“She didn’t hire you. She hired your title.”
Sarah winced, knowing it was true, and her grandmother instantly shifted gears.
“Lucky for Alexis the title came with an unerring eye for form, shape and spatial dimension,” she huffed.
“Lucky for me,” Sarah countered with a laugh. “Not everyone can parlay a degree in Renaissance-era art into a job at one of the country’s leading fashion magazines.”
“Or work her way from junior assistant to senior editor in just three years,” Charlotte retorted. Her face softened into an expression that played on Sarah’s heartstrings like a finely tuned Stradivarius. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”
“Only about a thousand times, Grandmama.”
They spent another half hour together before Charlotte decided she would rest a little before dinner. Sarah knew better than to offer to help her out of her chair, but she wanted to. God, she wanted to! When her grandmother’s cane had thumped slowly down the hall to her bedroom, Sarah fixed a spinach salad and added a bit more liquid to the chicken Maria had begun baking in the oven. Then she washed her hands, detoured into the cavernous sitting room that served as a study and booted up her laptop.
She remembered the basics from the article Beguile had run on Devon Hunter. She wanted to dig deeper, uncover every minute detail she could about the man before she crossed swords with him again tomorrow evening.
Two
Seated at a linen-draped table by the window, Dev watched Sarah St. Sebastian approach the restaurant’s entrance. Tall and slender, she moved with restrained grace. No swinging hips, no ground-eating strides, just a smooth symmetry of motion and dignity.
She wore her hair down tonight. He liked the way the mink-dark waves framed her face and brushed the shoulders of her suit jacket. The boxy jacket was a sort of pale purple. His sisters would probably call that color lilac or heliotrope or something equally girlie. The skirt was black and just swished her boot tops as she walked.
Despite growing up with four sisters, Dev’s fashion sense could be summed up in a single word. A woman either looked good, or she didn’t. This one looked good. Very good.
He wasn’t the only one who thought so. When she entered the restaurant and the greeter escorted her to the table by the window, every head in the room turned. Males without female companions were openly admiring. Those with women at their tables were more discreet but no less appreciative. Many of the women, too, slanted those seemingly casual, careless glances that instantly catalogued every detail of hair, dress, jewelry and shoes.
How the hell did they do that? Dev could walk into the belly of a plane and tell in a single glance if the struts were buckling or the rivets starting to rust. As he’d discovered since that damned magazine article came out, however, his powers of observation paled beside those of the female of the species.
He’d treated the Ten Sexiest Singles list as a joke at first. He could hardly do otherwise, with his sisters, brothers-in-law and assorted nieces and nephews ragging him about it nonstop. And okay, being named one of the world’s top ten hunks did kind of puff up his ego.
That was before women began stopping him on the street to let him know they were available. Before waitresses started hustling over to take his order and make the same pronouncement. Before the cocktail parties he was forced to attend as the price of doing business became a total embarrassment.
Dev had been able to shrug off most of it. He couldn’t shrug off the wife of the French CEO he was trying to close a multibillion dollar deal with. The last time Dev was in Paris, Elise Girault had draped herself all over him. He knew then he had to put a stop to what had become more than just a nuisance.
He’d thought he’d found the perfect tool in Lady Eugenia Amalia Therése St. Sebastian. The blonde was gorgeous, vivacious and so photogenic that the vultures otherwise known as paparazzi wouldn’t even glance at Dev if she was anywhere in the vicinity.
Thirty minutes in Gina St. Sebastian’s company had deep-sixed that idea. Despite her pedigree, the woman was as bubbleheaded as she was sumptuous. Then she’d lifted the Byzantine medallion and the game plan had changed completely. For the better, Dev decided as he rose to greet the slender brunette being escorted to his table.
Chin high, shoulders back, Sarah St. Sebastian carried herself like the royalty she was. Or would have been, if her grandmother’s small Eastern European country hadn’t dispensed with royal titles about the same time Soviet tanks had rumbled across its border. The tanks had rumbled out again four decades later. By that time the borders of Eastern Europe had been redrawn several times and the duchy that had been home to the St. Sebastians for several centuries had completely disappeared.
Bad break for Charlotte St. Sebastian and her granddaughters. Lucky break for Dev. Lady Sarah didn’t know it yet, but she was going to extract him from the mess she and her magazine had created.
“Good evening, Mr. Hunter.”
The voice was cool, the green eyes cold.
“Good evening, Ms. St. Sebastian.”
Dev stood patiently while the greeter seated her. A server materialized instantly.
“A cocktail or glass of wine before dinner, madam?”
“No, thank you. And no dinner.” She waved aside the gilt-edged menu he offered and locked those forest-glade eyes on Dev. “I’ll just be here a few minutes, then I’ll leave Mr. Hunter to enjoy his meal.”
The server departed, and Dev reclaimed his seat. “Are you sure you don’t want dinner?”
“I’m sure.” She placed loosely clasped hands on the table and launched an immediate offensive. “We’re not here to exchange pleasantries, Mr. Hunter.”
