A Business Engagement Page 11

  “Now tell me about Paris,” she commanded. “Has Devon taken you to Café Michaud yet?”

  “Not yet, but he said you’d given him strict orders to do so. Oh, and he had his people work minor miracles to get us into the Hôtel Verneuil on such short notice.”

  “He did? How very interesting.”

  She sounded so thoughtful—and so much like a cat that had just lapped up a bowl of cream—that Sarah became instantly suspicious.

  “What other instructions did you give him?”

  “None.”

  “Come on. Fess up. What other surprises do I have in store?”

  A soft sigh came through the phone. “You’re in Paris, with a handsome, virile man. One whom I suspect is more than capable of delivering surprises of his own.”

  Sarah gave a fervent prayer of thanks that the duchess hadn’t yet mastered the FaceTime app on her phone. If she had, she would have seen her elder granddaughter’s cheeks flame at the thought of how much she’d already enjoyed her handsome, virile fiancé.

  “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Grandmama. Give Maria my love.”

  She hung up, marveling again at how readily everyone seemed to have accepted Dev Hunter’s sudden appearance in their lives. Grandmama. Maria. Alexis. Sarah herself. Would they accept his abrupt departure as readily?

  Would they have to?

  Sarah was no fool. Nor was she blind. She could tell Dev felt at least some of the same jumbled emotions she did. Mixed in with the greedy hunger there was the shared laughter, the seduction of this trip, the growing delight in each other’s company. Maybe, just maybe, there could be love, too.

  She refused to even speculate about anything beyond that. Their evolving relationship was too new, too fragile, to project vary far ahead. Still, she couldn’t help humming the melody from Edith Piaf’s classic, “La Vie En Rose,” as she started for the bathroom and a long, hot soak.

  The house phone caught her halfway there. She detoured to the desk and answered. The caller identified himself as Monsieur LeBon, the hotel’s manager, and apologized profusely for disturbing her.

  “You’re not disturbing me, monsieur.”

  “Good, good.” He hesitated, then seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “I saw Monsieur Hunter leave a few moments ago and thought perhaps I might catch you alone.”

  “Why? Is there a problem?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you by chance know a gentleman by the name of Henri Lefèvre?”

  “I don’t recognize the name.”

  “Aha! I thought as much.” LeBon gave a small sniff. “There was something in his manner…”

  “What has this Monsieur Lefèvre to do with me?”

  “He approached our receptionist earlier this afternoon and claimed you and he were introduced by a mutual acquaintance. He couldn’t remember your name, however. Only that you were a tall, slender American who spoke excellent French. And that you mentioned you were staying at the Hôtel Verneuil.”

  The light dawned. It had to be Elise’s former lover. He must have heard her give the cabdriver instructions to the hotel.

  “The receptionist didn’t tell him my name, did she?”

  “You may rest assured she did not! Our staff is too well trained to disclose information on any of our guests. She referred the man to me, and I sent him on his way.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur LeBon. Please let me know immediately if anyone else inquires about me.”

  “Of course, Lady Sarah.”

  The call from the hotel manager dimmed a good bit of Sarah’s enjoyment in her long, bubbly soak. She didn’t particularly like the fact that Elise’s smarmy ex-lover had tracked her to the hotel.

  Dev called just moments after she emerged from the tub. Sounding totally disgusted, he told her he intended to lock everyone in the conference room until they reached a final agreement.

  “The way it looks now that might be midnight or later. Sorry, Sarah. I won’t be able to keep our dinner date.”

  “Don’t worry about that.”

  “Yeah, well, I’d much rather be with you than these clowns. I’m about ready to tell Girault and company to shove it.”

  Sarah didn’t comment. She couldn’t, given the staggering sums involved in his negotiations. But she thought privately he was taking a risk doing business with someone who hired thugs to pound on his wife’s lover.

