Sarah’s was more than satisfactory. A mix of antique, marble and modern, it offered a four-poster bed and a lovely sitting area with a working fireplace and a tiny balcony. But it was the view from the balcony that delighted her artist’s soul.
The rain had softened to a drizzle. It glistened on the slate-gray rooftops of Paris. Endless rows of chimneys rose from the roofs like sentries standing guard over their city. And in the distance were the twin Gothic towers and flying buttresses of Notre Dame.
“I don’t have anything scheduled until three this afternoon,” Dev said while Monsieur LeBon waited to escort him to his own room. “Would you like to rest awhile, then go out for lunch?”
The city beckoned, and Sarah ached to answer its call. “I’m not tired. I think I’d like to take a walk.”
“In the rain?”
“That’s when Paris is at its best. The streets, the cafés, seem to steal the light. Everything shimmers.”
“Okay,” Dev said, laughing, “you’ve convinced me. I’ll change and rap on your door in, say, fifteen minutes?”
“Oh, but...”
She stopped just short of blurting out that she hadn’t intended that as an invitation. She could hardly say she didn’t want her fiancé’s company with Monsieur LeBon beaming his approval of a romantic stroll.
“...I’ll need a bit more time than that,” she finished. “Let’s say thirty minutes.”
“A half hour it is.”
* * *
As she changed into lightweight wool slacks and a hip-length, cherry-red sweater coat that belted at the waist, Sarah tried to analyze her reluctance to share these first hours in Paris with Dev. She suspected it stemmed from the emotion that had welled up when they’d first pulled up at the Hôtel Verneuil. She knew then that she could fall for him, and fall hard. What worried her was that it wouldn’t take very much to push her over the precipice.
True, he’d blackmailed her into this uncomfortable charade. Also true, he’d put a ring on her finger and hustled her onto a plane before she could formulate a coherent protest. In the midst of those autocratic acts, though, he’d shown incredible forbearance and generosity.
Then there were the touches, the kisses, the ridiculous whoosh every time he smiled at her. Devon Hunter had made Beguile’s list based on raw sex appeal. Sarah now realized he possessed something far more potent...and more dangerous to her peace of mind.
She had to remember this was a short-term assignment. Dev had stipulated it would last only until he wrapped up negotiations on his big deal. It looked now as though that might happen within the next few days. Then this would all be over.
The thought didn’t depress her. Sarah wouldn’t let it. But worked hard to keep the thought at bay.
* * *
She was ready when Dev knocked. Wrapping on a biscuit-colored rain cape, she tossed one of its flaps over a shoulder on her way to the door. With her hair tucked up under a flat-brimmed Dutch-boy cap, she was rainproof and windproof.
“Nice hat,” Dev said when she stepped into the hall.
“Thanks.”
“Nice everything, actually.”
She could have said the same. This was the first time she’d seen him in anything other than a suit. The man was made for jeans. Or vice versa. Their snug fit emphasized his flat belly and lean flanks. And, she added with a gulp when he turned to press the button for the elevator, his tight, trim butt.
He’d added a cashmere scarf in gray-and-blue plaid to his leather bomber jacket, but hadn’t bothered with a hat. Sarah worried that it would be too cold for him, but when they exited the hotel, they found the rain was down to a fine mist and the temperature had climbed a few degrees.
Dev took her arm as they crossed the street, then tucked it in his as they started down the boulevard. Sarah felt awkward with that arrangement at first. Elbow to elbow, shoulder to shoulder, strolling along the rain-washed boulevard, they looked like the couple they weren’t.
Gradually, Sarah got used to the feel of him beside her, to the way he matched his stride to hers. And bit by bit, the magic of Paris eased her nagging sense that this was all just a charade.
Even this late in the morning the boulangeries still emitted their seductive, tantalizing scent of fresh-baked bread. Baguettes sprouted from tall baskets and the racks were crammed with braided loaves. The pastry shops, too, had set out their day’s wares. The exquisitely crafted sweets, tarts, chocolate éclairs, gâteaux, caramel mousse, napoleons, macaroons—all were true works of art, and completely impossible to resist.
“God, these look good,” Dev murmured, his gaze on the colorful display. “Are you up for a coffee and an éclair?”
“Always. But my favorite patisserie in all Paris is just a couple of blocks away. Can you hold out a little longer?”
“I’ll try,” he said, assuming an expression of heroic resolution.
Laughing, Sarah pressed his arm closer to her side and guided him the few blocks. The tiny patisserie was nested between a bookstore and a bank. Three dime-size wrought-iron tables sat under the striped awning out front; three more were wedged inside. Luckily two women were getting up from one of the tables when Dev and Sarah entered.
Sarah ordered an espresso and tart au citron for herself, and a café au lait for Dev, then left him debating his choice of pastries while she claimed the table. She loosed the flaps of her cape and let it drift over the back of her chair while she observed the drama taking place at the pastry case.
With no other customers waiting, the young woman behind the counter inspected Dev with wide eyes while he checked out the colorful offerings. When he made his selection, she slid the pastry onto a plate and offered it with a question.
“You are American?”
He flashed her a friendly smile. “I am.”
Sarah guessed what was coming even before the woman’s face lit up with eager recognition.
“Aah, I knew it. You are Number Three, yes?”
Dev’s smile tipped into a groan, but he held his cool as she called excitedly to her coworkers.
“C’est lui! C’est lui! Monsieur Hunter. Numéro trois.”
Sarah bit her lip as a small bevy of females in white aprons converged at the counter. Dev took the fuss with good grace and even autographed a couple of paper napkins before retreating to the table with his chocolate éclair.
Sarah felt the urge to apologize but merely nodded when he asked grimly if Beguile had a wide circulation in France.
“It’s our third-largest market.”
“Great.”
He stabbed his éclair and had to dig deep for a smile when the server delivered their coffees.
“In fact,” Sarah said after the girl giggled and departed, “Beguile has an office here in the city. I was going to swing by there when you go for your meeting.”
“I’ll arrange a car for you.”
The reply was polite, but perfunctory. The enchantment of their stroll through Paris’s rain-washed streets had dissipated with the mist.
“No need. I’ll take the subway.”
“Your call,” Dev replied. “I’ll contact you later and let you know what time we’re meeting the Giraults for dinner tonight.”
The