Dev sat back against his chair, his long legs outstretched beneath the starched tablecloth and his gaze steady on her face. Framed by those dark, glossy waves, her features fascinated him. The slight widow’s peak, the high cheekbones, the aquiline nose—all refined and remote and in seeming contrast to those full, sensual lips. She might have modeled for some famous fifteenth-or sixteen-century sculptor. Dev was damned if he knew which.
“No, we’re not,” he agreed, still intrigued by that face. “Have you talked to your sister?”
The clasped hands tightened. Only a fraction, but that small jerk was a dead giveaway.
“I haven’t been able to reach her.”
“Neither have I. So what do you propose we do now?”
“I propose you wait.” She drew in a breath and forced a small smile. “Give me more time to track Gina down before you report your medallion missing or...or...”
“Or stolen?”
The smile evaporated. “Gina didn’t steal that piece, Mr. Hunter. I admit it appears she took it for some reason, but I’m sure...I know she’ll return it. Eventually.”
Dev played with the tumbler containing his scotch, circling it almost a full turn before baiting the trap.
“The longer I wait to file a police report, Ms. St. Sebastian, the more my insurance company is going to question why. A delay reporting the loss could void the coverage.”
“Give me another twenty-four hours, Mr. Hunter. Please.”
She hated to beg. He heard it in her voice, saw it in the way her hands were knotted together now, the knuckles white.
“All right, Ms. St. Sebastian. Twenty-four hours. If your sister hasn’t returned the medallion by then, however, I...”
“She will. I’m sure she will.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
She drew in another breath: longer, shakier. “I’ll pay you the appraised value.”
“How?”
Her chin came up. Her jaws went tight. “It will take some time,” she admitted. “We’ll have to work out a payment schedule.”
Dev didn’t like himself much at the moment. If he didn’t have a multibillion-dollar deal hanging fire, he’d call this farce off right now. Setting aside the crystal tumbler, he leaned forward.
“Let’s cut to the chase here, Ms. St. Sebastian. I had my people run an in-depth background check on your featherheaded sister. On you, too. I know you’ve bailed Gina out of one mess after another. I know you’re currently providing your grandmother’s sole support. I also know you barely make enough to cover her medical co-pays, let alone reimburse me for a near-priceless artifact.”
Every vestige of color had drained from her face, but pride sparked in those mesmerizing eyes. Before she could tell him where to go and how to get there, Dev sprang the trap.
“I have an alternate proposal, Ms. St. Sebastian.”
Her brows snapped together. “What kind of a proposal?”
“I need a fiancée.”
For the second time in as many days Dev saw her composure crumble. Her jaw dropping, she treated him to a disbelieving stare.
“Excuse me?”
“I need a fiancée,” he repeated. “I was considering Gina for the position. I axed that idea after thirty minutes in her company. Becoming engaged to your sister,” he drawled, “is not for the faint of heart.”
He might have stunned her with his proposition. That didn’t prevent her from leaping to the defense. Dev suspected it came as natural to her as breathing.
“My sister, Mr. Hunter, is warm and generous and openhearted and...”
“Gone to ground.” He drove the point home with the same swift lethality he brought to the negotiating table. “You, on the other hand, are available. And you owe me.”
“I owe you?”
“You and that magazine you work for.” Despite his best efforts to keep his irritation contained, it leaked into his voice. “Do you have any idea how many women have accosted me since that damned article came out? I can’t even grab a meatball sub at my favorite deli without some female writing her number on a napkin and trying to stuff it into my pants pocket.”
Her shock faded. Derision replaced it. She sat back in her chair with her lips pooched in false sympathy.
“Ooh. You poor, poor sex object.”
“You may think it’s funny,” he growled. “I don’t. Not with a multibillion-dollar deal hanging in the balance.”
That wiped the smirk off her face. “Putting you on our Ten Sexiest Singles list has impacted your business? How?”
Enlightenment dawned in almost the next breath. The smirk returned. “Oh! Wait! I’ve got it. You have so many women throwing themselves at you that you can’t concentrate.”
“You’re partially correct. But it’s not a matter of not being able to concentrate. It’s more that I don’t want to jeopardize the deal by telling the wife of the man I’m negotiating with to keep her hands to herself.”
“So instead of confronting the woman, you want to hide behind a fiancée.”
The disdain was cool and well-bred, but it was there. Dev was feeling the sting when he caught a flutter of movement from the corner of one eye. A second later the flutter evolved into a tall, sleek redhead being shown to an empty table a little way from theirs. She caught Dev’s glance, arched a penciled brow and came to a full stop beside their table.
“I know you.” She tilted her head and put a finger to her chin. “Remind me. Where have we met?”
“We haven’t,” Dev replied, courteous outside, bracing inside.
“Are you sure? I never forget a face. Or,” she added as her lips curved in a slow, feline smile, “a truly excellent butt.”
The grimace that crossed Hunter’s face gave Sarah a jolt of fierce satisfaction. Let him squirm, she thought gleefully. Let him writhe like a specimen under a microscope. He deserved the embarrassment.
Except...
