shot a glance at the bank of clocks lining one wall of the conference room. Four-fifteen. A little less than four hours to the go/no-go point.
He tuned out the tanned-and-toned executive at the head of the gleaming mahogany conference table. The man had been droning on for almost forty minutes now. His equally slick associates had nodded and ahemed and interjected several editorial asides about the fat military contract they were confident their company would win.
Dev knew better. They’d understated their start-up costs so blatantly the Pentagon procurement folks would laugh these guys out of the competition. Dev might have chalked this trip to NYC as a total waste of time if not for his meeting with Sarah St. Sebastian.
Based on the profile he’d had compiled on her, he’d expected someone cool, confident, levelheaded and fiercely loyal to both the woman who’d raised her and the sibling who gave her such grief. What he hadn’t expected was her inbred elegance. Or the kick to his gut when she’d walked into the restaurant last night. Or the hours he’d spent afterward remembering her taste and her scent and the press of her body against his.
His visceral reaction to the woman could be a potential glitch in his plan. He needed a decoy. A temporary fiancée to blunt the effect of that ridiculous article. Someone to act as a buffer between him and the total strangers hitting on him everywhere he went—and the French CEO’s wife who’d whispered such suggestive obscenities in his ear.
Sarah St. Sebastian was the perfect solution to those embarrassments. She’d proved as much last night when she’d cut Red off at the knees. Problem was the feel of her, the taste of her, had damned near done the same to Dev. The delectable Sarah could well prove more of a distraction than the rest of the bunch rolled up together.
So what the hell should he do now? Call her and tell her the deal he’d offered was no longer on the table? Write off the loss of the medallion? Track Gina down and recover the piece himself?
The artifact itself wasn’t the issue, of course. Dev had lost more in the stock market in a single day than that bit of gold and enamel was worth. The only reason he’d pursued it this far was that he didn’t like getting ripped off any more than the next guy. That, and the damned Ten Sexiest Singles article. He’d figured he could leverage the theft of the medallion into a temporary fiancée.
Which brought him full circle. What should he do about Sarah? His conscience had pinged at him last night. It was lobbing 50mm mortar shells now.
Dev had gained a rep in the multibillion-dollar world of aerospace manufacturing for being as tough as boot leather, but honest. He’d never lied to a competitor or grossly underestimated a bid like these jokers were doing now. Nor had he ever resorted to blackmail. Dev shifted uncomfortably, feeling as prickly about the one-sided deal he’d offered Sarah as by the patently false estimates Mr. Smooth kept flashing up on the screen.
To hell with it. He could take care of at least one of those itches right now.
“Excuse me, Jim.”
Tanned-and-toned broke off in midspiel. He and his associates turned eager faces to Dev.
“We’ll have to cut this short,” he said without a trace of apology. “I’ve got something hanging fire that I thought could wait. I need to take care of it now.”
Jim and company concealed their disappointment behind shark-toothed smiles. Professional courtesy dictated that Devon offer a palliative.
“Why don’t you email me the rest of your presentation? I’ll study it on the flight home.”
Tanned-and-toned picked up an in-house line and murmured an order to his AV folks. When he replaced the receiver, his smile sat just a few degrees off center.
“It’s done, Dev.”
“Thanks, Jimmy. I’ll get back to you when I’ve had a chance to review your numbers in a little more depth.”
Ole Jim’s smile slipped another couple of degrees but he managed to hang on to its remnants as he came around the table to pump Devon’s hand.
“I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Soon, I hope.”
“By the end of the week,” Devon promised, although he knew Mr. Smooth wouldn’t like what he had to say.
He decided to wait until he was in the limo and headed back to his hotel to contact Sarah. As the elevator whisked him down fifty stories, he tried to formulate exactly what he’d say to her.
His cell phone buzzed about twenty stories into the descent. Dev answered with his customary curt response, blissfully unaware a certain green-eyed brunette was just seconds away from knocking his world off its axis.
“Hunter.”
“Mr. Hunter... Dev... It’s Sarah St. Sebastian.”
“Hello, Sarah. Have you heard from Gina?”
“Yes. Well, sort of.”
Hell! So much for his nagging guilt over coercing this woman into a fake engagement. All Devon felt now was a searing disappointment that it might not take place. The feeling was so sharp and surprisingly painful he almost missed her next comment.
“Gina’s on her way to Switzerland. Or she was when she texted me last night.”
“What’s in...?”
He broke off, knowing the answer before he asked the question. Bankers in Switzerland would commit hara-kiri before violating the confidentiality of deals brokered under their auspices. What better place to sell—and deposit the proceeds of—a near-priceless piece of antiquity?
“So where does that leave us?”
It came out stiffer than he’d intended. She responded in the same vein.
“I’m still trying to reach Gina. If I can’t...”
The elevator reached the lobby. Dev stepped out, the phone to his ear and his adrenaline pumping the way it did when his engineers were close to some innovative new concept or major modification to the business of hauling cargo.
“If you can’t?” he echoed.
“I don’t see I have any choice but to agree to your preposterous offer.”
She spelled it out. Slowly. Tightly. As if he’d forgotten the conditions he’d laid down last night.
“Six months as your fiancée. Less if you complete the negotiations you’re working on. In return, you don’t press charges against my sister. Correct?”
“Correct.” Crushing his earlier doubts, he pounced. “So we have a deal?”
“On one condition.”
A dozen different contingency clauses flashed through his mind. “And that is?” he said cautiously.
“You have to come for cocktails this evening. Seven o’clock. My grandmother wants to meet you.”
