Читать книгу From Paris With Love Collection - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 46

Seven

Three hours out over the Atlantic Sarah had yet to get past her surprise.

“I still can’t believe Grandmama took it so well,” she said, her fingers poised over the keyboard of her laptop. “Not just the engagement. This trip to Paris. The hefty bonus you’re paying Maria. Everything!”

Dev looked up from the text message he’d just received. Their first-class seat pods were separated by a serving console holding his scotch, her wine and a tray of appetizers, but they were seated close enough for him to see the lingering disbelief in her jade-green eyes.

“Why shouldn’t she take it well?” he countered. “She grilled me last night about my parents, my grandparents, my siblings, my education, my health, my club memberships and my bank account. She squeezed everything else she wanted to know out of me today at lunch. It was a close call, but evidently I passed muster.”

“I think it was the ring,” Sarah murmured, her gaze on the milky stone that crowned her finger. “Her whole attitude changed when she spotted it.”

Dev knew damn well it was the ring, and noted with interest the guilt and embarrassment tinging his fiancée’s cheeks.

“I supposed I should have told you at Cartier that the Russian Rose once belonged to Grandmama.”

“Not a problem. I’m just glad it was available.”

She was quiet for a moment, still pondering the luncheon.

“Do you know what I find so strange? Grandmama didn’t once ask how we could have fallen in love so quickly.”

“Maybe because she comes from a different era. Plus, she went through some really rough times. Could be your security weighs as heavily in her mind as your happiness.”

“That can’t be it. She’s always told Gina and me that her marriage was a love match. She had to defy her parents to make it happen.”

“Yes, but look what came next,” Dev said gently. “From what I’ve read, the Soviet takeover of her country was brutal. She witnessed your grandfather’s execution. She barely escaped the same fate and had to make a new life for herself and her baby in a different country.”

Sarah fingered the emerald, her profile etched with sadness. “Then she lost my parents and got stuck with Gina and me.”

“Why do I think she didn’t regard it as getting stuck? I suspect you and your sister went a long way to filling the hole in her heart.”

“Gina more than me.”

“I doubt that,” Dev drawled.

As he’d anticipated, she jumped instantly to her sister’s defense.

“I know you think Gina’s a total airhead...”

“I do.”

“...but she’s so full of joy and life that no one—I repeat, no one—can be in her company for more than three minutes without cracking a smile.”

Her eyes fired lethal darts, daring him to disagree. He didn’t have to. He’d achieved his objective and erased the sad memories. Rather than risk alienating her, he changed the subject.

“I just got a text from Monsieur Girault. He says he’s delighted you were able to get away and accompany me.”

“Really?” Sarah hiked a politely skeptical brow. “What does his wife say?”

To Dev’s chagrin, heat crawled up his neck. He’d flown in and out of a dozen different combat zones, for God’s sake! Could stare down union presidents and corporate sharks with equal skill. Yet Elise Girault had thrown him completely off stride when he’d bent to give her the obligatory kiss on both cheeks. Her whispered suggestion was so startling—and so erotic—he’d damned near gotten whiplash when he’d jerked his head back. Then she’d let loose with a booming, raucous laugh that invited him to share in their private joke.

“He didn’t say,” Dev said in answer to Sarah’s question, “but he did ask what you would like to do while we’re locked up in a conference room. He indicated his wife is a world-class shopper. Apparently she’s well-known at most of the high-end boutiques.”

He realized his mistake the moment the words were out. He’d run Sarah St. Sebastian’s financials. He knew how strapped she was.

“That reminds me,” he said with deliberate nonchalance. “I don’t intend for you to incur any out-of-pocket expenses as part of our deal. There’ll be a credit card waiting for you at the hotel.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

Her reaction shouldn’t have surprised him. Regal elegance was only one of the traits Lady Sarah had inherited from her grandmother. Stiff-necked pride had to rank right up near the top of the list.

“Be reasonable, Sarah. You’re providing me a personal service.”

Which was becoming more personal by the hour. Dev was getting used to her stimulating company. The heat she ignited in him still took him by surprise, though. He hadn’t figured that into his plan.

“Of course I’ll cover your expenses.”