He didn’t. Not really. Beguile had put him under the microscope. Beguile had also run a locker-room photo with the face angled away from the camera just enough to keep them from getting sued. And as much as Sarah hated to admit it, the man had shown a remarkable degree of restraint by not reporting his missing artifact to the police immediately.
Still, she didn’t want to come to his rescue. She really didn’t. It was an innate and very grudging sense of fair play that compelled her to mimic her grandmother in one of Charlotte’s more imperial moods.
“I beg your pardon,” she said with icy hauteur. “I believe my fiancé has already stated he doesn’t know you. Now, if you don’t mind, we would like to continue our conversation.”
The woman’s cheeks flushed almost the same color as her hair. “Yes, of course. Sorry for interrupting.”
She hurried to her table, leaving Hunter staring after her while Sarah took an unhurried sip from her water goblet.
“That’s it.” He turned back to her, amusement slashing across his face. “That’s exactly what I want from you.”
Whoa! Sarah gripped the goblet’s stem and tried to blunt the impact of the grin aimed in her direction. Devon Hunter all cold and intimidating she could handle. Devon Hunter with crinkly squint lines at the corners of those killer blue eyes and his mouth tipped into a rakish smile was something else again.
The smile made him look so different. That, and the more casual attire he wore tonight. He was in a suit again, but he’d dispensed with a tie and his pale blue shirt was open at the neck. This late in the evening, a five-o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks and chin, giving him the sophisticated bad-boy look so many of Beguile’s male models tried for but could never quite pull off.
The research Sarah had done on the man put him in a different light, too. She’d had to dig hard for details. Hunter was notorious about protecting his privacy, which was why Beguile had been forced to go with a fluff piece instead of the in-depth interview Alexis had wanted. And no doubt why he resented the article so much, Sarah acknowledged with a twinge of guilt.
The few additional details she’d managed to dig up had contributed to an intriguing picture. She’d already known that Devon Hunter had enlisted in the Air Force right out of high school and trained as a loadmaster on big cargo jets. She hadn’t known he’d completed a bachelor’s and a master’s during his eight years in uniform, despite spending most of those years flying into combat zones or disaster areas.
On one of those combat missions his aircraft had come under intense enemy fire. Hunter had jerry-rigged some kind of emergency fix to its damaged cargo ramp that had allowed them to take on hundreds of frantic Somalian refugees attempting to escape certain death. He’d left the Air Force a short time later and patented the modification he’d devised. From what Sarah could gather, it was now used on military and civilian aircraft worldwide.
That enterprise had earned Hunter his first million. The rest, as they say, was history. She hadn’t found a precise estimate of the man’s net worth, but it was obviously enough to allow him to collect hundred-thousand-pound museum pieces. Which brought her back to the problem at hand.
“Look, Mr. Hunter, this whole...”
“Dev,” he interrupted, the grin still in place. “Now that we’re engaged, we should dispense with the formalities. I know you have a half-dozen names. Do you go by Sarah or Elizabeth or Marie-Adele?”
“Sarah,” she conceded, “but we are not engaged.”
He tipped his chin toward the woman several tables away, her nose now buried in a menu. “Red there thinks we are.”
“I simply didn’t care for her attitude.”
“Me, either.” The amusement left his eyes. “That’s why I offered you a choice. Let me spell out the basic terms so there’s no misunderstanding. You agree to an engagement. Six months max. Less, if I close the deal currently on the table. In return, I destroy the surveillance tape and don’t report the loss.”
“But the medallion! You said it was worth a hundred thousand pounds or more.”
“I’m willing to accept your assurances that Gina will return it. Eventually. In the meantime...” He lifted his tumbler in a mock salute. “To us, Sarah.”
Feeling much like the proverbial mouse backed into a corner, she snatched at her last lifeline. “You promised me another twenty-four hours. The deal doesn’t go into effect until then. Agreed?”
He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Agreed.”
Surely Gina would return her calls before then and this whole, ridiculous situation would be resolved. Sarah clung to that hope as she pushed away from the table.
“Until tomorrow, Mr. Hunter.”
“Dev,” he corrected, rising, as well.
“No need for you to walk me out. Please stay and enjoy your dinner.”
“Actually, I got hungry earlier and grabbed a Korean taco from a street stand. Funny,” he commented as he tossed some bills on the table, “I’ve been in and out of Korea a dozen times. Don’t remember ever having tacos there.”
He took her elbow in a courteous gesture Grandmama would approve of. Very correct, very polite, not really possessive but edging too close to it for Sarah’s comfort. Walking beside him only reinforced the impression she’d gained yesterday of his height and strength.
They passed the redhead’s table on the way to the door. She glanced up, caught Sarah’s dismissive stare and stuck her nose back in the menu.
“I’ll hail you a cab,” Hunter said as they exited the restaurant.
“It’s only a few blocks.”
“It’s also getting dark. I know this is your town, but I’ll feel better sending you home in a cab.”
Sarah didn’t argue further, mostly because dusk had started to descend and the air had taken on a distinct chill. Across the street, the lanterns in Central Park shed their golden glow. She turned in a half circle, her artist’s eye delighting in the dots of gold punctuating the deep purple of the park.
