Читать книгу The CEO's Christmas Proposition / His Expectant Ex - Catherine Mann - Страница 11

“Logan kissed you?”

The question shot from Devon’s two partners almost simultaneously. She nodded in response, wondering how the world had survived before digital videoconferencing.

“He did.”

Her partners’ images filled her laptop’s split screen. She’d caught Sabrina at home, still flushed and feverish but on the road to recovery. Caroline was at the office. Devon knew without being told she’d been up since dawn and hard at it.

The two women couldn’t have been more different. Sabrina Russo came from a privileged background and had partied her way through college. Caroline Walters was quiet and withdrawn and had worked part-time jobs to earn spending money even during their shared year at the university. At this moment, however, their faces wore almost identical expressions of surprise.

“Logan thought I was you, Sabrina.”

“Huh?”

“That was pretty much my reaction, too.”

Swiftly, Devon explained about the long-delayed New Year’s Eve kiss.

“That sounds like Don Howard.” The blonde shook her head in mingled amusement and exasperation. “So how did you handle it?”

“I didn’t slug our client on the spot,” Devon drawled, “but I came close.”

After she’d recovered from her near total meltdown, that is. She couldn’t explain the ridiculous reaction to herself, let alone her partners. Nor did she mention the way her nerves tingled every time Logan took her arm. Shelving her completely irrational sensitivity to the man’s touch, she ran through the string of disasters that had begun with his long-delayed flight and ended just minutes ago, when she finally moved him into his suite.

“At least I got him to his meeting with Herr Hauptmann on time. Believe it or not,” she added with a grimace, “at Cal’s request we also squeezed in some post-meeting Christmas shopping.”

“Uh-oh.”

Instant sympathy filled Caroline’s forest green eyes. She knew how this time of year scratched at Devon’s old wounds. Sabrina had zoned in on another aspect of her comment, however.

“Cal?” she echoed.

“He insists we proceed on a first-name basis.”

Devon glanced at her bedroom window. She hadn’t even had time to draw the drapes before she dashed into the bathroom to freshen her makeup and change. Ordinarily, she would have found the illuminated spires across the river magical. Their coat of glistening ice instilled a less enthusiastic response tonight.

“On the negative side,” she told her partners, “there’s still no sign of his luggage, and the weather reports are grim. Everything’s shutting down. The airport, the trains, the autobahn. We may be stuck in Dresden indefinitely.”

“Logan can’t hold you responsible for the weather,” Caroline protested.

“Or EBS,” Sabrina added briskly. Despite the party-girl persona she projected to the rest of the world, she was the partner with the most business sense. Only Devon and Caroline knew the personal hell she’d gone through to gain that knowledge.

“Has he made any noises about being dissatisfied with EBS’s services?” she wanted to know.

“No complaints so far. That could change real fast, though. Between getting ready for this concert and dinner tonight and giving you guys an update, I didn’t have time to work backup transportation and hotel reservations.”

Caroline jumped in, as Devon had hoped she would. “I’ll take care of that. We’ve got Logan’s schedule and current itinerary on the computer. I’ll work up a list of alternative options and have them waiting for you when you get back from the concert.”

“Thanks, Caro. I didn’t plan on an evening out.”

“Good thing I talked you into packing your long velvet skirt.”

That came from Sabrina, who firmly believed appearance and flexibility were as important in their business as organizational skills. All three were getting a real test tonight.

“What are you wearing with it?”

“The gold lamé number you also made me pack.”

Devon leaned away from the computer’s built-in camera to display the scoop-necked, cap-sleeved top in glittering gold. Lightweight and silky, it could jazz up a suit for an after-five cocktail meeting or provide an elegant stand-alone for an evening function like this.

“Perfect,” Sabrina announced. “Now go eat, don’t drink and be merry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Cal escorted her to the lobby and the car Herr Hauptmann had sent. His hair was still damp from his shower and the tangy lemon-lime scent of his aftershave teased her senses.

The two-hour concert provided another banquet for her senses. Dresden’s opera house had been leveled during World War Two and damaged again when the Elbe flooded its banks in 2002. But huge infusions of funds had restored the theater to its former glory. Pale green walls, magnificent ceiling paintings and the ornate molding on its tiers of boxes made an incredible backdrop for the Dresden Boys’ Choir. The ensemble rivaled Vienna’s for the purity of the voices. The singers’ notes soared high, sounding as though they flew on angels’ wings

Dinner afterward was smaller and more intimate but every bit as elegant. Herr Hauptmann had reserved a corner table at Das Caroussel, located in a recently restored Baroque palace. Mindful of Sabrina’s parting advice, Devon feasted on braised veal accompanied by a sauerbraten ravioli that made her taste buds want to weep with joy, but limited her alcohol intake to a few sips of a light, fruity Rhine wine.

Madam Hauptmann was a surprise. Vivacious and petite next to her husband’s bulk, she spoke flawless English and was delighted to learn Devon had studied in her native Austria. She was also very impressed with Cal Logan. As dinner progressed and the waiter refilled her wine glass, Lisel Hauptmann’s playful flirtation began to include seemingly accidental touches and sidelong glances her husband failed to note.