  Briefly, she considered telling Dev that same lover had shown up at the hotel this afternoon but decided against it. He had enough on his mind at the moment and Monsieur LeBon appeared to have taken care of the matter.

  *

  She spent what remained of the afternoon and most of the evening on her laptop, with only a short break for soup and a salad ordered from room service. She had plenty of work to keep her busy and was satisfied with the two layouts she’d mocked up when she finally quit. She’d go in to the offices on rue Balzac tomorrow to view the layouts on the twenty-five-inch monitor.

  Unless Dev finished negotiations tonight as he swore he would do. Then maybe they’d spend the day together. And the night. And…

  Her belly tightening at the possibilities, she curled up in bed with the ebook she’d downloaded. She got through only a few pages before she dozed off.

  *

  The phone jerked her from sleep. She fumbled among the covers, finally found it and came more fully awake when she recognized Dev’s number.

  “Did you let them all out of the conference room?” she asked with a smile.

  “I did. They’re printing the modified contracts as we speak. They’ll be ready to sign tomorrow morning.”

  “Congratulations!”

  She was happy for him, she really was, even if it meant the termination of their arrangement.

  “I’m on my way back to the hotel. Is it too late for a celebration?”

  “I don’t know. What time is it?”

  “Almost one.”

  “No problem. Just give me a few minutes to get dressed. Do you have someplace special in mind? If not, I know several great cafés that stay open until 2:00 a.m.”

  “Actually, I was hoping for a private celebration. No dressing required.”

  She could hear the smile in his voice, and something more. Something that brought Gina forcefully to mind. Her sister always claimed she felt as though she was tumbling through time and space whenever she fell in love. Sarah hadn’t scoffed but she had chalked the hyperbole up to another Gina-ism.

  How wrong she was. And how right Gina was. That was exactly how Sarah felt now. As though Dev had kicked her feet out from under her and she was on some wild, uncontrollable slide.

  “A private celebration sounds good to me,” she got out breathlessly.

  *

  She didn’t change out of the teddy and bikini briefs she’d worn to bed, but she did throw on the peony robe and make a dash to the bathroom before she answered Dev’s knock. As charged up as he’d sounded on the phone, she half expected him to kick the door shut and pin her against the wall again. Okay, she kind of hoped he would.

  He didn’t, but Sarah certainly couldn’t complain about his altered approach. The energy was there, and the exultation from having closed his big deal. Yet the hands that cupped her face were incredibly gentle, and the kiss he brushed across her mouth was so tender she almost melted from the inside out.

  “Jean-Jacques told me to thank you,” he murmured against her lips.

  “For what?”

  “He thinks I finally agreed to his company’s design for the pneumatic turbine assembly because I was so damned anxious to get back to you.”

  “Oh, no!”

  She pulled back in dismay. She had no idea what a pneumatic turbine assembly was, but it sounded important.

  “You didn’t concede anything critical, did you?”

  “Nah. I always intended to accept their design. I just used it as my ace in the hole to close the deal. And to get back to you.”

  He bent and brushed her mouth again. When he raised hi
s head, the look in his eyes started Sarah on another wild spin through time and space.

  “I don’t want to risk any more mangled verbs,” he said with a slow smile, “so I’ll stick to English this time. I love you, Sarah St. Sebastian.”

  “Since…? Since when?”

  He appeared to give the matter some consideration. “Hard to say. I have to admit it started with a severe case of lust.”

  She would have to admit the same thing. Later. Right now she could only try to keep breathing as he raised her hand and angled it so the emerald caught the light.

  “By the time I put this on your finger, though, I was already strategizing ways to keep it there. I know I blackmailed you into this fake engagement, Sarah, but if I ask very politely and promise to be nice to your ditz of a sister, would you consider making it real?”

  Although it went against a lifetime of ingrained habit, she didn’t fire up in Gina’s defense. Instead she drew her brows together.

  “I need a minute to think about it.”

