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.”
Eight
The French offices of Beguile were located only a few blocks from the Arc de Triomphe, on rue Balzac. Sarah always wondered what that famed French novelist and keen observer of human absurdities would think of a glossy publication that pandered to so many of those absurdities.
The receptionist charged with keeping the masses at bay glanced up from her desk with a polite expression that morphed into a welcoming smile when she spotted Sarah.
“Bonjour, Sarah! So good to see you again!”
“Bonjour, Madeline. Good to see you, too. How are the twins?”
“Horrors,” the receptionist replied with a half laugh, half groan. “Absolute horrors. Here are their latest pictures.”
After duly admiring the impish-looking three-year-olds, Sarah rounded the receptionist’s desk and walked a corridor lined with framed, poster-size copies of Beguile covers. Paul Vincent, the senior editor, was pacing his glass cage of an office and using both hands to emphasize whatever point he was trying to make to the person on the speakerphone. Sarah tipped him a wave and would have proceeded to the production unit, but Paul gestured her inside and abruptly terminated his call.
“Sarah!”
Grasping her hands, he kissed her on both cheeks. She bent just a bit so he could hit the mark. At five-four, Paul tended to be as sensitive about his height as he was about the kidney-shaped birthmark discoloring a good portion of his jaw. Yet despite what he called his little imperfections, his unerring eye for color and style had propelled him from the designers’ cutting rooms to his present exalted position.
“Alexis emailed to say you would be in Paris,” he informed Sarah. “She’s instructed me to put François and his crew at your complete disposal.”
“For what?”
“To take photos of you and your fiancé. She wants all candids, no posed shots and plenty of romantic backdrop in both shallow and distant depth of field. François says he’ll use wide aperture at the Eiffel Tower, perhaps F2.8 to…”
“No, Paul.”
“No F2.8? Well, you’ll have to speak with François about that.”
“No, Paul. No wide aperture, no candids, no Eiffel Tower, no François!”
“But Alexis….”
“Wants to capitalize on my engagement to Number Three. Yes, I know. My fiancé agreed to a photo shoot in New York, but that’s as far as either he or I will go. We told Alexis that before we left.”
“Then you had better tell her again.”
“I will,” she said grimly. “In the meantime, I need to use Production’s monitors to take a last look at the layout I’ve been working on. When I zap it to Alexis, I’ll remind her of our agreement.”
She turned to leave, but Paul stopped her. “What can you tell me of the Chicago meeting?”
The odd inflection in his voice gave Sarah pause. Wondering what was behind it, she searched her mind. So much had happened in the past few days that she’d forgotten about the shuttle Alexis had jumped for an unscheduled meeting with the head of their publishing group. All she’d thought about her boss’s unscheduled absence at the time was that it had provided a short reprieve. Paul’s question now brought the Chicago meeting forcibly to mind.
“I can’t tell you anything,” she said honestly. “I didn’t have a chance to talk to Alexis about it before I left. Why, what have you heard?”
He folded his arms, bent an elbow and tapped two fingers against the birthmark on his chin. It was a nervous gesture, one he rarely allowed. That he would give in to it now generated a distinct unease in Sarah.
“I’ve heard rumors,” he admitted. “Only rumors, you understand.”
“What rumors?”
The fingers picked up speed, machine-gunning his chin.
“Some say… Not me, I assure you! But some say that Alexis is too old. Too out of touch with our target readership. Some say the romance has gone out of her, and out of our magazine. Before, we used to beguile, to tantalize. Now we titillate.”
Much to her chagrin, Sarah couldn’t argue the point. The butt shot of Dev that Alexis had insisted on was case in point. In the most secret corners of her heart, she agreed with the ambiguous, unnamed
“some” Paul referenced.
Despite her frequent differences of opinion with her boss, however, she owed Alexis her loyalty and support. She’d hired Sarah right out of college, sans experience, sans credentials. Grandmama might insist Sarah’s title had influenced that decision. Maybe so, but the title hadn’t done more than get a neophyte’s foot in the door. She’d sweated blood to work her way up to layout editor. And now, apparently, it was payback time.
Alexis confirmed that some time later in her response to Sarah’s email.
Sea-escapes layout looks good. We’ll go with it. Please rethink the Paris photo shoot. Chicago feels we need more romance in our mag. You and Hunter personify that, at least as far as our readers are concerned.
The email nagged at Sarah all afternoon. She used the remainder of her private time to wander through her favorite museum, but not even the Musée d’Orsay could resolve her moral dilemma. Questions came at her, dive-bombing like suicidal mosquitoes as she strolled through the converted railroad station that now housed some of the world’s most celebrated works of art.
All but oblivious to the Matisses and Rodins, she weighed her options. Should she support her boss or accede to Dev’s demand for privacy? What about the mess with Gina? Would Alexis exploit that, too, if pushed to the wall? Would she play up the elder sister’s engagement as a desperate attempt to save the younger from a charge of larceny?
She would. Sarah knew damned well she would. The certainty curdled like sour milk in the pit of her stomach. Whom did she most owe her loyalty to? Gina? Dev? Alexis? Herself?
The last thought was so heretical it gnawed at Sarah’s insides while she prepped for her first meeting with the Giraults early that evening. Dev had told her this would be an informal dinner at the couple’s Paris town house.
A Business Engagement Page 8
