Dev knew damn well it was the ring, and noted with interest the guilt and embarrassment tinging his fiancée’s cheeks.
“I supposed I should have told you at Cartier that the Russian Rose once belonged to Grandmama.”
“Not a problem. I’m just glad it was available.”
She was quiet for a moment, still pondering the luncheon.
“Do you know what I find so strange? Grandmama didn’t once ask how we could have fallen in love so quickly.”
“Maybe because she comes from a different era. Plus, she went through some really rough times. Could be your security weighs as heavily in her mind as your happiness.”
“That can’t be it. She’s always told Gina and me that her marriage was a love match. She had to defy her parents to make it happen.”
“Yes, but look what came next,” Dev said gently. “From what I’ve read, the Soviet takeover of her country was brutal. She witnessed your grandfather’s execution. She barely escaped the same fate and had to make a new life for herself and her baby in a different country.”
Sarah fingered the emerald, her profile etched with sadness. “Then she lost my parents and got stuck with Gina and me.”
“Why do I think she didn’t regard it as getting stuck? I suspect you and your sister went a long way to filling the hole in her heart.”
“Gina more than me.”
“I doubt that,” Dev drawled.
As he’d anticipated, she jumped instantly to her sister’s defense.
“I know you think Gina’s a total airhead...”
“I do.”
“...but she’s so full of joy and life that no one—I repeat, no one—can be in her company for more than three minutes without cracking a smile.”
Her eyes fired lethal darts, daring him to disagree. He didn’t have to. He’d achieved his objective and erased the sad memories. Rather than risk alienating her, he changed the subject.
“I just got a text from Monsieur Girault. He says he’s delighted you were able to get away and accompany me.”
“Really?” Sarah hiked a politely skeptical brow. “What does his wife say?”
To Dev’s chagrin, heat crawled up his neck. He’d flown in and out of a dozen different combat zones, for God’s sake! Could stare down union presidents and corporate sharks with equal skill. Yet Elise Girault had thrown him completely off stride when he’d bent to give her the obligatory kiss on both cheeks. Her whispered suggestion was so startling—and so erotic—he’d damned near gotten whiplash when he’d jerked his head back. Then she’d let loose with a booming, raucous laugh that invited him to share in their private joke.
“He didn’t say,” Dev said in answer to Sarah’s question, “but he did ask what you would like to do while we’re locked up in a conference room. He indicated his wife is a world-class shopper. Apparently she’s well-known at most of the high-end boutiques.”
He realized his mistake the moment the words were out. He’d run Sarah St. Sebastian’s financials. He knew how strapped she was.
“That reminds me,” he said with deliberate nonchalance. “I don’t intend for you to incur any out-of-pocket expenses 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