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“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 for.”
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.”
“All right. I’m staying at the Waldorf. Call me when you’ve had time to consider my proposal. If I don’t hear from you within twenty-four hours, I’ll assume your tacit agreement.”
With that parting shot, he stepped to the curb and flagged down a cab for her. Sarah slid inside, collapsed against the seat and spent the short ride to the Dakota alternately feeling the aftereffects of that kiss, worrying about her sister and cursing the mess Gina had landed her in.
When she let herself in to the apartment, Maria was emptying the dishwasher just prior to leaving.
“Hola, Sarah.”
“Hola, Maria. How did it go today?”
“Well. We walk in the park this afternoon.”
She tucked the last plate in the cupboard and let the dishwasher close with a quiet whoosh. The marble counter got a final swipe.
“We didn’t expect you home until late,” the housekeeper commented as she reached for the coat she’d draped over a kitchen chair. “La duquesa ate an early dinner and retired to her room. She dozed when I checked a few minutes ago.”
“Okay, Maria. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, chica.” The Ecuadoran shrugged into her coat and hefted her suitcase-size purse. Halfway to the hall, she turned back. “I almost forgot. Gina called.”
“When!”
“About a half hour ago. She said you texted her a couple times.”
“A couple? Try ten or twenty.”
“Ah, well.” A fond smile creased the maid’s plump cheeks. “That’s Gina.”
“Yes, it is,” Sarah agreed grimly. “Did she mention where she was?”
“At the airport in Los Angeles. She said she just wanted to make sure everything was all right before she got on the plane.”
“What plane? Where was she going?”
Maria’s face screwed up in concentration. “Switzerland, I think she said. Or maybe...Swaziland?”
Knowing Gina, it could be either. Although, Sarah thought on a sudden choke of panic, Europe probably boasted better markets for twelfth-century Byzantine artifacts.
She said a hurried good-night to Maria and rummaged frantically in her purse for her phone. She had to catch her sister before her plane took off.
When she got the phone out, the little green text icon indicated she had a text message. And she’d missed hearing the alert. Probably because she was too busy letting Devon Hunter kiss her all the way into next week.
The message was brief and typical Gina.
Met the cuddliest ski instructor.
Off to Switzerland. Later.
Hoping against hope it wasn’t too late, Sarah hit speed dial. The call went immediately to voice mail. She tried texting and stood beside the massive marble counter, scowling at the screen, willing the little icon to pop back a response.
No luck. Gina had obviously powered down her phone. If she ran true to form, she would forget to power the damned thing back up for hours—maybe days—after she landed in Switzerland.
Sarah could almost hear a loud, obnoxious clock ticking inside her head as she went to check on her grandmother. Hunter had given her an additional twenty-four hours. Twenty-three now, and counting.
She knocked lightly on the door, then opened it as quietly as she could. The duchess sat propped against a bank of pillows. Her eyes were closed and an open book lay in her lap.
The anxiety gnawing at Sarah’s insides receded for a moment, edged aside by the love that filled her like liquid warmth. She didn’t see her grandmother’s thin, creased cheeks or the liver spots sprinkled across the back of her hands. She saw the woman who’d opened her heart and her arms to two scared little girls. Charlotte St. Sebastian had nourished and educated them. She’d also shielded them from as much of the world’s ugliness as she could. Now it was Sarah’s turn to do the same.
She tried to ease the book out of the duchess’s lax fingers without waking her. She didn’t succeed. Charlotte’s papery eyelids fluttered up. She blinked a couple of times to focus and smiled.
“How was your dinner?”
Sarah couldn’t lie, but she could dodge a bit. “The restaurant was definitely up to your standards. We’ll have to go there for your birthday.”
“Never mind my birthday.” She patted the side of the bed. “Sit down and tell me about this friend of Eugenia’s. Do you think there’s anything serious between them?”
Hunter was serious, all right. Just not in any way Charlotte would approve of.
“They’re not more than casual acquaintances. In fact, Gina sent me a text earlier this evening. She’s off to Switzerland with the cuddliest ski instructor. Her words, not mine.”