Devon noticed them, however. The beauty of the concert and the luxurious restaurant evaporated bit by bit. By the time coffee was served, her dessert of Jerusalem pear and artichoke vinaigrette tasted more like chalk with every bite.

She’d had to endure countless scenes like this during her short-lived marriage to Blake McShay. Tall and trim and salon-tanned, her husband had played his flamboyant good looks and TV-personality role for all they were worth. But only for PR purposes, or so Blake would argue when Devon objected to the way he let women fawn all over him.

To Cal Logan’s credit, he appeared completely oblivious to Madam Hauptmann’s less-than-subtle signals. That should have won him some brownie points with Devon, but the bad taste stayed with her after the Hauptmanns dropped them off at their hotel. She returned short, noncommittal responses to her client’s comments during the walk through the lobby and said even less in the elevator.

The plush, patterned carpet lining the hall muted their footsteps as they approached Cal’s suite. He stopped beside the double doors but didn’t insert the key. Tapping the key card against his hand, he raked a glance over her face.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

In fact, she was anything but. Watching Lisel Hauptmann’s performance had stirred too many nasty memories. All Devon wanted was to crawl between the sheets and let sleep wipe them away. Her client’s long day gave her the perfect out.

“But you must be exhausted,” she said. “I’ll check the weather and call you in a few minutes with our revised itinerary for tomorrow.”

“Why don’t you bring me a printed copy? We can have a cognac while we go over the details.”

“I don’t care for cognac.”

He cocked a brow at the stiff response. “I’m sure we can fine something else to suit your tastes. See you in a few minutes.”

“Fine.”

Devon could feel those blue eyes drilling into her back as she marched the few yards to her room and knew she had to get a grip here.

So Cal Logan was too damned hot for his own—or anyone else’s—good? So he and this crazy time of year combined to throw her off balance? She’d darn well better get her head on straight before she trotted back to the man’s suite.

The e-mail from Caroline didn’t help in that regard. Her heart sinking, Devon skimmed the meager contents. European weather experts had already labeled this the ice storm of the century. Many airports had closed until further notice. Trains were running hours behind schedule, if at all. Road conditions were expected to worsen overnight. The experts predicted widespread power outages as trees groaning with the weight of ice cracked and toppled electrical lines.

Caroline’s advice was to hunker down right where they were and wait out the storm. With great reluctance, Devon called down to the desk to check on room availability should they have to extend.

“It should not be a problem, madam.”

Ha! She’d heard that before.

“If you and Herr Logan cannot depart because of this storm, our other guests most likely cannot arrive. In either case, we will work out suitable arrangements.”

Vowing to hold them to that promise, Devon printed the e-mail and headed back down the hall.

“It’s not looking good for travel to Berlin tomorrow,” she announced when Cal opened the door.

“I heard.”

Ushering her inside, he gestured to the plasma TV mounted on the wall. The screen showed a scene of almost eerie beauty. Like slender, long-limbed ballerinas, a row of ice-coated linden trees bowed almost to the ground.

“I caught the tail end of a CNN Europe broadcast. Evidently this front isn’t expected to move any time soon. We need to discuss options.”

He’d shed his suit coat and loosened his tie. He’d also popped the top buttons of his blue shirt and rolled up the cuffs. As he reached for the doors of the highboy that housed the suite’s well-stocked bar, Devon caught the gleam of a thin gold watch on his wrist, all the more noticeable against skin tanned to dark oak.

It was a deep, natural color that couldn’t have come from a bottle or the cocoon of a tanning bed. Devon should know. Her ex had spent megabucks on the latter. And those white squint lines at the corners of his eyes weren’t the result of peering at spreadsheets. Cal Logan might run a corporation that employed thousands, but he didn’t do it exclusively from the confines of a corner office.

“You said you’re not a cognac devotee. What would you like?”

The dazzling array of bottles beckoned. She’d been careful to take only a taste of schnapps during the welcome toasts at Herr Hauptmann’s office and a few sips of wine at dinner. With her client’s trip coming apart at the seams, though, she decided on a shot of something stronger than the diet Sprite she started to ask for.

“Baileys would be good. On the rocks.”

“One Baileys coming up.”

While he splashed the creamy liqueur into a brandy snifter, Devon took a quick glance around. Since the suite’s previous occupant had delayed his checkout, she hadn’t been able to inspect it before Cal moved in. She needn’t have worried. From what she could see, the King’s Suite more than lived up to the hotel’s proud claim that royalty had slept here, not to mention presidents, prime ministers and a good number of rock stars.

The luxurious apartment consisted of four rooms, each filled with what looked like priceless antiques. In the sitting room, gas-fed flames flickered in a marble fireplace with a mantel so ornate she guessed it had once graced a prince’s palace. The adjacent dining area boasted gilt-edged wainscoting and a chandelier dripping crystal teardrops. Separate bedrooms flanked the two central rooms.

