The From Paris With Love And Regency Season Of Secrets Ultimate Collection

Eleven

Dev broke into a run even before he fully processed what had just happened. All he knew for sure was that Sarah had been strolling toward him one moment and was gone the next. His brain scrambled for a rational explanation of her sudden disappearance. She could have ducked into a shop. Could have stopped to check something in a store window. His gut went with the delivery van.

Dev hit the corner in a full-out sprint and charged down the side street. He dodged a woman pushing a baby carriage, earned a curse from two men he almost bowled over. He could see the van up ahead, see its taillights flashing red as it braked for a stop sign.

He was within twenty yards when the red lights blinked off. Less than ten yards away when the van began another turn. The front window was halfway down. Through it Dev could see the driver, his gaze intent on the pedestrians streaming across the intersection and his thin black cigarillo sending spirals of smoke through the half-open window.

Dev calculated the odds on the fly. Go for the double rear doors or aim for the driver? He risked losing the van if the rear doors were locked and the vehicle picked up speed after completing the turn. He also risked causing an accident if he jumped into traffic in the middle of a busy intersection and planted himself in front of the van.

He couldn’t take that chance on losing it. With a desperate burst of speed, he cut the corner and ran into the street right ahead of an oncoming taxi. Brakes squealing, horn blaring, the cab fishtailed. Dev slapped a hand on its hood, pushed off and landed in a few yards ahead of the now-rolling van. He put up both hands and shouted a fierce command.

“Stop!”

He got a glimpse, just a glimpse, of the driver’s face through the windshield. Surprise, fear, desperation all flashed across it in the half second before he hit the gas.

Well, hell! The son of a bitch was gunning straight for him.

Dev jumped out of the way at the last second and leaped for the van’s door as the vehicle tried to zoom past. The door was unlocked, thank God, although he’d been prepared to hook an arm inside the open window and pop the lock if necessary. Wrenching the panel open, he got a bulldog grip on the driver’s leather jacket.

“Pull over, dammit.”

The man jerked the wheel, cursing and shouting and trying frantically to dislodge him. The van swerved. More horns blasted.

“Dev!”

The shout came from the back of the van. From Sarah. He didn’t wait to hear more. His fist locked on the driver’s leather jacket, he put all his muscle into a swift yank. The bastard’s face slammed into the steering wheel. Bone crunched. Blood fountained. The driver slumped.

Reaching past him, Dev tore the keys from the ignition. The engine died, but the van continued to roll toward a car that swerved wildly but couldn’t avoid a collision. Metal crunched metal as both vehicles came to an abrupt stop, and Dev fumbled for the release for the driver’s seat belt. He dragged the unconscious man out and let him drop to the pavement. Scrambling into the front seat, he had one leg over the console to climb into the rear compartment when the back doors flew open and someone jumped out.

It wasn’t Sarah. She was on her knees in the back. A livid red welt marred one cheek. A roll of silver electrical tape dangled from a wide strip wrapped around one wrist. Climbing over the console, Dev stooped beside her.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes were wide and frightened, but the distant wail of a siren eased some of their panic. Dev tore his glance from her to the open rear doors and the man running like hell back down the side street.

“Stay here and wait for the police. I’m going after that bastard.”

“Wait!” She grabbed his arm. “You don’t need to chase him! I know who he is.”

He swung back. “You know him?”

When she nodded, suspicion knifed into him like a serrated blade. His fists bunched, and a distant corner of his mind registered the fact that he’d lost the lithograph sometime during the chase. The rest of him staggered under a sudden realization.

“This is part of it, isn’t it? This big abduction scene?”

“Scene?”

She sounded so surprised he almost believed her. Worse, dammit, he wanted to believe her!

“It’s okay,” he ground out. “You can drop the act. I bumped into the photographer from Beguile back there on rue de Monttessuy. We had quite a conversation.”

Her color drained, making the red welt across her cheek look almost obscene by contrast. “You...you talked to a photographer from my magazine?”

“Yeah, Lady Sarah, I did. François told me about the shoot. Showed me some of the pictures he’s already taken. I’ll have to ask him to send me the one of you on the balcony. You make a helluva Juliet.”

The sirens were louder now. Their harsh, up-and-down bleat almost drowned out her whisper.

“And you think we...me, this photographer, my magazine...you think we staged an abduction?”

“I’m a little slow. It took me a while to understand the angle. I’m betting your barracuda of a boss dreamed it up. Big, brave Number Three rescues his beautiful fiancée from would-be kidnappers.”

She looked away, and her silence cut even deeper than Dev’s suspicion. He’d hoped she would go all huffy, deny at least some of her part in this farce. Apparently, she couldn’t.

Well, Sarah and her magazine could damned well live with the consequences of their idiotic scheme. At the least, they were looking at thousands of dollars in vehicle damage. At the worst, reconstructive surgery for the driver whose face Dev had rearranged.

