Betting on the outcome, he’d finalize the financial details when he met with his bankers in Berlin tomorrow. But the heat that stirred in his belly as his gaze lingered on Devon McShay was fast convincing him he should acquire her as well.
Three
“Logan kissed you?”
The question shot from Devon’s two partners almost simultaneously. She nodded in response, wondering how the world had survived before digital videoconferencing.
“He did.”
Her partners’ images filled her laptop’s split screen. She’d caught Sabrina at home, still flushed and feverish but on the road to recovery. Caroline was at the office. Devon knew without being told she’d been up since dawn and hard at it.
The two women couldn’t have been more different. Sabrina Russo came from a privileged background and had partied her way through college. Caroline Walters was quiet and withdrawn and had worked part-time jobs to earn spending money even during their shared year at the university. At this moment, however, their faces wore almost identical expressions of surprise.
“Logan thought I was you, Sabrina.”
“Huh?”
“That was pretty much my reaction, too.”
Swiftly, Devon explained about the long-delayed New Year’s Eve kiss.
“That sounds like Don Howard.” The blonde shook her head in mingled amusement and exasperation. “So how did you handle it?”
“I didn’t slug our client on the spot,” Devon drawled, “but I came close.”
After she’d recovered from her near total meltdown, that is. She couldn’t explain the ridiculous reaction to herself, let alone her partners. Nor did she mention the way her nerves tingled every time Logan took her arm. Shelving her completely irrational sensitivity to the man’s touch, she ran through the string of disasters that had begun with his long-delayed flight and ended just minutes ago, when she finally moved him into his suite.
“At least I got him to his meeting with Herr Hauptmann on time. Believe it or not,” she added with a grimace, “at Cal’s request we also squeezed in some post-meeting Christmas shopping.”
“Uh-oh.”
Instant sympathy filled Caroline’s forest green eyes. She knew how this time of year scratched at Devon’s old wounds. Sabrina had zoned in on another aspect of her comment, however.
“Cal?” she echoed.
“He insists we proceed on a first-name basis.”
Devon glanced at her bedroom window. She hadn’t even had time to draw the drapes before she dashed into the bathroom to freshen her makeup and change. Ordinarily, she would have found the illuminated spires across the river magical. Their coat of glistening ice instilled a less enthusiastic response tonight.
“On the negative side,” she told her partners, “there’s still no sign of his luggage, and the weather reports are grim. Everything’s shutting down. The airport, the trains, the autobahn. We may be stuck in Dresden indefinitely.”
“Logan can’t hold you responsible for the weather,” Caroline protested.
“Or EBS,” Sabrina added briskly. Despite the party-girl persona she projected to the rest of the world, she was the partner with the most business sense. Only Devon and Caroline knew the personal hell she’d gone through to gain that knowledge.
“Has he made any noises about being dissatisfied with EBS’s services?” she wanted to know.
“No complaints so far. That could change real fast, though. Between getting ready for this concert and dinner tonight and giving you guys an update, I didn’t have time to work backup transportation and hotel reservations.”
Caroline jumped in, as Devon had hoped she would. “I’ll take care of that. We’ve got Logan’s schedule and current itinerary on the computer. I’ll work up a list of alternative options and have them waiting for you when you get back from the concert.”
“Thanks, Caro. I didn’t plan on an evening out.”
“Good thing I talked you into packing your long velvet skirt.”
That came from Sabrina, who firmly believed appearance and flexibility were as important in their business as organizational skills. All three were getting a real test tonight.
“What are you wearing with it?”
“The gold lamé number you also made me pack.”
Devon leaned away from the computer’s built-in camera to display the scoop-necked, cap-sleeved top in glittering gold. Lightweight and silky, it could jazz up a suit for an after-five cocktail meeting or provide an elegant stand-alone for an evening function like this.
“Perfect,” Sabrina announced. “Now go eat, don’t drink and be merry.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cal escorted her to the lobby and the car Herr Hauptmann had sent. His hair was still damp from his shower and the tangy lemon-lime scent of his aftershave teased her senses.
The two-hour concert provided another banquet for her senses. Dresden’s opera house had been leveled during World War Two and damaged again when the Elbe flooded its banks in 2002. But huge infusions of funds had restored the theater to its former glory. Pale green walls, magnificent ceiling paintings and the ornate molding on its tiers of boxes made an incredible backdrop for the Dresden Boys’ Choir. The ensemble rivaled Vienna’s for the purity of the voices. The singers’ notes soared high, sounding as though they flew on angels’ wings
Dinner afterward was smaller and more intimate but every bit as elegant. Herr Hauptmann had reserved a corner table at Das Caroussel, located in a recently restored Baroque palace. Mindful of Sabrina’s parting advice, Devon feasted on braised veal accompanied by a sauerbraten ravioli that made her taste buds want to weep with joy, but limited her alcohol intake to a few sips of a light, fruity Rhine wine.
Madam Hauptmann was a surprise. Vivacious and petite next to her husband’s bulk, she spoke flawless English and was delighted to learn Devon had studied in her native Austria. She was also very impressed with Cal Logan. As dinner progressed and the waiter refilled her wine glass, Lisel Hauptmann’s playful flirtation began to include seemingly accidental touches and sidelong glances her husband failed to note.
Devon noticed them, however. The beauty of the concert and the luxurious restaurant evaporated bit by bit. By the time coffee was served, her dessert of Jerusalem pear and artichoke vinaigrette tasted more like chalk with every bite.
She’d had to endure countless scenes like this during her short-lived marriage to Blake McShay. Tall and trim and salon-tanned, her husband had played his flamboyant good looks and TV-personality role for all they were worth. But only for PR purposes, or so Blake would argue when Devon objected to the way he let women fawn all over him.
To Cal Logan’s credit, he appeared completely oblivious to Madam Hauptmann’s less-than-subtle signals. That should have won him some brownie points with Devon, but the bad taste stayed
