Читать книгу From Paris With Love Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 42

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.”