Through the open double doors of one, Devon caught a glimpse of a stunning headboard carved with hunting scenes and topped by a life-size wooden stag’s head. Pale gold brocade covered the walls of the second bedroom. Bed curtains in the same shimmering silk were draped from the crown-shaped medallion centered above a magnificent four-poster.

“Wow,” Devon murmured. “I’ve toured castles that weren’t as richly appointed.”

“Me, too.” Cal came to stand beside her. Amusement laced his voice as he surveyed the decadent splendor. “Kind of makes you wonder what went on behind those bed curtains on cold, dark nights like this one.”

Devon’s back stiffened. She sent him a sharp glance, but there was nothing suggestive in the look he turned her way.

Or was there?

She was still trying to interpret his lazy half smile when he handed her the Baileys and retrieved his snifter of cognac from the marble-topped coffee table. With a ping of crystal on crystal, he tipped his glass to hers.

“Here’s to Mother Nature. For better or worse, she’s calling the shots.”

“For the foreseeable future, anyway.”

Devon lifted the snifter to her lips. Her first sip of the cool, creamy liqueur went down like a chocolate milkshake. The second hit with a little more punch.

“I called the front desk,” she told Cal as she moved toward the high-backed sofa angled to face the fire. “If necessary, we can hole up here until the storm breaks.”

His gaze went to the sitting-room windows. The drapes were drawn back to showcase Old City’s illuminated spires and turrets. The sleet blurring the world-famous view gave it an impressionistic, almost surreal, quality.

“Looks like holing up is becoming more necessary by the moment.”

Devon had to agree. “I’ll call the people you were supposed to meet with in Berlin and Hamburg first thing in the morning and try to reschedule. Do you have any flexibility in when you need to return to the States?”

“I would prefer not to spend Christmas Day in Germany. Or in the air,” he added with a wry smile. “As the only non-dad in the family, my sisters usually make me play Santa for my nieces and nephews.”

“Beard and all?”

“Beard and all.” He sank into the cushions at the other end of the sofa and stretched his feet toward the fire. “I’d hate to miss Christmas with my family and certainly wouldn’t want to deprive you of being with yours.”

“Not a problem for me.”

Evidently Devon’s shrug didn’t come across as careless as she’d intended. Cal eyes held a question as he regarded her from a few feet away.

“No close family?”

“No brothers or sisters, and my parents divorced when I was a kid,” she explained. “It wasn’t an amicable parting of the ways.”

To say the least. Devon hid a grimace behind a swallow of smooth, chocolaty liqueur.

“They fought over where I’d spend every holiday and vacation. I got so I dreaded school breaks.”

“The fighting hasn’t let up now that you’re an adult?”

“If anything, it’s worse. Now they lay the decision on me, along with the guilt. That’s one of the reasons I was more than happy to step in and take this trip when Sabrina got hit with the flu.”

“What about someone else?” Cal asked casually. “Someone special to catch under the mistletoe?”

Devon squirmed, remembering Blake’s proposal under that damned sprig of green. No way she intended to relate the fiasco that had followed. Or her ridiculous, starry-eyed belief she’d finally broken the Christmas curse.

“No one special.”

“Good.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve been wondering about that since you picked me up at the airport this morning.”

Calmly, he set his brandy snifter on the coffee table, reached across the cushions and removed hers from her hand. Devon went from surprised to instantly wary as he laid his arm across the back of the sofa.

“I’ve also been wondering if that kiss hit you with the same wallop it did me.”

Oh, boy! Where had that come from? Hastily, Devon scrambled to get things back on a less personal basis.

“How it hit either of us is completely irrelevant, Mr. Logan.”

“Cal.”

“This is a business trip, Mr. Logan. For me as well as you.”

“We took care of business this afternoon. Even hard-charging professionals are entitled to some downtime.”

“You took care of business this afternoon. I’m still on duty.”

His mouth curving, he rendered a snappy salute that reminded her that this sophisticated multibil-lionaire had once been a lowly private or lieutenant or whatever.

“Now hear this,” he intoned. “This is your captain speaking. All hands are officially at liberty.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” she said stubbornly.

“Sure it does. So answer the question, McShay. Did you feel the same kick I did?”

Every shred of common sense Devon possessed shrieked at her to lie like hell. Despite his blithe assurances to the contrary, her gut told her she should not mix business and pleasure. Especially with someone like Cal Logan. He was too powerful, too charismatic. Too damned sexy.

On the other hand…

Stop right there! There was no other hand. She’d been burned once by a handsome, charismatic charmer. She’d be a fool to stick her hand in the fire again.

“I repeat, Mr. Logan, how it hit either of us is completely irrelevant. I don’t intend to—”

She broke off, blinking as the cityscape that had filled the windows behind Cal suddenly went black. Dresden’s beautiful spires and turrets disappeared before her eyes. In almost the next second, the luxurious King’s Suite plunged into darkness broken only by the flames leaping in the marble fireplace.