  Surprise and amusement and just a touch of uncertainty colored Dev’s reply. “Take all the time you need.”

  She pursed her lips and gave the matter three or four seconds of fierce concentration.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay you’ll consider it, or okay you’ll make it real?”

  Laughing, Sarah hooked her arms around his neck. “I’m going with option B.”

  *

  Dev hadn’t made a habit of going on the prowl like so many crew dogs he’d flown with, but he’d racked up more than a few quality hours with women in half a dozen countries. Not until this woman, however, did he really appreciate the difference between having sex and making love. It wasn’t her smooth, sleek curves or soft flesh or breathless little pants. It was the sum of all parts, the whole of her, the elegance that was Sarah.

  And the fact that she was his.

  He’d intended to make this loving slow and sweet, a sort of unspoken acknowledgment of the months and years of nights like this they had ahead. She blew those plans out of the water mere moments after Dev positioned her under him. Her body welcomed him, her heat fired his. The primitive need to possess her completely soon had him pinning her wrists to the sheets, his thrusts hard and deep. Her head went back. Her belly quivered. A moan rose from deep in her throat, and Dev took everything she had to give.

  *

  She was still half-asleep when he leaned over her early the next morning. “I’ve got to shower and change and get with Girault to sign the contracts. How about we meet for lunch at your grandmother’s favorite café?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Tell me the name of it again.”

  “Café Michaud,” she muttered sleepily, “rue de Monttessuy.”

  “Got it. Café Michaud. Rue de Monttessuy. Twelve noon?”

  “Mmm.”

  He took his time in the shower, answered several dozen emails, reviewed a bid solicitation on a new government contract and still made the ten o’clock signing session at Girault’s office with time to spare.

  The French industrialist was in a jovial mood, convinced he’d won a grudging, last-minute concession. Dev didn’t disabuse him. After initialing sixteen pages and signing three, the two chief executives posed for pictures while their respective staffs breathed sighs of relief that the months of intense negotiations were finally done.

  “How long do you remain in Paris?” Girault asked after pictures and another round of handshakes.

  “I had planned to fly home as soon as we closed this deal, but I think now I’ll take some downtime and stay over a few more days.”

  “A very wise decision,” Girault said with a wink. “Paris is a different city entirely when explored with one you love. Especially when that one is as delightful as your Sarah.”

  “I won’t argue with that. And speaking of my Sarah, we’re meeting for lunch. I’ll say goodbye now, Jean-Jacques.”

  “But no! Not goodbye. You must have dinner with Elise and me again before you leave. Now that we are partners, yes?”

  “I’ll see what Sarah has planned and get back to you.”

  *

  The rue de Monttessuy was in the heart of Paris’s 7th arrondissement. Tall, stately buildings topped with slate roofs crowded the sidewalks and offered a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower spearing into the sky at the far end of the street. Café Michaud sat midway down a long block, a beacon of color with its bright red awnings and window boxes filled with geraniums.

  Since he was almost a half hour early, Dev had his driver drop him off at the intersection. He needed to stretch his legs, and he preferred to walk the half block rather than wait for Sarah at one of the café’s outside tables. Maybe he could find something for her in one of the shops lining the narrow, cobbled street. Unlike the high-end boutiques and jeweler’s showrooms on some of the more fashionable boulevards, these were smaller but no less intriguing.

  He strolled past a tiny grocery with fresh produce displayed in wooden crates on either side of the front door, a chocolatier, a wine shop and several antique shops. One in particular caught his attention. Its display of military and aviation memorabilia drew him into the dim, musty interior.

  His eyes went instantly to an original lithograph depicting Charles Lindbergh’s 1927 landing at a Paris airfield after his historic solo transatlantic flight. The photographer had captured the shadowy images of the hundreds of Model As and Ts lined up at the airfield, their headlamps illuminating the grassy strip as the Spirit of St. Louis swooped out of the darkness.