Unfortunately, the turn brought the redhead into view again. The picture there wasn’t as delightful. She was squinting at them through the restaurant’s window, a phone jammed to her ear. Whoever she was talking to was obviously getting an earful.
Sarah guessed instantly she was spreading the word about Sexy Single Number Three and his fiancée. The realization gave her a sudden, queasy feeling. New York City lived and breathed celebrities. They were the stuff of life on Good Morning America, were courted by Tyra Banks and the women of The View, appeared regularly on Late Show with David Letterman. The tabloids, the glossies, even the so-called “literary” publications paid major bucks for inside scoops.
And Sarah had just handed them one. Thoroughly disgusted with herself for yielding to impulse, she smothered a curse that would have earned a sharp reprimand from Grandmama. Hunter followed her line of sight and spotted the woman staring at them through the restaurant window, the phone still jammed to her ear. He shared Sarah’s pessimistic view of the matter but didn’t bother to swallow his curse. It singed the night air.
“This is going turn up in another rag like Beguile, isn’t it?”
Sarah stiffened. True, she’d privately cringed at some of the articles Alexis had insisted on putting in print. But that didn’t mean she would stand by and let an outsider disparage her magazine.
“Beguile is hardly a rag. We’re one of the leading fashion publications for women in the twenty to thirty-five age range, here and abroad.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she ground out.
The misguided sympathy she’d felt for the man earlier had gone as dry and stale as yesterday’s bagel. It went even staler when he turned to face her. Devon Hunter of the crinkly squint lines and heart-stuttering grin was gone. His intimidating alter ego was back.
“I guess if we’re going to show up in some pulp press, we might as well give the story a little juice.”
She saw the intent in his face and put up a warning palm. “Let’s not do anything rash here, Mr. Hunter.”
“Dev,” he corrected, his eyes drilling into hers. “Say it, Sarah. Dev.”
“All right! Dev. Are you satisfied?”
“Not quite.”
His arm went around her waist. One swift tug brought them hip to hip. His hold was an iron band, but he gave her a second, maybe two, to protest.
Afterward Sarah could list in precise order the reasons she should have done exactly that. She didn’t like the man. He was flat-out blackmailing her with Gina’s rash act. He was too arrogant, and too damned sexy, for his own good.
But right then, right there, she looked up into those dangerous blue eyes and gave in to the combustible mix of guilt, nagging worry and Devon Hunter’s potent masculinity.
Three
Sarah had been kissed before. A decent number of times, as a matter of fact. She hadn’t racked up as many admirers as Gina, certainly, but she’d dated steadily all through high school and college. She’d also teetered dangerously close to falling in love at least twice. Once with the sexy Italian she’d met at the famed Uffizi Gallery and spent a dizzying week exploring Florence with. Most recently with a charismatic young lawyer who had his eye set on a career in politics. That relationship had died a rather painful death when she discovered he was more in love with her background and empty title than he was with her.
Even with the Italian, however, she’d never indulged in embarrassingly public displays of affection. In addition to Grandmama’s black-and-white views of correct behavior, Sarah’s inbred reserve shied away from the kind of exuberant joie de vivre that characterized her sister. Yet here she was, locked in the arms of a near stranger on the sidewalk of one of New York’s busiest avenues. Her oh-so-proper self shouted that she was providing a sideshow for everyone in and outside the restaurant. Her other self, the one she let off its leash only on rare occasions, leaped to life.
If Beguile ever ran a list of the World’s Ten Best Kissers, she thought wildly, she would personally nominate Devon Hunter for the top slot. His mouth fit over hers as though it was made to. His lips demanded a response.
Sarah gave it. Angling her head, she planted both palms on his chest. The hard muscles under his shirt and suit coat provided a feast of tactile sensations. The fine bristles scraping her chin added more. She could taste the faint, smoky hint of scotch on his lips, feel the heat that rose in his skin.
There was nothing hidden in Hunter’s kiss. No attempt to impress or connect or score a victory in the battle of the sexes. His mouth moved easily over hers. Confidently. Hungrily.
Her breath came hard and fast when he raised his head. So did his. Sarah took immense satisfaction in that—and the fact that he looked as surprised and disconcerted as she felt at the moment. When his expression switched to a frown, though, she half expected a cutting remark. What she got was a curt apology.
“I’m sorry.” He dropped his hold on her waist and stepped back a pace. “That was uncalled for.”
Sarah wasn’t about to point out that she hadn’t exactly resisted. While she struggled to right her rioting senses, she caught a glimpse of a very interested audience backlit inside the restaurant. Among them was the redhead, still watching avidly, only this time she had her phone aimed in their direction.
“Uncalled for or not,” Sarah said with a small groan, “be prepared for the possibility that kiss might make its way into print. I suspect your friend’s phone is camera equipped.”
He shot a glance over his shoulder and blew out a disgusted breath. “I’m sure it is.”
“What a mess,” she murmured half under her breath. “My boss will not be happy.”
