Thoroughly disgusted, he took Sarah’s arm to help her out of the van. She shook off his hold without a word, climbed down and walked toward the squad car now screeching to a halt. Two officers exited. One went to kneel beside the moaning van driver. The other soon centered on Sarah as the other major participant in the incident. She communicated with him in swift, idiomatic French. He took notes the entire time, shooting the occasional glance at Dev that said his turn would come.
It did, but not until an ambulance had screamed up and two EMTs went to work on the driver. At the insistence of the officer who’d interviewed Sarah, a third medical tech examined her. The tech was shining a penlight into her pupils when the police officer turned his attention to Dev. Switching to English, he took down Dev’s name, address while in Paris and cell-phone number before asking for his account of the incident.
He’d had time to think about it. Rather than lay out his suspicion that the whole thing was a publicity stunt, he stuck to the bare facts. He’d spotted Sarah walking toward him. Saw the van pull up. Saw she was gone. Gave chase.
The police officer made more notes, then flipped back a few pages. “So, Monsieur Hunter, are you also acquainted with Henri Lefèvre?”
“Who?”
“The man your fiancée says snatched her off the street and threw her into the back of this van.”
“No, I’m not acquainted with him.”
“But you know Monsieur Girault and his wife?”
Dev’s eyes narrowed as he remembered Sarah telling him about the goons Girault had employed to do his dirty work. Was Lefèvre one of those goons? Was Jean-Jacques somehow mixed up in all this?
“Yes,” he replied, frowning, “I know Monsieur Girault and his wife. How are they involved in this incident?”
“Mademoiselle St. Sebastian says Lefèvre is Madame Girault’s former lover. He came to their table while they were at lunch yesterday. She claims Madame Girault identified him as a gigolo, one who tried to extort a large sum of money from her. We’ll verify that with madame herself, of course.”
Dev’s stomach took a slow dive. Christ! Had he misread the situation? The kidnapping portion of it, anyway?
“Your fiancée also says that the manager of your hotel told her Lefèvre made inquiries as to her identity.” The officer glanced up from his notes. “Are you aware of these inquiries, Monsieur Hunter?”
“No.”
The police officer’s expression remained carefully neutral, but he had to be thinking the same thing Dev was. What kind of a man didn’t know a second-or third-class gigolo was sniffing after his woman?
“Do you have any additional information you can provide at this time, Monsieur Hunter?”
“No.”
“Very well. Mademoiselle St. Sebastian insists she sustained no serious injury. If the EMTs agree, I will release her to return to your hotel. I must ask you both not to leave Paris, however, until you have spoken with detectives from our Brigade criminelle. They will be in touch with you.”
* * *
Dev and Sarah took a taxi back to the hotel. She stared out the window in stony silence while he searched for a way to reconcile his confrontation with the photographer and his apparently faulty assumption about the attempted kidnapping. He finally decided on a simple apology.
“I’m sorry, Sarah. I jumped too fast to the wrong conclusion.”
She turned her head. Her distant expression matched her coolly polite tone. “No need to apologize. I can understand how you reached that conclusion.”
Dev reached for her hand, trying to bridge the gap. She slid it away and continued in the same, distant tone.
“Just for the record, I didn’t know the magazine had put a photographer on us.”
“I believe you.”
It was too little, too late. He realized that when she shrugged his comment aside.
“I am aware, however, that Alexis wanted to exploit the story, so I take full responsibility for this invasion of your privacy.”
“Our privacy, Sarah.”
“Your privacy,” she countered quietly. “There is no us. It was all just a facade, wasn’t it?”
“That’s not what you said last night,” Dev reminded her, starting to get a little pissed.
How the hell did he end up as the bad guy here? Okay, he’d blackmailed Sarah into posing as his fiancée. And, yes, he’d done his damnedest to finesse her into bed. Now that he had her there, though, he wanted more. Much more!
So did she. She’d admitted that last night. Dev wasn’t about to let her just toss what they had together out the window.
“What happened to option B?” he pressed. “Making it real?”
She looked at him for a long moment before turning her face to the window again. “I have a headache starting. I’d rather not talk anymore, if you don’t mind.”
He minded. Big time. But the angry bruise rising on her cheek shut him up until they were back at the hotel.
“We didn’t have lunch,” he said in an effort to reestablish a common ground. “Do you want to try the restaurant here or order something from room service?”
“I’m not hungry.” Still so cool, still so distant. “I’m going to lie down.”
“You need ice to keep the swelling down on your cheek. I’ll bring some to your room after I talk to Monsieur LeBon.”
“There’s ice in the minifridge in my room.”
She left him standing in the lobby. Frustrated and angry and not sure precisely where he should target his ire, he stalked to the reception desk and asked to speak to the manager.
* * *
Sarah’s first act when she reached her room was to call Beguile’s Paris offices. Although she didn’t doubt Dev’s account, she couldn’t help hoping the photographer he’d spoken to was a freelancer or worked for some other publication. In her heart of hearts, she didn’t want to believe her magazine had, in fact, assigned François to shoot pictures of her and Dev. Paul Vincent, the senior editor, provided the corroboration reluctantly.
“Alexis insisted, Sarah.”
“I see.”
She disconnected and stared blankly at the wall for several moments. How naive of her to trust Alexis to hold to her word. How stupid to feel so hurt that Dev would jump to the conclusion he had. Her throat tight, she tapped out a text message. It was brief and to the point.
I quit, effective immediately.
Then she filled the ice bucket, wrapped some cubes in a hand towel and shed her clothes. Crawling into bed, she put the ice on her aching cheek and pulled the covers over her head.
* * *
The jangle of the house phone dragged her from a stew of weariness and misery some hours later.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady Sarah.”
Grimacing, she edged away from the wet spot on the pillow left by the soggy hand towel. “What is it, Monsieur LeBon?”
“You have a call from Brigade criminelle. Shall we put it through?”
“Yes.”
The caller identified herself as Marie-Renee Delacroix, an inspector in the division charged with investigating homicides, kidnappings, bomb attacks and incidents involving