* *
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.
That left the rest of the day to try to rationalize her unexpected reaction to his kiss and make a half-dozen futile attempts to reach Gina. All the while the clock marched steadily, inexorably toward her deadline.
* * *
Dev 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
