Читать книгу From Paris With Love Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 43
ОглавлениеDev 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.”
“Žuta Osa is hardly abominable, Sarah,” the duchess countered. She lifted a tiny liqueur glass and swirled its amber-colored contents before treating her guest to a bland look. “It simply requires a strong constitution.”
Dev recognized a challenge when one smacked him in the face. “I’ll give it a try.”
“Are you sure?” Sarah shot him a warning glance from behind the drinks table. “The name translates roughly to yellow wasp. That might give you an idea of what it tastes like.”
“Really, Sarah! You must allow Mr. Hunter to form his own opinion of what was once our national drink.”
Dev was already regretting his choice but concealed it behind a polite request. “Please call me Dev, ma’am.”
He didn’t presume to address the duchess by name or by rank. Mostly because he wasn’t sure which came first. European titles were a mystery wrapped up in an enigma to most Americans. Defunct Eastern European titles were even harder to decipher. Dev had read somewhere that the form of address depended on whether the rank was inherited or bestowed, but that didn’t help him a whole lot in this instance.
The duchess solved his dilemma when she responded to his request with a gracious nod. “Very well. And you may call me Charlotte.”
Sarah paused with the stopper to one of the decanters in hand. Her look of surprise told Dev he’d just been granted a major concession. She recovered a moment later and filled one of the thimble-size liqueur glasses. Passing it to Dev, she refilled her wineglass and took a seat beside her grandmother.
As he lifted the glass in salute to his hostess, he told himself a half ounce of yellow wasp couldn’t do much damage. One sip showed just how wrong he was. The fiery, plum-based liquid exploded in his mouth and damned near burned a hole in his esophagus.
“Holy sh...!”
He caught himself in time. Eyes watering, he held the glass at arm’s length and gave the liqueur the respect it deserved. When he could breathe again, he met the duchess’s amused eyes.
“This puts the stuff we used to brew in our helmets in Iraq to shame.”
“You were in Iraq?” With an impatient shake of her head, Charlotte answered her own question. “Yes, of course you were. Afghanistan, too, if I remember correctly from the article in Beguile.”
Okay, now he was embarrassed. The idea of this gray-haired matriarch reading all that nonsense—and perusing the picture of his butt crack!—went down even rougher than the liqueur.
To cover his embarrassment, Dev took another sip. The second was a little easier than the first but still left scorch marks all the way to his gullet.
“So tell me,” Charlotte was saying politely, “how long will you be in New York?”
“That depends,” he got out.
“Indeed?”
The duchess did the nose-up thing again. She was good at it, Dev thought as he waited for the fire in his stomach to subside.
“On what, if I may be so bold to ask?”
“On whether you and your granddaughter will have dinner with me this evening. Or tomorrow evening.”
His glance shifted to Sarah. The memory of how she’d fit against him, how her mouth had opened under his, hit with almost the same sucker punch as the Žuta Osa.
“Or any evening,” he added, holding her gaze.
* * *
Sarah gripped her wineglass. She didn’t have any trouble reading the message in his eyes. It was a personal challenge. A not-so-private caress. Her grandmother would have to be blind to miss either.
Okay. All right. She’d hoped this meeting would blunt the surprise of a sudden engagement. Dev had done his part. The ball was now in her court.
“I can’t speak for Grandmama, but I’m free tomorrow evening. Or any evening,” she added with what felt like a silly, simpering smile.
She thought she’d overplayed her hand. Was sure of it when the duchess speared her with a sharp glance.
The question in her grandmother’s eyes ballooned Sarah’s guilt and worry to epic proportions. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t deceive the woman who’d sold every precious family heirloom she owned to provide for her granddaughters. A confession trembled on her lips. The duchess forestalled it by turning back Devon Hunter.
“I’m afraid I have another engagement tomorrow evening.”
Both women knew that to be a blatant lie. Too caught up in her own web of deceit to challenge her grandmother, Sarah tried not to squirm as the duchess slipped into the role of royal matchmaker.
“But I insist you take my granddaughter to dinner tomorrow. Or any evening,” she added drily. “Right now, however, I’d like to know a little more about you.”
Sarah braced herself. The duchess didn’t attack with the same snarling belligerence as Alexis, but she was every bit as skilled and tenacious when it came to extracting information. Dev didn’t stand a chance.
She had to admit he took the interrogation with good grace. Still, her nerves were stretched taunt when she went to bed some hours later. At least she’d mitigated the fallout from one potentially disastrous situation. If—when—she and Devon broke the news of their engagement, it wouldn’t come as a complete shock to Grandmama.
* * *
She woke up the next morning knowing she had to defuse another potentially explosive situation. A quick scan of her phone showed no return call or text from Gina. An equally quick scan of electronic, TV and print media showed the story hadn’t broken yet about Sarah and Number Three. It would, though. She sensed it with every instinct she’d developed after three years in the dog-eat-dog publishing business.
Alexis. She had to tell Alexis some version of her involvement with Devon Hunter. She tried out different slants as she hung from a handrail on the subway. Several more in the elevator that zoomed her up to Beguile’s offices. Every possible construction but one crumbled when Alexis summoned her into her corner office. Pacing like a caged tiger, the executive editor unleashed her claws.
“Jesus, Sarah!” Anger lowered Alexis’s smoker’s rasp to a frog-like croak. “You want to tell me why I have to hear secondhand that one of my editors swapped saliva with Sexy Single Number Three? On the street. In full view of every cabbie with a camera phone and an itch to sell a sensational story.”
“Come on, Alexis. How many New York cabbies read Beguile enough to recognize Number Three?”
