A Business Engagement Page 3

  “Or stolen?”

  The smile evaporated. “Gina didn’t steal that piece, Mr. Hunter. I admit it appears she took it for some reason, but I’m sure…I know she’ll return it. Eventually.”

  Dev played with the tumbler containing his scotch, circling it almost a full turn before baiting the trap.

  “The longer I wait to file a police report, Ms. St. Sebastian, the more my insurance company is going to question why. A delay reporting the loss could void the coverage.”

  “Give me another twenty-four hours, Mr. Hunter. Please.”

  She hated to beg. He heard it in her voice, saw it in the way her hands were knotted together now, the knuckles white.

  “All right, Ms. St. Sebastian. Twenty-four hours. If your sister hasn’t returned the medallion by then, however, I…”

  “She will. I’m sure she will.”

  “And if she doesn’t?”

  She drew in another breath: longer, shakier. “I’ll pay you the appraised value.”

  “How?”

  Her chin came up. Her jaws went tight. “It will take some time,” she admitted. “We’ll have to work out a payment schedule.”

  Dev didn’t like himself much at the moment. If he didn’t have a multibillion-dollar deal hanging fire, he’d call this farce off right now. Setting aside the crystal tumbler, he leaned forward.

  “Let’s cut to the chase here, Ms. St. Sebastian. I had my people run an in-depth background check on your featherheaded sister. On you, too. I know you’ve bailed Gina out of one mess after another. I know you’re currently providing your grandmother’s sole support. I also know you barely make enough to cover her medical co-pays, let alone reimburse me for a near-priceless artifact.”

  Every vestige of color had drained from her face, but pride sparked in those mesmerizing eyes. Before she could tell him where to go and how to get there, Dev sprang the trap.

  “I have an alternate proposal, Ms. St. Sebastian.”

  Her brows snapped together. “What kind of a proposal?”

  “I need a fiancée.”

  For the second time in as many days Dev saw her composure crumble. Her jaw dropping, she treated him to a disbelieving stare.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I need a fiancée,” he repeated. “I was considering Gina for the position. I axed that idea after thirty minutes in her company. Becoming engaged to your sister,” he drawled, “is not for the faint of heart.”

  He might have stunned her with his proposition. That didn’t prevent her from leaping to the defense. Dev suspected it came as natural to her as breathing.

  “My sister, Mr. Hunter, is warm and generous and openhearted and…”

  “Gone to ground.” He drove the point home with the same swift lethality he brought to the negotiating table. “You, on the other hand, are available. And you owe me.”

  “I owe you?”

  “You and that magazine you work for.” Despite his best efforts to keep his irritation contained, it leaked into his voice. “Do you have any idea how many women have accosted me since that damned article came out? I can’t even grab a meatball sub at my favorite deli without some female writing her number on a napkin and trying to stuff it into my pants pocket.”

  Her shock faded. Derision replaced it. She sat back in her chair with her lips pooched in false sympathy.

  “Ooh. You poor, poor sex object.”

  “You may think it’s funny,” he growled. “I don’t. Not with a multibillion-dollar deal hanging in the balance.”

  That wiped the smirk off her face. “Putting you on our Ten Sexiest Singles list has impacted your business? How?”

  Enlightenment dawned in almost the next breath. The smirk returned. “Oh! Wait! I’ve got it. You have so many women throwing themselves at you that you can’t concentrate.”

  “You’re partially correct. But it’s not a matter of not being able to concentrate. It’s more that I don’t want to jeopardize the deal by telling the wife of the man I’m negotiating with to keep her hands to herself.”

  “So instead of confronting the woman, you want to hide behind a fiancée.”

  The disdain was cool and well-bred, but it was there. Dev was feeling the sting when he caught a flutter of movement from the corner of one eye. A second later the flutter evolved into a tall, sleek redhead being shown to an empty table a little way from theirs. She caught Dev’s glance, arched a penciled brow and came to a full stop beside their table.

  “I know you.” She tilted her head and put a finger to her chin. “Remind me. Where have we met?”