Hunter picked up on the ramifications of the comment instantly. “Is this going to cause a problem for you at work? You and me, our engagement, getting scooped by some other rag, uh, magazine?”
“First, we’re not engaged. Yet. Second, you don’t need to worry about my work.”
Mostly because he wouldn’t be on scene when the storm hit. If Beguile’s executive editor learned from another source that Sarah had locked lips with Number Three on busy Central Park West, she’d make a force-five hurricane seem like a spring shower.
Then there was the duchess.
“I’m more concerned about my grandmother,” Sarah admitted reluctantly. “If she should see or hear something before I get this mess straightened out...”
She gnawed on her lower lip, trying to find a way out of what was looking more and more like the kind of dark, tangly thing you find at the bottom of a pond. To her surprise, Hunter offered a solution to at least one of her problems.
“Tell you what,” he said slowly. “Why don’t I take you home tonight? You can introduce me to your grandmother. That way, whatever happens next won’t come as such a bolt from the blue.”
It was a measure of how desperate Sarah was feeling that she actually considered the idea.
“I don’t think so,” she said after a moment. “I don’t want to complicate the situation any more at this point.”
“All right. I’m staying at the Waldorf. Call me when you’ve had time to consider my proposal. If I don’t hear from you within twenty-four hours, I’ll assume your tacit agreement.”
With that parting shot, he stepped to the curb and flagged down a cab for her. Sarah slid inside, collapsed against the seat and spent the short ride to the Dakota alternately feeling the aftereffects of that kiss, worrying about her sister and cursing the mess Gina had landed her in.
When she let herself in to the apartment, Maria was emptying the dishwasher just prior to leaving.
“Hola, Sarah.”
“Hola, Maria. How did it go today?”
“Well. We walk in the park this afternoon.”
She tucked the last plate in the cupboard and let the dishwasher close with a quiet whoosh. The marble counter got a final swipe.
“We didn’t expect you home until late,” the housekeeper commented as she reached for the coat she’d draped over a kitchen chair. “La duquesa ate an early dinner and retired to her room. She dozed when I checked a few minutes ago.”
“Okay, Maria. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, chica.” The Ecuadoran shrugged into her coat and hefted her suitcase-size purse. Halfway to the hall, she turned back. “I almost forgot. Gina called.”
“When!”
“About a half hour ago. She said you texted her a couple times.”
“A couple? Try ten or twenty.”
“Ah, well.” A fond smile creased the maid’s plump cheeks. “That’s Gina.”
“Yes, it is,” Sarah agreed grimly. “Did she mention where she was?”
“At the airport in Los Angeles. She said she just wanted to make sure everything was all right before she got on the plane.”
“What plane? Where was she going?”
Maria’s face screwed up in concentration. “Switzerland, I think she said. Or maybe...Swaziland?”
Knowing Gina, it could be either. Although, Sarah thought on a sudden choke of panic, Europe probably boasted better markets for twelfth-century Byzantine artifacts.
She said a hurried good-night to Maria and rummaged frantically in her purse for her phone. She had to catch her sister before her plane took off.
When she got the phone out, the little green text icon indicated she had a text message. And she’d missed hearing the alert. Probably because she was too busy letting Devon Hunter kiss her all the way into next week.
The message was brief and typical Gina.
Met the cuddliest ski instructor.
Off to Switzerland. Later.
Hoping against hope it wasn’t too late, Sarah hit speed dial. The call went immediately to voice mail. She tried texting and stood beside the massive marble counter, scowling at the screen, willing the little icon to pop back a response.
No luck. Gina had obviously powered down her phone. If she ran true to form, she would forget to power the damned thing back up for hours—maybe days—after she landed in Switzerland.
Sarah could almost hear a loud, obnoxious clock ticking inside her head as she went to check on her grandmother. Hunter had given her an additional twenty-four hours. Twenty-three now, and counting.
She knocked lightly on the door, then opened it as quietly as she could. The duchess sat propped against a bank of pillows. Her eyes were closed and an open book lay in her lap.
The anxiety gnawing at Sarah’s insides receded for a moment, edged aside by the love that filled her like liquid warmth. She didn’t see her grandmother’s thin, creased cheeks or the liver spots sprinkled across the back of her hands. She saw the woman who’d opened her heart and her arms to two scared little girls. Charlotte St. Sebastian had nourished and educated them. She’d also shielded them from as much of the world’s ugliness as she could. Now it was Sarah’s turn to do the same.
She tried to ease the book out of the duchess’s lax fingers without waking her. She didn’t succeed. Charlotte’s papery eyelids fluttered up. She blinked a couple of times to focus and smiled.
“How was your dinner?”
Sarah couldn’t lie, but she could dodge a bit. “The restaurant was definitely up to your standards. We’ll have to go there for your birthday.”
“Never mind my birthday.” She patted the side of the bed. “Sit down and tell me about this friend of Eugenia’s. Do you think there’s anything serious between them?”
Hunter was serious, all right. Just not in any way Charlotte would approve of.
