“Merde!”
Muttering under her breath, she jabbed at the keyboard yet again. She looked as though she’d like to whip out her weapon and deliver a lethal shot when she finally admitted defeat and slammed away from her desk.
“Please wait. I need to find someone who can kick a report out of this piece of sh— Er, crap.”
She returned a few moments later with a colleague in a blue-striped shirt and red suspenders. Without a word, he pressed a single key. When the printer began coughing up papers, he rolled his eyes and departed.
“I hate these things,” Delacroix muttered as she dropped into her chair again.
Sarah and Dev exchanged a quick look but refrained from comment. Just as well, since the inspector became all brisk efficiency once the printer had disgorged the documents she wanted. She pushed two ink pens and the printed statements in their direction.
“Review these, please, and make any changes you feel necessary.”
The reports were lengthy and correct. Delacroix was relieved that neither Sarah nor Dev had any changes, but consciously did her duty.
“Are you sure, mademoiselle? With that nasty bruise, we could add assault to the kidnapping charge.”
Sarah fingered her cheek. Much as she’d like to double the case against Lefèvre, he hadn’t directly caused the injury.
“I’m sure.”
“Very well. Sign here, please, and here.”
She did as instructed and laid down her pen. “You said you were going to talk to the prosecuting attorney about whether we need to remain in Paris for the arraignment,” she reminded Delacroix.
“Ah, yes. He feels your statements, the evidence we’ve collected and the confessions from Lefèvre and his associate are more than sufficient for the case against them. As long as we know how to contact you and Monsieur Hunter if necessary, you may depart Paris whenever you wish.”
* * *
Oddly, the knowledge that she could fly home at any time produced a contradictory desire in Sarah to remain in Paris for the initiation of phase two. That, and the way Dev once again tucked her arm in his as they descended the broad staircase leading to the main exit. There was still so much of the city—her city—she wanted to share with him.
The moment they stepped out into the weak sunshine, a blinding barrage of flashes sent Sarah stumbling back. Dismayed, she eyed the wolf pack crowding the front steps, their news vans parked at the curb behind them. While sound handlers thrust their boom mikes over the reporters’ heads, the questions flew at Sarah like bullets. She heard her name and Dev’s and Lefèvre’s and Elise Girault’s all seemingly in the same sentences.
She ducked her chin into her scarf and started to scramble back into police headquarters to search out a side exit. Dev stood his ground, though, and with her arm tucked tight against his side, Sarah had no choice but to do the same.
“Might as well give them what they want now,” he told her. “Maybe it’ll satisfy their appetites and send them chasing after their next victim.”
Since most of the questions zinged at them were in French, Sarah found herself doing the translating and leaving the responding to Dev. He’d obviously fielded these kinds of rapid-fire questions before. He deftly avoided any that might impact the case against the kidnappers and confirmed only that he and Sarah were satisfied with the way the police were handling the matter.
The questions soon veered from the official to the personal. To Sarah’s surprise, Dev shelved his instinctive dislike of the media and didn’t cut them off at the knees. His responses were concise and to the point.
Yes, he and Lady Sarah had only recently become engaged. Yes, they’d known each other only a short time. No, they hadn’t yet set a date for the wedding.
“Although,” he added with a sideways glance at Sarah, “her grandmother has voiced some thoughts in that regard.”
“Speaking of the duchess,” a sharp-featured reporter commented as she thrust her mike almost in Sarah’s face, “Charlotte St. Sebastian was once the toast of Paris and New York. From all reports, she’s now penniless. Have you insisted Monsieur Hunter include provisions for her maintenance in your prenup agreement?”
Distaste curled Sarah’s lip but she refused to give the vulture any flesh to feed on. “As my fiancé has just stated,” she said with a dismissive smile, “we’ve only recently become engaged. And what better place to celebrate that engagement than Paris, the City of Lights and Love? So now you must excuse us, as that’s what we intend to do.”
She tugged on Dev’s arm and he took the hint. When they cleared the mob and started for the limo waiting a half block away, he gave her a curious look.
“What was that all about?”
She hadn’t translated the last question and would prefer not to now. Their engagement had been tumultuous enough. Despite her grandmother’s insistence on booking the Plaza, Sarah hadn’t really thought as far ahead as marriage. Certainly not as far as a prenup.
They stopped beside the limo. The driver had the door open and waiting but Dev waved him back inside the car.
“Give us a minute here, Andre.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
While the driver slid into the front seat, Dev angled Sarah to face him. Her shoulders rested against the rear door frame. Reluctantly, she tipped up her gaze to meet his.
“You might as well tell me,” he said. “I’d rather not be blindsided by hearing whatever it was play on the five-o’clock news.”
“The reporter wanted details on our prenup.” She hunched her shoulders, feeling awkward and embarrassed. “I told her to get stuffed.”
His grin broke out, quick and slashing. “In your usual elegant manner, of course.”
“Of course.”
Still grinning, he studied her face. It must have reflected her acute discomfort because he stooped to speak to the driver.
“We’ve decided to walk, Andre. We won’t need you anymore today.”
When the limo eased away from the curb, he hooked Sarah’s arm through his again and steered her into the stream of pedestrians.
“I know how prickly you are about the subject of finances, so we won’t go there until we’ve settled more important matters, like whether you’re a dog or cat person. Which are you, by the way?”
“Dog,” she replied, relaxing for the first time that morning. “The bigger the better, although the only one we’ve ever owned was the Pomeranian that Gina brought home one day. She was eight or nine at the time and all indignant because someone had left it leashed outside a coffee shop in one-hundred-degree heat.”
Too late she realized she might have opened the door for Dev to suggest Gina had developed kleptomaniac tendencies early. She glanced up, met his carefully neutral look and hurried on with her tale.
“We went back and tried to find the owner, but no one would claim it. We soon found out why. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you! The nasty little beast snapped and snarled and wouldn’t let anyone pet him except Grandmama.”
“No surprise there. The duchess has a way about her. She certainly cowed me.”
“Right,” Sarah scoffed. “I saw how you positively quaked in her presence.”
“I’m still quaking. Finish the story. What happened to the beast?”
“Grandmama finally palmed him off on an acquaintance of hers. What