Her expression turned glacial. “The hotel, yes. Any meals we take with Madame and Monsieur Girault, yes. A shopping spree on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, no.”

“Fine. It’s your call.”

He tried to recover with an admiring survey of her petal-pink dress. The fabric was thick and satiny, the cut sleek. A coat in the same style hung in their cabin’s private closet.

“The rue du Whatever has nothing on Fifth Avenue. That classy New York look will have Elise Girault demanding an immediate trip to the States.”

She stared at him blankly for a moment, then burst into laughter. “You’re not real up on haute couture, are you?”

“Any of my sisters would tell you I don’t know haute from hamburger.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, still chuckling. “Unless I miss my guess, your shoes are Moroccan leather, the suit’s hand-tailored and the tie comes from a little shop just off the Grand Canal in Venice.”

“Damn, you’re good! Although Patrick tells me he orders the ties from Milan, not Venice. So where did that dress come from?”

“It’s vintage Balenciaga. Grandmama bought it in Madrid decades ago.”

The smile remained, but Dev thought it dimmed a few degrees.

“She disposed of most of her designer originals when...when they went out of style, but she kept enough to provide a treasure trove for me. Thank goodness! Retro is the new ‘new,’ you know. I’m the envy of everyone at Beguile.”

Dev could read behind the lines. The duchess must have sold off her wardrobe as well as her jewelry over the years. It was miracle she’d managed to hang on to the apartment at the Dakota. The thought of what the duchess and Sarah had gone through kicked Dev’s admiration for them both up another notch. Also, his determination to treat Sarah to something new and obscenely expensive. He knew better than to step on her pride again, though, and said merely, “Retro looks good on you.”

“Thank you.”

* * *

After what passed for the airline’s gourmet meal, Dev used his in-flight wireless connection to crunch numbers for his meetings with Girault and company while Sarah went back to work on her laptop. She’d promised Alexis she would finish the layout for the Summer Sea-escapes but the perspectives just wouldn’t gel. After juggling Martha’s Vineyard with Catalina Island and South Padre Island with South Georgia Island, she decided she would have to swing by Beguile’s Paris offices to see how the layout looked on a twenty-five-inch monitor before shooting it off to Alexis for review.

Dev was still crunching numbers when she folded down the lid of her computer. With a polite good-night, she tugged up the airline’s fleecy blue blanket and curled into her pod.

A gentle nudge brought her awake some hours later. She blinked gritty eyes and decided reality was more of a fantasy than her dreams. Dev had that bad-boy look again. Tie loosened. Shirt collar open. Dark circles below his blue eyes.

“We’ll be landing in less than an hour,” he told her.

As if to emphasize the point, a flight attendant appeared with a pot of fresh-brewed coffee. Sarah gulped down a half cup before she took the amenity kit provided to all business-and first-class passengers to the lavatory. She emerged with her face washed, teeth brushed, hair combed and her soul ready for the magic that was springtime in Paris.

Or the magic that might have been.

Spring hadn’t yet made it to northern France. The temperature hovered around fifty, and a cold rain was coming down in sheets when Sarah and Dev emerged from the terminal and ducked into a waiting limo. The trees lining the roads from the airport showed only a hint of new green and the fields were brown and sere.

Once inside the city, Paris’s customary snarl of traffic engulfed them. Neither the traffic nor the nasty weather could dim the glory of the 7th arrondissement, however. The townhomes and ministries, once the residences of France’s wealthiest nobility, displayed their mansard roofs and wrought-iron balconies with haughty disregard for the pelting rain. Sarah caught glimpses of the Eiffel Tower’s iron symmetry before the limo rolled to a stop on a quiet side street in the heart of Saint-Germain. Surprise brought her around in her seat to face Dev.

“We’re staying at the Hôtel Verneuil?”

“We are.”

“Gina and I and Grandmama stayed here years ago, on our last trip abroad together.”

“So the duchess informed me.” His mouth curved. “She also informed me that I’m to take you to Café Michaud to properly celebrate our engagement,” he said with a smile.

Sarah fell a little bit in love with him at that moment. Not because he’d booked them into this small gem of a palace instead of a suite at the much larger and far more expensive Crillon or George V. Because he’d made such an effort with her grandmother.