  “We haven’t,” Dev replied, courteous outside, bracing inside.

  “Are you sure? I never forget a face. Or,” she added as her lips curved in a slow, feline smile, “a truly excellent butt.”

  The grimace that crossed Hunter’s face gave Sarah a jolt of fierce satisfaction. Let him squirm, she thought gleefully. Let him writhe like a specimen under a microscope. He deserved the embarrassment.

  Except…

  He didn’t. Not really. Beguile had put him under the microscope. Beguile had also run a locker-room photo with the face angled away from the camera just enough to keep them from getting sued. And as much as Sarah hated to admit it, the man had shown a remarkable degree of restraint by not reporting his missing artifact to the police immediately.

  Still, she didn’t want to come to his rescue. She really didn’t. It was an innate and very grudging sense of fair play that compelled her to mimic her grandmother in one of Charlotte’s more imperial moods.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said with icy hauteur. “I believe my fiancé has already stated he doesn’t know you. Now, if you don’t mind, we would like to continue our conversation.”

  The woman’s cheeks flushed almost the same color as her hair. “Yes, of course. Sorry for interrupting.”

  She hurried to her table, leaving Hunter staring after her while Sarah took an unhurried sip from her water goblet.

  “That’s it.” He turned back to her, amusement slashing across his face. “That’s exactly what I want from you.”

  Whoa! Sarah gripped the goblet’s stem and tried to blunt the impact of the grin aimed in her direction. Devon Hunter all cold and intimidating she could handle. Devon Hunter with crinkly squint lines at the corners of those killer blue eyes and his mouth tipped into a rakish smile was something else again.

  The smile made him look so different. That, and the more casual attire he wore tonight. He was in a suit again, but he’d dispensed with a tie and his pale blue shirt was open at the neck. This late in the evening, a five-o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks and chin, giving him the sophisticated bad-boy look so many of Beguile’s male models tried for but could never quite pull off.

  The research Sarah had done on the man put him in a different light, too. She’d had to dig hard for details. Hunter was notorious about protecting his privacy, which was why Beguile had been forced to go with a fluff piece instead of the in-depth interview Alexis had wanted. And no doubt why he resented the article so much, Sarah acknowledged with a twinge of guilt.

  The few additional details she’d managed to dig up had contributed to an intriguing picture. She’d already known that Devon Hunter had enlisted in the Air Force right out of high school and trained as a loadmaster on big cargo jets. She hadn’t known he’d completed a bachelor’s and a master’s during his eight years in uniform, despite spending most of those years flying into combat zones or disaster areas.

  On one of those combat missions his aircraft had come under intense enemy fire. Hunter had jerry-rigged some kind of emergency fix to its damaged cargo ramp that had allowed them to take on hundreds of frantic Somalian refugees attempting to escape certain death. He’d left the Air Force a short time later and patented the modification he’d devised. From what Sarah could gather, it was now used on military and civilian aircraft worldwide.

  That enterprise had earned Hunter his first million. The rest, as they say, was history. She had
n’t found a precise estimate of the man’s net worth, but it was obviously enough to allow him to collect hundred-thousand-pound museum pieces. Which brought her back to the problem at hand.

  “Look, Mr. Hunter, this whole…”

  “Dev,” he interrupted, the grin still in place. “Now that we’re engaged, we should dispense with the formalities. I know you have a half-dozen names. Do you go by Sarah or Elizabeth or Marie-Adele?”

  “Sarah,” she conceded, “but we are not engaged.”

  He tipped his chin toward the woman several tables away, her nose now buried in a menu. “Red there thinks we are.”

  “I simply didn’t care for her attitude.”

  “Me, either.” The amusement left his eyes. “That’s why I offered you a choice. Let me spell out the basic terms so there’s no misunderstanding. You agree to an engagement. Six months max. Less, if I close the deal currently on the table. In return, I destroy the surveillance tape and don’t report the loss.”

  “But the medallion! You said it was worth a hundred thousand pounds or more.”

  “I’m willing to accept your assurances that Gina will return it. Eventually. In the meantime…” He lifted his tumbler in a mock salute. “To us, Sarah.”