“They’re not more than casual acquaintances. In fact, Gina sent me a text earlier this evening. She’s off to Switzerland with the cuddliest ski instructor. Her words, not mine.”
“That girl,” Charlotte huffed. “She’ll be the death of me yet.”
Not if Sarah could help it. The clock was pounding away inside her head, though. In desperation, she took Hunter’s advice and decided to lay some tentative groundwork for whatever might come tomorrow.
“I actually know him better than Gina does, Grandmama.”
“The ski instructor?”
“The man I met at the restaurant this evening. Devon Hunter.” Despite everything, she had to smile. “You know him, too. He came in at Number Three on our Ten Sexiest Singles list.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sarah. You know I only peruse Beguile to gain an appreciation for your work. I don’t pay any attention to the content.”
“I guess it must have been Maria who dog-eared that particular section,” she teased.
Charlotte tipped her aristocratic nose. The gesture was instinctive and inbred and usually preceded a withering set-down. To Sarah’s relief, the nose lowered a moment later and a smile tugged at her grandmother’s lips.
“Is he as hot in real life as he is in print?”
“Hotter.” She drew a deep mental breath. “Which is why I kissed him outside the restaurant.”
“You kissed him? In public?” Charlotte tch-tched, but it was a halfhearted effort. Her face had come alive with interest. “That’s so déclassé, dearest.”
“Yes, I know. Even worse, there was a totally obnoxious woman inside the restaurant. She recognized Devon and made a rather rude comment. I suspect she may have snapped a picture or two. The kiss may well show up in some tabloid.”
“I should hope not!”
Her lips thinning, the duchess contemplated that distasteful prospect for a moment before making a shrewd observation.
“Alexis will throw a world-class tantrum if something like this appears in any magazine but hers. You’d best forewarn her.”
“I intend to.” She glanced at the pillbox and crystal water decanter on the marble-topped nightstand. “Did you take your medicine?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Are you sure? Sometimes you doze off and forget.”
“I took it, Sarah. Don’t fuss at me.”
“It’s my job to fuss.” She leaned forward and kissed a soft, lily-of-the-valley-scented cheek. “Good night, Grandmama.”
“Good night.”
She got as far as the bedroom door. Close, so close, to making an escape. She had one hand on the latch when the duchess issued an imperial edict.
“Bring this Mr. Hunter by for drinks tomorrow evening, Sarah. I would like to meet him.”
“I’m not certain what his plans are.”
“Whatever they are,” Charlotte said loftily, “I’m sure he can work in a brief visit.”
Sarah went to sleep trying to decide which would be worse: entering into a fake engagement, informing Alexis that a tabloid might beat Beguile to a juicy story involving one of its own editors or continuing to feed her grandmother half-truths.
* * *
The first thing she did when she woke up the next morning was grab her cell phone. No text from Gina. No email. No voice message.
“You’re a dead woman,” she snarled at her absent sibling. “Dead!”
Throwing back the covers, she stomped to the bathroom. Like the rest of the rooms in the apartment, it was high ceilinged and trimmed with elaborate crown molding. Most of the fixtures had been updated over the years, but the tub was big and claw-footed and original. Sarah indulged in long, decadent soaks whenever she could. This morning she was too keyed up and in too much of a hurry for anything more than a quick shower.
Showered and blow-dried, she chose one of her grandmama’s former favorites—a slate-gray Pierre Balmain minidress in a classic A-line. According to Charlotte, some women used to pair these thigh-skimming dresses with white plastic go-go boots. She never did, of course. Far too gauche. She’d gone with tasteful white stockings and Ferragamo pumps. Sarah opted for black tights, a pair of Giuseppi Zanottis she’d snatched up at a secondhand shoe store and multiple strands of fat faux pearls.
Thankfully, the duchess preferred a late, leisurely breakfast with Maria, so Sarah downed her usual bagel and black coffee and left for work with only a quick goodbye.
She got another reprieve at work. Alexis had called in to say she was hopping an early shuttle to Chicago for a short-notice meeting with the head of their publishing group. And to Sarah’s infinite relief, a computer search of stories in print for the day didn’t pop with either her name or a lurid blowup of her wrapped in Devon Hunter’s arms.
That left the rest of the day to try to rationalize her unexpected reaction to his kiss and make a half-dozen futile attempts to reach Gina. All the while the clock marched steadily, inexorably toward her deadline.
* * *
Dev shot a glance at the bank of clocks lining one wall of the conference room. Four-fifteen. A little less than four hours to the go/no-go point.
He tuned out the tanned-and-toned executive at the head of the gleaming mahogany conference table. The man had been droning on for almost forty minutes now. His equally slick associates had nodded and ahemed and interjected several editorial asides about the fat military contract they were confident their company would win.
Dev knew better. They’d understated their start-up costs so blatantly the Pentagon procurement folks would laugh these guys out of the competition. Dev might have chalked this trip to NYC as a total waste of time if not for his meeting with Sarah St. Sebastian.
