Except...
He didn’t. Not really. Beguile had put him under the microscope. Beguile had also run a locker-room photo with the face angled away from the camera just enough to keep them from getting sued. And as much as Sarah hated to admit it, the man had shown a remarkable degree of restraint by not reporting his missing artifact to the police immediately.
Still, she didn’t want to come to his rescue. She really didn’t. It was an innate and very grudging sense of fair play that compelled her to mimic her grandmother in one of Charlotte’s more imperial moods.
“I beg your pardon,” she said with icy hauteur. “I believe my fiancé has already stated he doesn’t know you. Now, if you don’t mind, we would like to continue our conversation.”
The woman’s cheeks flushed almost the same color as her hair. “Yes, of course. Sorry for interrupting.”
She hurried to her table, leaving Hunter staring after her while Sarah took an unhurried sip from her water goblet.
“That’s it.” He turned back to her, amusement slashing across his face. “That’s exactly what I want from you.”
Whoa! Sarah gripped the goblet’s stem and tried to blunt the impact of the grin aimed in her direction. Devon Hunter all cold and intimidating she could handle. Devon Hunter with crinkly squint lines at the corners of those killer blue eyes and his mouth tipped into a rakish smile was something else again.
The smile made him look so different. That, and the more casual attire he wore tonight. He was in a suit again, but he’d dispensed with a tie and his pale blue shirt was open at the neck. This late in the evening, a five-o’clock shadow darkened his cheeks and chin, giving him the sophisticated bad-boy look so many of Beguile’s male models tried for but could never quite pull off.
The research Sarah had done on the man put him in a different light, too. She’d had to dig hard for details. Hunter was notorious about protecting his privacy, which was why Beguile had been forced to go with a fluff piece instead of the in-depth interview Alexis had wanted. And no doubt why he resented the article so much, Sarah acknowledged with a twinge of guilt.
The few additional details she’d managed to dig up had contributed to an intriguing picture. She’d already known that Devon Hunter had enlisted in the Air Force right out of high school and trained as a loadmaster on big cargo jets. She hadn’t known he’d completed a bachelor’s and a master’s during his eight years in uniform, despite spending most of those years flying into combat zones or disaster areas.
On one of those combat missions his aircraft had come under intense enemy fire. Hunter had jerry-rigged some kind of emergency fix to its damaged cargo ramp that had allowed them to take on hundreds of frantic Somalian refugees attempting to escape certain death. He’d left the Air Force a short time later and patented the modification he’d devised. From what Sarah could gather, it was now used on military and civilian aircraft worldwide.
That enterprise had earned Hunter his first million. The rest, as they say, was history. She hadn’t found a precise estimate of the man’s net worth, but it was obviously enough to allow him to collect hundred-thousand-pound museum pieces. Which brought her back to the problem at hand.
“Look, Mr. Hunter, this whole...”
“Dev,” he interrupted, the grin still in place. “Now that we’re engaged, we should dispense with the formalities. I know you have a half-dozen names. Do you go by Sarah or Elizabeth or Marie-Adele?”
“Sarah,” she conceded, “but we are not engaged.”
He tipped his chin toward the woman several tables away, her nose now buried in a menu. “Red there thinks we are.”
“I simply didn’t care for her attitude.”
“Me, either.” The amusement left his eyes. “That’s why I offered you a choice. Let me spell out the basic terms so there’s no misunderstanding. You agree to an engagement. Six months max. Less, if I close the deal currently on the table. In return, I destroy the surveillance tape and don’t report the loss.”
“But the medallion! You said it was worth a hundred thousand pounds or more.”
“I’m willing to accept your assurances that Gina will return it. Eventually. In the meantime...” He lifted his tumbler in a mock salute. “To us, Sarah.”
Feeling much like the proverbial mouse backed into a corner, she snatched at her last lifeline. “You promised me another twenty-four hours. The deal doesn’t go into effect until then. Agreed?”
He hesitated, then lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Agreed.”
Surely Gina would return her calls before then and this whole, ridiculous situation would be resolved. Sarah clung to that hope as she pushed away from the table.
“Until tomorrow, Mr. Hunter.”
“Dev,” he corrected, rising, as well.
“No need for you to walk me out. Please stay and enjoy your dinner.”
“Actually, I got hungry earlier and grabbed a Korean taco from a street stand. Funny,” he commented as he tossed some bills on the table, “I’ve been in and out of Korea a dozen times. Don’t remember ever having tacos there.”
He took her elbow in a courteous gesture Grandmama would approve of. Very correct, very polite, not really possessive but edging too close to it for Sarah’s comfort. Walking beside him only reinforced the impression she’d gained yesterday of his height and strength.
They passed the redhead’s table on the way to the door. She glanced up, caught Sarah’s dismissive stare and stuck her nose back in the menu.
“I’ll hail you a cab,” Hunter said as they exited the restaurant.
“It’s only a few blocks.”
“It’s also getting dark. I know this is your town, but I’ll feel better sending you home in a cab.”
Sarah didn’t argue further, mostly because dusk had started to descend and the air had taken on a distinct chill. Across the street, the lanterns in Central Park shed their golden glow. She turned in a half circle, her artist’s eye delighting in the dots of gold punctuating the deep purple of the park.
Unfortunately, the turn brought the redhead into view again. The picture there wasn’t as delightful. She was squinting at them through the restaurant’s window, a phone jammed to her ear. Whoever she was talking to was obviously getting an earful.
Sarah guessed instantly she was spreading the word about Sexy Single Number Three and his fiancée. The realization gave her a sudden, queasy feeling. New York City lived and breathed celebrities. They were the stuff of life on Good Morning America, were courted by Tyra Banks and the women of The View, appeared regularly on Late Show with David Letterman. The tabloids, the glossies, even the so-called “literary” publications paid major bucks for inside scoops.
And Sarah had just handed them one. Thoroughly disgusted with herself for yielding to impulse, she smothered a curse that would have earned a sharp reprimand from Grandmama. Hunter followed her line of sight and spotted the woman staring at them through the restaurant window, the phone still jammed to her ear. He shared Sarah’s pessimistic view of the matter but didn’t bother to swallow his curse. It singed the night air.
“This is going turn up in another rag like Beguile, isn’t it?”
Sarah stiffened. True, she’d privately cringed at some of the articles Alexis had insisted on putting in print. But that didn’t mean she would stand by and let an outsider disparage her magazine.
“Beguile is hardly a rag. We’re one of the leading fashion publications for women in the twenty to thirty-five age range,