“First, we’re not engaged. Yet. Second, you don’t need to worry about my work.”
Mostly because he wouldn’t be on scene when the storm hit. If Beguile’s executive editor learned from another source that Sarah had locked lips with Number Three on busy Central Park West, she’d make a force-five hurricane seem like a spring shower.
Then there was the duchess.
“I’m more concerned about my grandmother,” Sarah admitted reluctantly. “If she should see or hear something before I get this mess straightened out...”
She gnawed on her lower lip, trying to find a way out of what was looking more and more like the kind of dark, tangly thing you find at the bottom of a pond. To her surprise, Hunter offered a solution to at least one of her problems.
“Tell you what,” he said slowly. “Why don’t I take you home tonight? You can introduce me to your grandmother. That way, whatever happens next won’t come as such a bolt from the blue.”
It was a measure of how desperate Sarah was feeling that she actually considered the idea.
“I don’t think so,” she said after a moment. “I don’t want to complicate the situation any more at this point.”
“All right. I’m staying at the Waldorf. Call me when you’ve had time to consider my proposal. If I don’t hear from you within twenty-four hours, I’ll assume your tacit agreement.”
With that parting shot, he stepped to the curb and flagged down a cab for her. Sarah slid inside, collapsed against the seat and spent the short ride to the Dakota alternately feeling the aftereffects of that kiss, worrying about her sister and cursing the mess Gina had landed her in.
When she let herself in to the apartment, Maria was emptying the dishwasher just prior to leaving.
“Hola, Sarah.”
“Hola, Maria. How did it go today?”
“Well. We walk in the park this afternoon.”
She tucked the last plate in the cupboard and let the dishwasher close with a quiet whoosh. The marble counter got a final swipe.
“We didn’t expect you home until late,” the housekeeper commented as she reached for the coat she’d draped over a kitchen chair. “La duquesa ate an early dinner and retired to her room. She dozed when I checked a few minutes ago.”
“Okay, Maria. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome, chica.” The Ecuadoran shrugged into her coat and hefted her suitcase-size purse. Halfway to the hall, she turned back. “I almost forgot. Gina called.”
“When!”
“About a half hour ago. She said you texted her a couple times.”
“A couple? Try ten or twenty.”
“Ah, well.” A fond smile creased the maid’s plump cheeks. “That’s Gina.”
“Yes, it is,” Sarah agreed grimly. “Did she mention where she was?”
“At the airport in Los Angeles. She said she just wanted to make sure everything was all right before she got on the plane.”
“What plane? Where was she going?”
Maria’s face screwed up in concentration. “Switzerland, I think she said. Or maybe...Swaziland?”
Knowing Gina, it could be either. Although, Sarah thought on a sudden choke of panic, Europe probably boasted better markets for twelfth-century Byzantine artifacts.
She said a hurried good-night to Maria and rummaged frantically in her purse for her phone. She had to catch her sister before her plane took off.
When she got the phone out, the little green text icon indicated she had a text message. And she’d missed hearing the alert. Probably because she was too busy letting Devon Hunter kiss her all the way into next week.
The message was brief and typical Gina.
Met the cuddliest ski instructor.
Off to Switzerland. Later.
Hoping against hope it wasn’t too late, Sarah hit speed dial. The call went immediately to voice mail. She tried texting and stood beside the massive marble counter, scowling at the screen, willing the little icon to pop back a response.
No luck. Gina had obviously powered down her phone. If she ran true to form, she would forget to power the damned thing back up for hours—maybe days—after she landed in Switzerland.
Sarah could almost hear a loud, obnoxious clock ticking inside her head as she went to check on her grandmother. Hunter had given her an additional twenty-four hours. Twenty-three now, and counting.
She knocked lightly on the door, then opened it as quietly as she could. The duchess sat propped against a bank of pillows. Her eyes were closed and an open book lay in her lap.
The anxiety gnawing at Sarah’s insides receded for a moment, edged aside by the love that filled her like liquid warmth. She didn’t see her grandmother’s thin, creased cheeks or the liver spots sprinkled across the back of her hands. She saw the woman who’d opened her heart and her arms to two scared little girls. Charlotte St. Sebastian had nourished and educated them. She’d also shielded them from as much of the world’s ugliness as she could. Now it was Sarah’s turn to do the same.
She tried to ease the book out of the duchess’s lax fingers without waking her. She didn’t succeed. Charlotte’s papery eyelids fluttered up. She blinked a couple of times to focus and smiled.
“How was your dinner?”
Sarah couldn’t lie, but she could dodge a bit. “The restaurant was definitely up to your standards. We’ll have to go there for your birthday.”
“Never mind my birthday.” She patted the side of the bed. “Sit down and tell me about this friend of Eugenia’s. Do you think there’s anything serious between them?”
Hunter was serious, all right. Just not in any way Charlotte would approve of.
“They’re not more than casual acquaintances. In fact, Gina sent me a text earlier this evening. She’s off to Switzerland with the cuddliest ski instructor. Her words, not mine.”
“That girl,” Charlotte huffed. “She’ll be the death of me yet.”
Not if Sarah could help it. The clock was pounding away inside her head, though. In desperation, she took Hunter’s advice and decided to lay some tentative groundwork for whatever might come tomorrow.
“I actually know him better than Gina does, Grandmama.”
“The ski instructor?”
“The man I met at the restaurant this evening. Devon Hunter.” Despite everything, she had to smile. “You know him, too. He came in at Number Three on our Ten Sexiest Singles list.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sarah. You know I only peruse Beguile to gain an appreciation for your work. I don’t pay any attention to the content.”
“I guess it must have been Maria who dog-eared that particular section,” she teased.
Charlotte tipped her aristocratic nose. The gesture was instinctive and inbred and usually preceded a withering set-down. To Sarah’s relief, the nose lowered a moment later and a smile tugged at her grandmother’s lips.
“Is he as hot in real life as he is in print?”
“Hotter.” She drew a deep mental breath. “Which is why I kissed him outside the restaurant.”
“You kissed him? In public?” Charlotte tch-tched, but it was a halfhearted effort. Her face had come alive with interest. “That’s so déclassé, dearest.”
“Yes,