Based on the profile he’d had compiled on her, he’d expected someone cool, confident, levelheaded and fiercely loyal to both the woman who’d raised her and the sibling who gave her such grief. What he hadn’t expected was her inbred elegance. Or the kick to his gut when she’d walked into the restaurant last night. Or the hours he’d spent afterward remembering her taste and her scent and the press of her body against his.
His visceral reaction to the woman could be a potential glitch in his plan. He needed a decoy. A temporary fiancée to blunt the effect of that ridiculous article. Someone to act as a buffer between him and the total strangers hitting on him everywhere he went—and the French CEO’s wife who’d whispered such suggestive obscenities in his ear.
Sarah St. Sebastian was the perfect solution to those embarrassments. She’d proved as much last night when she’d cut Red off at the knees. Problem was the feel of her, the taste of her, had damned near done the same to Dev. The delectable Sarah could well prove more of a distraction than the rest of the bunch rolled up together.
So what the hell should he do now? Call her and tell her the deal he’d offered was no longer on the table? Write off the loss of the medallion? Track Gina down and recover the piece himself?
The artifact itself wasn’t the issue, of course. Dev had lost more in the stock market in a single day than that bit of gold and enamel was worth. The only reason he’d pursued it this far was that he didn’t like getting ripped off any more than the next guy. That, and the damned Ten Sexiest Singles article. He’d figured he could leverage the theft of the medallion into a temporary fiancée.
Which brought him full circle. What should he do about Sarah? His conscience had pinged at him last night. It was lobbing 50mm mortar shells now.
Dev had gained a rep in the multibillion-dollar world of aerospace manufacturing for being as tough as boot leather, but honest. He’d never lied to a competitor or grossly underestimated a bid like these jokers were doing now. Nor had he ever resorted to blackmail. Dev shifted uncomfortably, feeling as prickly about the one-sided deal he’d offered Sarah as by the patently false estimates Mr. Smooth kept flashing up on the screen.
To hell with it. He could take care of at least one of those itches right now.
“Excuse me, Jim.”
Tanned-and-toned broke off in midspiel. He and his associates turned eager faces to Dev.
“We’ll have to cut this short,” he said without a trace of apology. “I’ve got something hanging fire that I thought could wait. I need to take care of it now.”
Jim and company concealed their disappointment behind shark-toothed smiles. Professional courtesy dictated that Devon offer a palliative.
“Why don’t you email me the rest of your presentation? I’ll study it on the flight home.”
Tanned-and-toned picked up an in-house line and murmured an order to his AV folks. When he replaced the receiver, his smile sat just a few degrees off center.
“It’s done, Dev.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll get back to you when I’ve had a chance to review your numbers in a little more depth.”
Ole Jim’s smile slipped another couple of degrees but he managed to hang on to its remnants as he came around the table to pump Devon’s hand.
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Soon, I hope.”
“By the end of the week,” Devon promised, although he knew Mr. Smooth wouldn’t like what he had to say.
He decided to wait until he was in the limo and headed back to his hotel to contact Sarah. As the elevator whisked him down fifty stories, he tried to formulate exactly what he’d say to her.
His cell phone buzzed about twenty stories into the descent. Dev answered with his customary curt response, blissfully unaware a certain green-eyed brunette was just seconds away from knocking his world off its axis.
“Hunter.”
“Mr. Hunter... Dev... It’s Sarah St. Sebastian.”
“Hello, Sarah. Have you heard from Gina?”
“Yes. Well, sort of.”
Hell! So much for his nagging guilt over coercing this woman into a fake engagement. All Devon felt now was a searing disappointment that it might not take place. The feeling was so sharp and surprisingly painful he almost missed her next comment.
“Gina’s on her way to Switzerland. Or she was when she texted me last night.”
“What’s in...?”
He broke off, knowing the answer before he asked the question. Bankers in Switzerland would commit hara-kiri before violating the confidentiality of deals brokered under their auspices. What better place to sell—and deposit the proceeds of—a near-priceless piece of antiquity?
“So where does that leave us?”
It came out stiffer than he’d intended. She responded in the same vein.
“I’m still trying to reach Gina. If I can’t...”
The elevator reached the lobby. Dev stepped out, the phone to his ear and his adrenaline pumping the way it did when his engineers were close to some innovative new concept or major modification to the business of hauling cargo.
“If you can’t?” he echoed.
“I don’t see I have any choice but to agree to your preposterous offer.”
She spelled it out. Slowly. Tightly. As if he’d forgotten the conditions he’d laid down last night.
“Six months as your fiancée. Less if you complete the negotiations you’re working on. In return, you don’t press charges against my sister. Correct?”
“Correct.” Crushing his earlier doubts, he pounced. “So we have a deal?”
“On one condition.”
A dozen different contingency clauses flashed through his mind. “And that is?” he said cautiously.
“You have to come for cocktails this evening. Seven o’clock. My grandmother wants to meet you.”
Four
Dev frowned at his image in the elevator’s ornate mirror and adjusted his tie. He was damned if he knew why he was so nervous about meeting Charlotte St. Sebastian.
