The short answer? He couldn’t.
As much as she wanted to, Sarah couldn’t escape that brutal truth. She’d let Paris seduce her into thinking she and Dev shared something special. Come so close to believing that what they felt for each other would merit a padlock on the Archbishop’s Bridge. Aching all over again for what might have been, she ducked into the first café she encountered.
A waiter with three rings piercing his left earlobe and a white napkin folded over his right forearm met her at the door. His gaze flickered to the ugly bruise on her cheek and away again.
“Good evening, madame.”
“Good evening. A table for one, please.”
Once settled at a table in a back corner, she ordered without glancing at the menu. A glass of red table wine and a croque-monsieur—the classic French version of a grilled ham and cheese topped with béchamel sauce—was all she wanted. All she could handle right now. That became apparent after the first few sips of wine.
Her sandwich arrived in a remarkably short time given this was Paris, where even the humblest café aimed for gastronomic excellence. Accompanied by a small salad and thin, crisp fries, it should have satisfied her hunger. Unfortunately, she never got to enjoy it. She took a few forkfuls of salad and nibbled a fry, but just when she was about to bite into her sandwich she heard her name.
“Lady Sarah, granddaughter to Charlotte St. Sebastian, grand duchess of the tiny duchy once known as Karlenburgh.”
Startled, she glanced up at the flat screen TV above the café’s bar. While Sarah sat frozen with the sandwich halfway to her mouth, one of a team of two newscasters gestured to an image that came up on the display beside her. It was a photo of her and Gina and Grandmama, one of the rare publicity shots the duchess had allowed. It’d been taken at a charity event a number of years ago, before the duchess had sold her famous pearls. The perfectly matched strands circled her neck multiple times before draping almost to her waist.
“The victim of an apparent kidnapping attempt,” the announcer intoned, “Lady Sarah escaped injury this afternoon during a dramatic rescue by her fiancé, American industrialist Devon Hunter.”
Dread churned in the pit of Sarah’s stomach as the still image gave way to what looked like an amateur video captured on someone’s phone camera. It showed traffic swerving wildly as Dev charged across two lanes and planted himself in front of oncoming traffic.
Good God! The white van! It wasn’t going to stop!
Her heart shot into her throat. Unable to breathe, she saw Dev dodge aside at the last moment, then leap for the van door. When he smashed the driver’s face into the wheel, Sarah gasped. Blobs of béchamel sauce oozed from the sandwich hanging from her fork and plopped unnoticed onto her plate. She’d been in the back of the van. She hadn’t known how Dev had stopped it, only that he had.
Stunned by his reckless courage, she watched as the street scene gave way to another video. This one was shot on the steps of the Palais de Justice. Henri Lefèvre was being led down the steps to a waiting police transport. Uniformed officers gripped his arms. Steel cuffs shackled his wrists. A crowd of reporters waited at the bottom of the steps, shouting questions that Lefèvre refused to answer.
When the news shifted to another story, Sarah lowered her now-mangled sandwich. Her mind whirled as she tried to sort through her chaotic thoughts. One arrowed through all the others. She knew she had to call her grandmother. Now. Before the story got picked up by the news at home, if it hadn’t already. Furious with herself for not thinking of that possibility sooner, she hit speed dial.
To her infinite relief, the duchess had heard nothing about the incident. Sarah tried to downplay it by making the kidnappers sound like bungling amateurs. Charlotte was neither amused nor fooled.
“Were you the target,” she asked sharply, “or Devon?”
“Devon, of course. Or rather his billions.”
“Are you sure? There may still be some fanatics left in the old country. Not many after all this time, I would guess. But your grandfather... Those murderous death squads...” Her voice fluttered. “They hated everything our family stood for.”
“These men wanted money,” Sarah said gently, “and Dev made them extremely sorry they went after it the way they did. One of them is going to need a whole new face.”
“Good!”
The duchess had regained her bite, and her granddaughter breathed a sigh of relief. Too soon, it turned out.
“Bring Devon home with you, Sarah. I want to thank him personally. And tell him I see no need for a long engagement,” Charlotte added briskly. “Too many brides today spend months, even years, planning their weddings. I thank God neither of my granddaughters are prone to such dithering.”
“Grandmama...”
“Gina tends to leap before she looks. You, my darling, are more cautious. More deliberate. But when you choose, you choose wisely. In this instance, I believe you made an excellent choice.”
Sarah couldn’t confess that she hadn’t precisely chosen Dev. Nor was she up to explaining that their relationship was based on a lie. All she could do was try to rein in the duchess.
“I’m not to the point of even thinking about wedding plans, Grandmama. I just got engaged.”
And unengaged, although Dev appeared to have a different take on the matter.
“You don’t have to concern yourself with the details, dearest. I’ll call the Plaza and have Andrew take care of everything.”
“Good grief!” Momentarily distracted, Sarah gasped. “Is Andrew still at the Plaza?”
Her exclamation earned an icy retort. “The younger generation may choose to consign seniors to the dustbin,” the duchess returned frigidly. “Some of us are not quite ready to be swept out with the garbage.”
Uh-oh. Before Sarah could apologize for the unintended slight, Charlotte abandoned her lofty perch and got down to business.
“How about the first weekend in May? That’s such a lovely month for a wedding.”
“Grandmama! It’s mid-April now!”
“Didn’t you hear me a moment ago? Long engagements are a bore.”
“But...but...” Scrambling, Sarah grabbed at the most likely out. “I’m sure the Plaza is booked every weekend in May for the next three years.”
Her grandmother heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Sarah, dearest, did I never tell you about the reception I hosted for the Sultan of Oman?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It was in July...no, August of 1962. Quite magnificent, if I do say so myself. President Kennedy and his wife attended, of course, as did the Rockefellers. Andrew was a very new, very junior waiter at the time. But the letter I sent to his supervisor commending his handling of an embarrassingly inebriated presidential aide helped catapult him to his present exalted position.”
How could Sarah possibly respond to that? Swept along on a relentless tidal wave, she gripped the phone as the duchess issued final instructions. “Talk to Devon, dearest. Make sure the first weekend in May is satisfactory for him. And tell him I’ll take care of everything.”
Feeling almost as dazed as she had when Elise Girault’s smarmy ex-lover manhandled her into that white van, Sarah said goodbye. Her meal forgotten, she sat with her phone in hand for long moments. The call to her grandmother had left her more confused, more torn.
Dev had risked his life for her. And that was after he’d confronted the photographer from Beguile. As angry as he’d been about