Surprised and shaken by the warmth that curled around her heart, she tried to recover as they exited the limo. “From what I remember, the Verneuil only has twenty-five or twenty-six rooms. The hotel’s usually full. I’m surprised you could get us in with such short notice.”

“I didn’t. Patrick did. After which he informed me that I’d just doubled his Christmas bonus.”

“I have to meet this man.”

“That can be arranged.”

He said it with a casualness that almost hid the implication behind his promise. Sarah caught it, however. The careless words implied a future beyond Paris.

She wasn’t ready to think about that. Instead she looked around the lobby while Dev went to the reception desk. The exposed beams, rich tapestries and heavy furniture covered in red velvet hadn’t changed since her last visit ten or twelve years ago. Apparently the management hadn’t, either. The receptionist must have buzzed her boss. He emerged from the back office, his shoulders stooped beneath his formal morning coat and a wide smile on his face.

“Bonjour, Lady Sarah!”

A quick glance at his name tag provided his name. “Bonjour, Monsieur LeBon.”

“What a delight to have you stay with us again,” he exclaimed in French, the Parisian accent so different from that of the provinces. “How is the duchess?”

“She’s very well, thank you.”

“I’m told this trip is in honor of a special occasion,” the manager beamed. “May I offer you my most sincere congratulations?”

“Thank you,” she said again, trying not to cringe at the continuation of their deception.

LeBon switched to English to offer his felicitations to Dev. “If I may be so bold to say it, Monsieur Hunter, you are a very lucky man to have captured the heart of one such as Lady Sarah.”

“Extremely lucky,” Dev agreed.

“Allow me to show you to your floor.”

He pushed the button to summon the elevator, then stood aside for them to enter the brass-bedecked cage. While it lifted them to the upper floors, he apologized profusely for not being able to give them adjoining rooms as had been requested.

“We moved several of our guests as your so very capable assistant suggested, Monsieur Hunter, and have put you and Lady Sarah in chambers only a short distance apart. I hope they will be satisfactory.”

Sarah’s was more than satisfactory. A mix of antique, marble and modern, it offered a four-poster bed and a lovely sitting area with a working fireplace and a tiny balcony. But it was the view from the balcony that delighted her artist’s soul.

The rain had softened to a drizzle. It glistened on the slate-gray rooftops of Paris. Endless rows of chimneys rose from the roofs like sentries standing guard over their city. And in the distance were the twin Gothic towers and flying buttresses of Notre Dame.

“I don’t have anything scheduled until three this afternoon,” Dev said while Monsieur LeBon waited to escort him to his own room. “Would you like to rest awhile, then go out for lunch?”

The city beckoned, and Sarah ached to answer its call. “I’m not tired. I think I’d like to take a walk.”

“In the rain?”

“That’s when Paris is at its best. The streets, the cafés, seem to steal the light. Everything shimmers.”

“Okay,” Dev said, laughing, “you’ve convinced me. I’ll change and rap on your door in, say, fifteen minutes?”

“Oh, but...”

She stopped just short of blurting out that she hadn’t intended that as an invitation. She could hardly say she didn’t want her fiancé’s company with Monsieur LeBon beaming his approval of a romantic stroll.

“...I’ll need a bit more time than that,” she finished. “Let’s say thirty minutes.”

“A half hour it is.”

* * *

As she changed into lightweight wool slacks and a hip-length, cherry-red sweater coat that belted at the waist, Sarah tried to analyze her reluctance to share these first hours in Paris with Dev. She suspected it stemmed from the emotion that had welled up when they’d first pulled up at the Hôtel Verneuil. She knew then that she could fall for him, and fall hard. What worried her was that it wouldn’t take very much to push her over the precipice.

True, he’d blackmailed her into this uncomfortable charade. Also true, he’d put a ring on her finger and hustled her onto a plane before she could formulate a coherent protest. In the midst of those autocratic acts, though, he’d shown incredible forbearance and generosity.

Then there were the touches, the kisses, the ridiculous whoosh every time he smiled at her. Devon Hunter had made Beguile’s list based on raw sex appeal. Sarah now realized he possessed something far more potent...and more dangerous to her peace of mind.