  “I’ll take that,” he told the shopkeeper.

  The man’s brows soared with surprise and just a touch of disdain for this naive American who made no attempt to bargain. Dev didn’t care. He would have paid twice the price. He’d never thought of himself as particularly sentimental, but the key elements in the print—aviation and Paris—were what had brought him and Sarah together.

  As if to compensate for his customer’s foolishness, the shopkeeper threw in at no cost the thick cardboard tube the print had been rolled in when he himself had discovered it at a flea market.

  Tube in hand, Dev exited the shop and started for the café. His pulse kicked when he spotted Sarah approaching from the opposite direction. She was on the other side of the street, some distance from the café, but he recognized her graceful walk and the silky brown hair topped by a jaunty red beret.

  He picked up his pace, intending to cross at the next corner, when a figure half-hidden amid a grocer’s produce display brought him to a dead stop. The man had stringy brown hair that straggled over the shoulders and a camera propped on the top crate. Its monster zoom lens was aimed directly at Sarah. While Dev stood there, his jaw torquing, the greaseball clicked off a half-dozen shots.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  The photographer whipped around. He said something in French, but it was the careless shrug that fanned Dev’s anger into fury.

  “Bloodsucking parasites,” he ground out.

  The hand gripping the cardboard tube went white at the knuckles. His other hand bunched into a fist. Screw the lawsuits. He’d flatten the guy. The photographer read his intent and jumped back, knocking over several crates of produce in the process.

  “Non, non!” He stumbled back, his face white with alarm under the greasy hair. “You don’t…you don’t understand, Monsieur Hunter. I am François. With Beguile. I shoot the photos for the story.”

  For the second time in as many moments, Dev froze. “The story?”

  “Oui. We get the instructions from New York.”

  He thrust out the camera and angled the digital display. His thumb beat a rapid tattoo as he clicked through picture after picture.

  “But look! Here are you and Sarah having coffee. And here you walk along the Seine. And here she blows you a kiss from the balcony of her hotel room.”

  Pride overrode the photographer’s alarm. A few clicks of the zoom button enlarged the shot on the screen.

  �
�Do you see how perfectly she is framed? And the expression on her face after you drive away. Like one lost in a dream, yes? She stays like that long enough for me to shoot from three different angles.”

  The anger still hot in Dev’s gut chilled. Ice formed in his veins.

  “She posed for you?” he asked softly, dangerously.

  The photographer glanced up, nervous again. He stuttered something about New York, but Dev wasn’t listening. His gaze was locked on Sarah as she approached the café.

  She’d posed for this guy. After making all those noises about allowing only that one photo shoot at Cartier, she’d caved to her boss’s demands. He might have forgiven that. He had a harder time with the fact that she’d set this all up without telling him.

  Dev left the photographer amid the produce. Jaw tight, he stalked toward the café. Sarah was still a block away on the other side of the street. He was about to cross when a white delivery van slowed to a rolling stop and blocked her from view. A few seconds later, Dev heard the thud of its rear doors slam. When the van cut a sharp left and turned down a narrow side street, the sidewalk Sarah had been walking along was empty.

  Eleven

  Dev broke into a run even before he fully processed what had just happened. All he knew for sure was that Sarah had been strolling toward him one moment and was gone the next. His brain scrambled for a rational explanation of her sudden disappearance. She could have ducked into a shop. Could have stopped to check something in a store window. His gut went with the delivery van.

  Dev hit the corner in a full-out sprint and charged down the side street. He dodged a woman pushing a baby carriage, earned a curse from two men he almost bowled over. He could see the van up ahead, see its taillights flashing red as it braked for a stop sign.

  He was within twenty yards when the red lights blinked off. Less than ten yards away when the van began another turn. The front window was halfway down. Through it Dev could see the driver, his gaze intent on the pedestrians streaming across the intersection and his thin black cigarillo sending spirals of smoke through the half-open window.