  Feeling much like the proverbial mouse backed into a corner, she snatched at her last lifeline. “You promised me another twenty-four hours. The deal doesn’t go into effect until then. Agreed?”

  He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Agreed.”

  Surely Gina would return her calls before then and this whole, ridiculous situation would be resolved. Sarah clung to that hope as she pushed away from the table.

  “Until tomorrow, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Dev,” he corrected, rising, as well.

  “No need for you to walk me out. Please stay and enjoy your dinner.”

  “Actually, I got hungry earlier and grabbed a Korean taco from a street stand. Funny,” he commented as he tossed some bills on the table, “I’ve been in and out of Korea a dozen times. Don’t remember ever having tacos there.”

  He took her elbow in a courteous gesture Grandmama would approve of. Very correct, very polite, not really possessive but edging too close to it for Sarah’s comfort. Walking beside him only reinforced the impression she’d gained yesterday of his height and strength.

  They passed the redhead’s table on the way to the door. She glanced up, caught Sarah’s dismissive stare and stuck her nose back in the menu.

  “I’ll hail you a cab,” Hunter said as they exited the restaurant.

  “It’s only a few blocks.”

  “It’s also getting dark. I know this is your town, but I’ll feel better sending you home in a cab.”

  Sarah didn’t argue further, mostly because dusk had started to descend and the air had taken on a distinct chill. Across the street, the lanterns in Central Park shed their golden glow. She turned in a half circle, her artist’s eye delighting in the dots of gold punctuating the deep purple of the park.

  Unfortunately, the turn brought the redhead into view again. The picture there wasn’t as delightful. She was squinting at them through the restaurant’s window, a phone jammed to her ear. Whoever she was talking to was obviously getting an earful.

  Sarah guessed instantly she was spreading the word about Sexy Single Number Three and his fiancée. The realization gave her a sudden, queasy feeling. New York City lived and breathed celebrities. They were the stuff of life on Good Morning America, were courted by Tyra Banks and the women of The View, appeared regularly on Late Show with David Letterman. The tabloids, the glossies, even the so-called “literary” publications paid major bucks for inside scoops.

  And Sarah had just handed them one. Thoroughly disgusted with herself for yielding to impulse, she smothered a curse that would have earned a sharp reprimand from Grandmama. Hunter followed her line of sight and spotted the woman staring at them through the restaurant window, the phone still jammed to her ear. He shared Sarah’s pessimistic view of the matter but didn’t bother to swallow his curse. It singed the night air.

  “This is going turn up in another rag like Beguile, isn’t it?”

  Sarah stiffened. True, she’d privately cringed at some of the articles Alexis had insisted on putting in print. But that didn’t mean she would stand by and let an outsider disparage her magazine.

  “Beguile is hardly a rag. We’re one of the leading fashion publications for women in the twenty to thirty-five age range, here and abroad.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do,” she ground out.

  The misguided sympathy she’d felt for the man earlier had gone as dry and stale as yesterday’s bagel. It went even staler when he turned to face her. Devon Hunter of the crinkly squint lines and heart-stuttering grin was gone. His intimidating alter ego was back.

  “I guess if we’re going to show up in some pulp press, we might as well give the story a little juice.”

  She saw the intent in his face and put up a warning palm. “Let’s not do anything rash here, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Dev,” he corrected, his eyes drilling into hers. “Say it, Sarah. Dev.”

  “All right! Dev. Are you satisfied?”

  “Not quite.”

  His arm went around her waist. One swift tug brought them hip to hip. His hold was an iron band, but he gave her a second, maybe two, to protest.

  Afterward Sarah could list in precise order the reasons she should have done exactly that. She didn’t like the man. He was flat-out blackmailing her with Gina’s rash act. He was too arrogant, and too damned sexy, for his own good.

  But right then, right there, she looked up into those dangerous blue eyes and gave in to the combustible mix of guilt, nagging worry and Devon Hunter’s potent masculinity.

  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 fo
r.”

  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.”