She had to remember this was a short-term assignment. Dev had stipulated it would last only until he wrapped up negotiations on his big deal. It looked now as though that might happen within the next few days. Then this would all be over.

The thought didn’t depress her. Sarah wouldn’t let it. But worked hard to keep the thought at bay.

* * *

She was ready when Dev knocked. Wrapping on a biscuit-colored rain cape, she tossed one of its flaps over a shoulder on her way to the door. With her hair tucked up under a flat-brimmed Dutch-boy cap, she was rainproof and windproof.

“Nice hat,” Dev said when she stepped into the hall.

“Thanks.”

“Nice everything, actually.”

She could have said the same. This was the first time she’d seen him in anything other than a suit. The man was made for jeans. Or vice versa. Their snug fit emphasized his flat belly and lean flanks. And, she added with a gulp when he turned to press the button for the elevator, his tight, trim butt.

He’d added a cashmere scarf in gray-and-blue plaid to his leather bomber jacket, but hadn’t bothered with a hat. Sarah worried that it would be too cold for him, but when they exited the hotel, they found the rain was down to a fine mist and the temperature had climbed a few degrees.

Dev took her arm as they crossed the street, then tucked it in his as they started down the boulevard. Sarah felt awkward with that arrangement at first. Elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder, strolling along the rain-washed boulevard, they looked like the couple they weren’t.

Gradually, Sarah got used to the feel of him beside her, to the way he matched his stride to hers. And bit by bit, the magic of Paris eased her nagging sense that this was all just a charade.

Even this late in the morning the boulangeries still emitted their seductive, tantalizing scent of fresh-baked bread. Baguettes sprouted from tall baskets and the racks were crammed with braided loaves. The pastry shops, too, had set out their day’s wares. The exquisitely crafted sweets, tarts, chocolate éclairs, gâteaux, caramel mousse, napoleons, macaroons—all were true works of art, and completely impossible to resist.

“God, these look good,” Dev murmured, his gaze on the colorful display. “Are you up for a coffee and an éclair?”

“Always. But my favorite patisserie in all Paris is just a couple of blocks away. Can you hold out a little longer?”

“I’ll try,” he said, assuming an expression of heroic resolution.

Laughing, Sarah pressed his arm closer to her side and guided him the few blocks. The tiny patisserie was nested between a bookstore and a bank. Three dime-size wrought-iron tables sat under the striped awning out front; three more were wedged inside. Luckily two women were getting up from one of the tables when Dev and Sarah entered.

Sarah ordered an espresso and tart au citron for herself, and a café au lait for Dev, then left him debating his choice of pastries while she claimed the table. She loosed the flaps of her cape and let it drift over the back of her chair while she observed the drama taking place at the pastry case.

With no other customers waiting, the young woman behind the counter inspected Dev with wide eyes while he checked out the colorful offerings. When he made his selection, she slid the pastry onto a plate and offered it with a question.

“You are American?”

He flashed her a friendly smile. “I am.”

Sarah guessed what was coming even before the woman’s face lit up with eager recognition.

“Aah, I knew it. You are Number Three, yes?”

Dev’s smile tipped into a groan, but he held his cool as she called excitedly to her coworkers.

“C’est lui! C’est lui! Monsieur Hunter. Numéro trois.”

Sarah bit her lip as a small bevy of females in white aprons converged at the counter. Dev took the fuss with good grace and even autographed a couple of paper napkins before retreating to the table with his chocolate éclair.

Sarah felt the urge to apologize but merely nodded when he asked grimly if Beguile had a wide circulation in France.

“It’s our third-largest market.”

“Great.”

He stabbed his éclair and had to dig deep for a smile when the server delivered their coffees.

“In fact,” Sarah said after the girl giggled and departed, “Beguile has an office here in the city. I was going to swing by there when you go for your meeting.”

“I’ll arrange a car for you.”

The reply was polite, but perfunctory. The enchantment of their stroll through Paris’s rain-washed streets had dissipated with the mist.

“No need. I’ll take the subway.”

“Your call,” Dev replied. “I’ll contact you later and let you know what time we’re meeting the Giraults for dinner tonight.”