“That girl,” Charlotte huffed. “She’ll be the death of me yet.”
Not if Sarah could help it. The clock was pounding away inside her head, though. In desperation, she took Hunter’s advice and decided to lay some tentative groundwork for whatever might come tomorrow.
“I actually know him better than Gina does, Grandmama.”
“The ski instructor?”
“The man I met at the restaurant this evening. Devon Hunter.” Despite everything, she had to smile. “You know him, too. He came in at Number Three on our Ten Sexiest Singles list.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sarah. You know I only peruse Beguile to gain an appreciation for your work. I don’t pay any attention to the content.”
“I guess it must have been Maria who dog-eared that particular section,” she teased.
Charlotte tipped her aristocratic nose. The gesture was instinctive and inbred and usually preceded a withering set-down. To Sarah’s relief, the nose lowered a moment later and a smile tugged at her grandmother’s lips.
“Is he as hot in real life as he is in print?”
“Hotter.” She drew a deep mental breath. “Which is why I kissed him outside the restaurant.”
“You kissed him? In public?” Charlotte tch-tched, but it was a halfhearted effort. Her face had come alive with interest. “That’s so déclassé, dearest.”
“Yes, I know. Even worse, there was a totally obnoxious woman inside the restaurant. She recognized Devon and made a rather rude comment. I suspect she may have snapped a picture or two. The kiss may well show up in some tabloid.”
“I should hope not!”
Her lips thinning, the duchess contemplated that distasteful prospect for a moment before making a shrewd observation.
“Alexis will throw a world-class tantrum if something like this appears in any magazine but hers. You’d best forewarn her.”
“I intend to.” She glanced at the pillbox and crystal water decanter on the marble-topped nightstand. “Did you take your medicine?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Are you sure? Sometimes you doze off and forget.”
“I took it, Sarah. Don’t fuss at me.”
“It’s my job to fuss.” She leaned forward and kissed a soft, lily-of-the-valley-scented cheek. “Good night, Grandmama.”
“Good night.”
She got as far as the bedroom door. Close, so close, to making an escape. She had one hand on the latch when the duchess issued an imperial edict.
“Bring this Mr. Hunter by for drinks tomorrow evening, Sarah. I would like to meet him.”
“I’m not certain what his plans are.”
“Whatever they are,” Charlotte said loftily, “I’m sure he can work in a brief visit.”
Sarah went to sleep trying to decide which would be worse: entering into a fake engagement, informing Alexis that a tabloid might beat Beguile to a juicy story involving one of its own editors or continuing to feed her grandmother half-truths.
* * *
The first thing she did when she woke up the next morning was grab her cell phone. No text from Gina. No email. No voice message.
“You’re a dead woman,” she snarled at her absent sibling. “Dead!”
Throwing back the covers, she stomped to the bathroom. Like the rest of the rooms in the apartment, it was high ceilinged and trimmed with elaborate crown molding. Most of the fixtures had been updated over the years, but the tub was big and claw-footed and original. Sarah indulged in long, decadent soaks whenever she could. This morning she was too keyed up and in too much of a hurry for anything more than a quick shower.
Showered and blow-dried, she chose one of her grandmama’s former favorites—a slate-gray Pierre Balmain minidress in a classic A-line. According to Charlotte, some women used to pair these thigh-skimming dresses with white plastic go-go boots. She never did, of course. Far too gauche. She’d gone with tasteful white stockings and Ferragamo pumps. Sarah opted for black tights, a pair of Giuseppi Zanottis she’d snatched up at a secondhand shoe store and multiple strands of fat faux pearls.
Thankfully, the duchess preferred a late, leisurely breakfast with Maria, so Sarah downed her usual bagel and black coffee and left for work with only a quick goodbye.
She got another reprieve at work. Alexis had called in to say she was hopping an early shuttle to Chicago for a short-notice meeting with the head of their publishing group. And to Sarah’s infinite relief, a computer search of stories in print for the day didn’t pop with either her name or a lurid blowup of her wrapped in Devon Hunter’s arms.
