“Good thing I talked you into packing your long velvet skirt.”
That came from Sabrina, who firmly believed appearance and flexibility were as important in their business as organizational skills. All three were getting a real test tonight.
“What are you wearing with it?”
“The gold lamé number you also made me pack.”
Devon leaned away from the computer’s built-in camera to display the scoop-necked, cap-sleeved top in glittering gold. Lightweight and silky, it could jazz up a suit for an after-five cocktail meeting or provide an elegant stand-alone for an evening function like this.
“Perfect,” Sabrina announced. “Now go eat, don’t drink and be merry.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Cal escorted her to the lobby and the car Herr Hauptmann had sent. His hair was still damp from his shower and the tangy lemon-lime scent of his aftershave teased her senses.
The two-hour concert provided another banquet for her senses. Dresden’s opera house had been leveled during World War Two and damaged again when the Elbe flooded its banks in 2002. But huge infusions of funds had restored the theater to its former glory. Pale green walls, magnificent ceiling paintings and the ornate molding on its tiers of boxes made an incredible backdrop for the Dresden Boys’ Choir. The ensemble rivaled Vienna’s for the purity of the voices. The singers’ notes soared high, sounding as though they flew on angels’ wings
Dinner afterward was smaller and more intimate but every bit as elegant. Herr Hauptmann had reserved a corner table at Das Caroussel, located in a recently restored Baroque palace. Mindful of Sabrina’s parting advice, Devon feasted on braised veal accompanied by a sauerbraten ravioli that made her taste buds want to weep with joy, but limited her alcohol intake to a few sips of a light, fruity Rhine wine.
Madam Hauptmann was a surprise. Vivacious and petite next to her husband’s bulk, she spoke flawless English and was delighted to learn Devon had studied in her native Austria. She was also very impressed with Cal Logan. As dinner progressed and the waiter refilled her wine glass, Lisel Hauptmann’s playful flirtation began to include seemingly accidental touches and sidelong glances her husband failed to note.
Devon noticed them, however. The beauty of the concert and the luxurious restaurant evaporated bit by bit. By the time coffee was served, her dessert of Jerusalem pear and artichoke vinaigrette tasted more like chalk with every bite.
She’d had to endure countless scenes like this during her short-lived marriage to Blake McShay. Tall and trim and salon-tanned, her husband had played his flamboyant good looks and TV-personality role for all they were worth. But only for PR purposes, or so Blake would argue when Devon objected to the way he let women fawn all over him.
To Cal Logan’s credit, he appeared completely oblivious to Madam Hauptmann’s less-than-subtle signals. That should have won him some brownie points with Devon, but the bad taste stayed with her after the Hauptmanns dropped them off at their hotel. She returned short, noncommittal responses to her client’s comments during the walk through the lobby and said even less in the elevator.
The plush, patterned carpet lining the hall muted their footsteps as they approached Cal’s suite. He stopped beside the double doors but didn’t insert the key. Tapping the key card against his hand, he raked a glance over her face.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she lied.
In fact, she was anything but. Watching Lisel Hauptmann’s performance had stirred too many nasty memories. All Devon wanted was to crawl between the sheets and let sleep wipe them away. Her client’s long day gave her the perfect out.
“But you must be exhausted,” she said. “I’ll check the weather and call you in a few minutes with our revised itinerary for tomorrow.”
“Why don’t you bring me a printed copy? We can have a cognac while we go over the details.”
“I don’t care for cognac.”
He cocked a brow at the stiff response. “I’m sure we can fine something else to suit your tastes. See you in a few minutes.”
“Fine.”
Devon could feel those blue eyes drilling into her back as she marched the few yards to her room and knew she had to get a grip here.
So Cal Logan was too damned hot for his own—or anyone else’s—good? So he and this crazy time of year combined to throw her off balance? She’d darn well better get her head on straight before she trotted back to the man’s suite.
The e-mail from Caroline didn’t help in that regard. Her heart sinking, Devon skimmed the meager contents. European weather experts had already labeled this the ice storm of the century. Many airports had closed until further notice. Trains were running hours behind schedule, if at all. Road conditions were expected to worsen overnight. The experts predicted widespread power outages as trees groaning with the weight of ice cracked and toppled electrical lines.
Caroline’s advice was to hunker down right where they were and wait out the storm. With great reluctance, Devon called down to the desk to check on room availability should they have to extend.
“It should not be a problem, madam.”
Ha! She’d heard that before.
“If you and Herr Logan cannot depart because of this storm, our other guests most likely cannot arrive. In either case, we will work out suitable arrangements.”
Vowing to hold them to that promise, Devon printed the e-mail and headed back down the hall.
“It’s not looking good for travel to Berlin tomorrow,” she announced when Cal opened the door.
“I heard.”
Ushering her inside, he gestured to the plasma TV mounted on the wall. The screen showed a scene of almost eerie beauty. Like slender, long-limbed ballerinas, a row of ice-coated linden trees bowed almost to the ground.
“I caught the tail end of a CNN Europe broadcast. Evidently this front isn’t expected to move any time soon. We need to discuss options.”
He’d shed his suit coat and loosened his tie. He’d also popped the top buttons of his blue shirt and rolled up the cuffs. As he reached for the doors of the highboy that housed the suite’s well-stocked bar, Devon caught the gleam of a thin gold watch on his wrist, all the more noticeable against skin tanned to dark oak.
It was a deep, natural color that couldn’t have come from a bottle or the cocoon of a tanning bed. Devon should know. Her ex had spent megabucks on the latter. And those white squint lines at the corners of his eyes weren’t the result of peering at spreadsheets. Cal Logan might run a corporation that employed thousands, but he didn’t do it exclusively from the confines of a corner office.
“You said you’re not a cognac devotee. What would you like?”
The dazzling array of bottles beckoned. She’d been careful to take only a taste of schnapps during the welcome toasts at Herr Hauptmann’s office and a few sips of wine at dinner. With her client’s trip coming apart at the seams, though, she decided on a shot of something stronger than the diet Sprite she started to ask for.
“Baileys would be good. On the rocks.”
“One Baileys coming up.”
While he splashed the creamy liqueur into a brandy snifter, Devon took a quick glance around. Since the suite’s previous occupant had delayed his checkout, she hadn’t been able to inspect it before Cal moved in. She needn’t have worried. From what she could see, the King’s Suite more than lived up to the hotel’s proud claim that royalty had slept here, not to mention presidents, prime ministers and a good number of rock stars.
The luxurious apartment consisted of four rooms, each filled with what looked like priceless