“At least one, apparently.”
She flung the sheet of paper she was holding onto the slab of Lucite that was her desk. Sarah’s heart tripped as she skimmed the contents. It was a printed email, and below the printed message was a grainy color photo of a couple locked in each other’s arms. Sarah barely had time for a mental apology to Red for thinking she’d be the one to peddle the story before Alexis pounced.
“This joker wants five thousand for the picture.”
“You’re kidding!”
“See this face?” The executive editor stabbed a finger at her nose. “Does it look like I’m kidding?”
“This...this isn’t what you think, Alexis.”
“So maybe you’ll tell me what the hell it is, Lady Sarah.”
It might have been the biting sarcasm. Or the deliberate reference to her title. Or the worry about Gina or the guilt over lying to her grandmother or the pressure Devon Hunter had laid on her. Whatever caused Sarah’s sudden meltdown, the sudden burst of tears shocked her as much as it did Alexis.
“Oh, Christ!” Her boss flapped her hands like a PMS-ing hen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come at you so hard. Well, maybe I did. But you don’t have to cry about it.”
“Yes,” Sarah sobbed, “I do!”
The truth was she couldn’t have stopped if she wanted to. All the stress, all the strain, seemed to boil out of her. Not just the problems that had piled up in the past few days. The months of worrying about Grandmama’s health. The years of standing between Gina and the rest of the world. Everything just seemed to come to a head. Dropping into a chair, she crossed her arms on the half acre of unblemished Lucite and buried her face.
“Hey! It’s okay.” Alexis hovered over her, patting her shoulder, sounding more desperate and bullfroggish by the moment. “I’ll sit on this email. Do what I can to kill the story before it leaks.”
Sarah raised her head. She’d struck a deal. She’d stand by it. “You don’t have to kill it. Hunter... He and I...”
“You and Hunter...?”
She dropped her head back onto her arms and gave a muffled groan. “We’re engaged.”
“What! When? Where? How?”
Reverting to her natural self, Alexis was relentless. Within moments she’d wormed out every succulent detail. Hunter’s shocking accusation. The video with its incontrovertible proof. The outrageous proposal. The call from Gina stating that she was on her way to Switzerland.
“Your sister is a selfish little bitch,” Alexis pronounced in disgust. “When are you going to stop protecting her?”
“Never!” Blinking away her tears, Sarah fired back with both barrels. “Gina’s all I have. Gina and Grandmama. I’ll do whatever’s necessary to protect them.”
“That’s all well and good, but your sister...”
“Is my sister.”
“Okay, okay.” Alexis held up both palms. “She’s your sister. And Devon Hunter’s your fiancé for the next six months. Unless...”
Her face took on a calculating expression. One Sarah knew all too well. She almost didn’t want to ask, but the faint hope that her boss might see a way out of the mess prompted a tentative query.
“Unless what?”
“What if you keep a journal for the next few weeks? Better yet, a photo journal?”
Deep in thought, Alexis tapped a bloodred nail against her lips. Sarah could almost see the layout taking shape in her boss’s fertile mind.
“You and Hunter. The whirlwind romance. The surprise proposal. The romantic dinners for two. The long walks in Central Park. Our readers would eat it up.”
“Forget it, Alexis. I’m not churning out more juicy gossip for our readers.”
“Why not?”
The counter came as swift and as deadly as an adder. In full pursuit of a feature now, Alexis dropped into the chair next to Sarah and pressed her point.
“You and I both know celebrity gossip sells. And this batch comes with great bonus elements. Hunter’s not only rich, but handsome as hell. You’re a smart, savvy career woman with a connection to royalty.”
“A connection to a royal house that doesn’t exist anymore!”
“So? We resurrect it. Embellish it. Maybe send a photographer over to shoot some local color from your grandmother’s homeland. Didn’t you say you still had some cousins there?”
“Three or four times removed, maybe, but Grandmama hasn’t heard from anyone there in decades.”
“No problem. We’ll make it work.”
She saw the doubt on Sarah’s face and pressed her point with ruthless determination.
“If what you give me is as full of glam and romance as I think it could be, it’ll send our circulation through the roof. And that, my sweet, will provide you with enough of a bonus to reimburse Hunter for his lost artifact. And pay off the last of your grandmother’s medical bills. And put a little extra in your bank account for a rainy day or two.”
The dazzling prospect hung before Sarah’s eyes for a brief, shining moment. She could extricate Gina from her latest mess. Become debt-free for the first time in longer than she could remember. Splurge on some totally unnecessary luxury for the duchess. Buy a new suit instead of retrofitting old classics.
She came within a breath of promising Alexis all the photos and R-rated copy she could print. Then her irritating sense of fair play raised its head.
“I can’t do it,” she said after a bitter internal struggle. “Hunter promised he wouldn’t file charges against Gina if I play the role of adoring fiancée. I’ll try to get him to agree to a photo shoot focusing on our—” she stopped, took a breath, continued “—on our engagement. I’m pretty sure he’ll agree to that.”
Primarily because it would serve his purpose. Once the word hit the street that he was taken, all those women shoving their phone numbers at him would just have to live with their disappointment. So would Alexis.
“That’s as far as I’ll go,” Sarah said firmly.
Her boss frowned and was priming her guns for another salvo when her intercom buzzed. Scowling, she stabbed at the instrument on her desk.
“Didn’t I tell you to hold all calls?”
“Yes, but...”
“What part of ‘hold’ don’t you understand?”
“It’s...”
“It’s what, dammit?”
“Number Three,” came the whispered reply. “He’s here.”