He’d flown into combat zones more times than he could count, for God’s sake. He’d also participated in relief missions to countries devastated by fires, tsunamis, earthquakes, horrific droughts and bloody civil wars. More than once his aircraft had come under enemy fire. And he still carried the scar from the hit he’d taken while racing through a barrage of bullets to get a sobbing, desperate mother and her wounded child aboard before murderous rebels overran the airport.
Those experiences had certainly shaped Dev’s sense of self. Building an aerospace design-and-manufacturing empire from the ground up only solidified that self-confidence. He now rubbed elbows with top-level executives and power brokers around the world. Charlotte St. Sebastian wouldn’t be the first royal he’d met, or even the highest ranking.
Yet the facts Dev had gathered about the St. Sebastian family painted one hell of an intimidating picture of its matriarch. The woman had once stood next in line to rule a duchy with a history that spanned some seven hundred years. She’d been forced to witness her husband’s execution by firing squad. Most of her remaining family had disappeared forever in the notorious gulags. Charlotte herself had gone into hiding with her infant daughter and endured untold hardships before escaping to the West.
That would be heartbreak enough for anyone. Yet the duchess had also been slammed with the tragic death of her daughter and son-in-law, then had raised her two young granddaughters alone. Few, if any, of her friends and acquaintances were aware that she maintained only the facade of what appeared to be a luxurious lifestyle. Dev knew because he’d made it his business to learn everything he could about the St. Sebastians after beautiful, bubbly Lady Eugenia had lifted the Byzantine medallion.
He could have tracked Gina down. Hell, anyone with a modicum of computer smarts could track a GPS-equipped cell phone these days. Dev had considered doing just that until he’d realized her elder sister was better suited for his purposes. Plus, there was the bonus factor of where Sarah St. Sebastian worked. It had seemed only fair that he get a little revenge for the annoyance caused by that article.
Except, he thought as he exited the elevator, revenge had a way of coming back to bite you in the ass. What had seemed like a solid plan when he’d first devised it was now generating some serious doubts. Could he keep his hands off the elegant elder sister and stick to the strict terms of their agreement? Did he want to?
The doubts dogged him right up until he pressed the button for the doorbell. He heard a set of melodic chimes, and his soon-to-be fiancée opened the door to him.
“Hello, Mr.... Dev.”
She was wearing chunky pearls, a thigh-skimming little dress and black tights tonight. The pearls and gray dress gave her a personal brand of sophistication, but the tights showcased her legs in a way that made Dev’s throat go bone-dry. He managed to untangle his tongue long enough to return her greeting.
“Hello, Sarah.”
“Please, come in.”
She stood aside to give him access to a foyer longer than the belly of a C-17 and almost as cavernous. Marble tiles, ornate wall sconces, a gilt-edged side table and a crystal bowl filled with something orange blossomy. Dev absorbed the details along with the warning in Sarah’s green eyes.
“I’ve told my grandmother that you and Gina are no more than casual acquaintances,” she confided in a low voice.
“That’s true enough.”
“Yes, well...” She drew in a breath and squared shoulders molded by gray silk. “Let’s get this over with.”
She led the way down the hall. Dev followed and decided the rear view was as great as the front. The dress hem swayed just enough to tease and tantalize. The tights clung faithfully to the curve of her calves.
He was still appreciating the view when she showed him into a high-ceilinged room furnished with a mix of antiques and a few pieces of modern technology. The floor here was parquet; the wood was beautifully inlaid, but cried for the cushioning of a soft, handwoven carpet to blunt some of its echo. Windows curtained in pale blue velvet took up most of two walls and gave what Dev guessed was one hell of a view of Central Park. Flames danced in the massive fireplace fronted in black marble that dominated a third wall.
A sofa was angled to catch the glow from the fire. Two high-backed armchairs faced the sofa across a monster coffee table inset with more marble. The woman on one of those chairs sat ramrod straight, with both palms resting on the handle of an ebony cane. Her gray hair was swept up into a curly crown and anchored by ivory combs. Lace wrapped her throat like a muffler and was anchored by a cameo brooch. Her hawk’s eyes skewered Dev as he crossed the room.
Sarah summoned a bright smile and performed the introductions. “Grandmama, this is Devon Hunter.”
“How do you do, Mr. Hunter?”
The duchess held out a veined hand. Dev suspected that courtiers had once dropped to a knee and kissed it reverently. He settled for taking it gently in his.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Gina told me she’d inherited her stunning looks from her grandmother. She obviously had that right.”
“Indeed?” Her chin lifted. Her nose angled up a few degrees. “You know Eugenia well, then?”
“She coordinated a party for me. We spoke on a number of occasions.”
“Do sit down, Mr. Hunter.” She waved him to the chair across from hers. “Sarah, dearest, please pour Mr. Hunter a drink.”
“Certainly. What would you like, Dev?”
“Whatever you and your grandmother are having is fine.”
“I’m having white wine.” Her smile tipped into one of genuine affection as she moved to a side table containing an opened bottle of wine nested in a crystal ice bucket and an array of decanters. “Grandmama, however, is ignoring her doctor’s orders and sipping an abominable brew concocted by our ancestors back in the sixteenth century.”
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