as part of our deal. There’ll be a credit card waiting for you at the hotel.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding.”
Her reaction shouldn’t have surprised him. Regal elegance was only one of the traits Lady Sarah had inherited from her grandmother. Stiff-necked pride had to rank right up near the top of the list.
“Be reasonable, Sarah. You’re providing me a personal service.”
Which was becoming more personal by the hour. Dev was getting used to her stimulating company. The heat she ignited in him still took him by surprise, though. He hadn’t figured that into his plan.
“Of course I’ll cover your expenses.”
Her expression turned glacial. “The hotel, yes. Any meals we take with Madame and Monsieur Girault, yes. A shopping spree on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, no.”
“Fine. It’s your call.”
He tried to recover with an admiring survey of her petal-pink dress. The fabric was thick and satiny, the cut sleek. A coat in the same style hung in their cabin’s private closet.
“The rue du Whatever has nothing on Fifth Avenue. That classy New York look will have Elise Girault demanding an immediate trip to the States.”
She stared at him blankly for a moment, then burst into laughter. “You’re not real up on haute couture, are you?”
“Any of my sisters would tell you I don’t know haute from hamburger.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she said, still chuckling. “Unless I miss my guess, your shoes are Moroccan leather, the suit’s hand-tailored and the tie comes from a little shop just off the Grand Canal in Venice.”
“Damn, you’re good! Although Patrick tells me he orders the ties from Milan, not Venice. So where did that dress come from?”
“It’s vintage Balenciaga. Grandmama bought it in Madrid decades ago.”
The smile remained, but Dev thought it dimmed a few degrees.
“She disposed of most of her designer originals when...when they went out of style, but she kept enough to provide a treasure trove for me. Thank goodness! Retro is the new ‘new,’ you know. I’m the envy of everyone at Beguile.”
Dev could read behind the lines. The duchess must have sold off her wardrobe as well as her jewelry over the years. It was miracle she’d managed to hang on to the apartment at the Dakota. The thought of what the duchess and Sarah had gone through kicked Dev’s admiration for them both up another notch. Also, his determination to treat Sarah to something new and obscenely expensive. He knew better than to step on her pride again, though, and said merely, “Retro looks good on you.”
“Thank you.”
* * *
After what passed for the airline’s gourmet meal, Dev used his in-flight wireless connection to crunch numbers for his meetings with Girault and company while Sarah went back to work on her laptop. She’d promised Alexis she would finish the layout for the Summer Sea-escapes but the perspectives just wouldn’t gel. After juggling Martha’s Vineyard with Catalina Island and South Padre Island with South Georgia Island, she decided she would have to swing by Beguile’s Paris offices to see how the layout looked on a twenty-five-inch monitor before shooting it off to Alexis for review.
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