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 personalities. Sarah wanted to ask what category this investigation fell into but refrained. Instead she agreed to an appointment at police headquarters the next morning at nine.

“I’ve already spoken to Monsieur Hunter,” the inspector said. “He’ll accompany you.”

“Fine.”

“Just so you know, Mademoiselle St. Sebastian, this meeting is a mere formality, simply to review and sign the official copy of your statement.”

“That’s all you need from me?”

“It is. We already had the van driver in custody, and we arrested Henri Lefèvre an hour ago. They’ve both confessed to attempting to kidnap you and hold you for ransom. Not that they could deny it,” the inspector added drily. “Their fingerprints were all over the van, and no fewer than five witnesses saw Lefèvre jump out of it after the crash. We’ve also uncovered evidence that he’s more than fifty thousand Euros in debt, much of which we believe he owes to a drug dealer not known for his patience.”

A shudder rippled down Sarah’s spine. She couldn’t believe how close she’d come to being dragged into such a dark, ugly morass.

“Am I free to return to the United States after I sign my statement?”

“I’ll have to check with the prosecutor’s office, but I see no reason for them to impede your return given that Lefèvre and his accomplice have confessed. I’ll confirm that when you come in tomorrow, yes?”

“Thank you.”

She hung up and was contemplating going back to bed when there was a knock on her door.

“It’s Dev, Sarah.”

She wanted to take the coward’s way out and tell him she didn’t feel up to company, but she couldn’t keep putting him off.

“Just a minute,” she called through the door.

She detoured into the bedroom and threw on the clothes she’d dropped to the floor earlier. She couldn’t do much about the bruise on her cheek, but she did rake a hand through her hair. Still, she felt messy and off center when she opened the door.

Dev had abandoned his suit coat but still wore the pleated pants and pale yellow dress shirt he’d had on earlier. The shirt was open at the neck, the cuffs rolled up. Sarah had to drag her reluctant gaze up to meet the deep blue of his eyes. They were locked on her cheek.

“Did you ice that?”

“Yes, I did. Come in.”

He followed her into the sitting room. Neither of them sat. She gravitated to the window. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets and stood beside the sofa.

“Have you heard from Inspector Delacroix?”

“She just called. I understand we have an appointment with her at nine tomorrow morning.”

“Did she tell you they’ve already obtained confessions?”

Sarah nodded and forced a small smile. “She also told me I could fly home after I signed the official statement. I was just about to call and make a reservation when you knocked.”

“Without talking to me first?”

“I think we’ve said everything we needed to.”

“I don’t agree.”

She scrubbed a hand down the side of her face. Her cheek ached. Her heart hurt worse. “Please, Dev. I don’t want to beat this into the ground.”

Poor verb choice, she realized when he ignored her and crossed the room to cup her chin. The ice hadn’t helped much, Sarah knew. The bruise had progressed from red to a nasty purple and green.

“Did Lefèvre do this to you?”

The underlying savagery in the question had her pulling hastily away from his touch.

“No, he didn’t. I hit something when he pushed me into the van.”

The savagery didn’t abate. If anything, it flared hotter and fiercer. “Good thing the bastard’s in police custody.”

Sarah struggled to get the discussion back on track. “Lefèvre doesn’t matter, Dev.”

“The hell he doesn’t.”

“Listen to me. What matters is that I didn’t know Alexis had sicced a photographer on us. But even if she hadn’t, some other magazine or tabloid would have picked up the story sooner or later. I’m afraid that kind of public scrutiny is something you and whoever you do finally get engaged to will have to live with.”

“I’m engaged to you, Sarah.”

“Not any longer.”

Shoving her misery aside, she slid the emerald off her finger and held it out. He refused to take it.

“It’s yours,” he said curtly. “Part of your heritage. Whatever happens from here on out between us, you keep the Russian Rose.”

The tight-jawed response only added to her aching unhappiness. “Our arrangement lasted only until you and Girault signed your precious contracts. That’s done now. So are we.”

She hadn’t intended to sound so bitter. Dev had held to his end of their bargain. Every part of it. She was the one who’d almost defaulted. If not personally, then by proxy through Alexis.

But would Dev continue to hold to his end? The sudden worry that he might take his anger out on Gina pushed her into a rash demand for an assurance.

“I’ve fulfilled the conditions of our agreement, right? You won’t go after my sister?”

She’d forgotten how daunting he could look when his eyes went hard and ice blue.

“No, Lady Sarah, I won’t. And I think we’d better table this discussion until we’ve had more time to think things through.”

“I’ve thought them through,” she said desperately. “I’m going home tomorrow, Dev.”

He leaned in, all the more intimidating because he didn’t touch her, didn’t raise his voice, didn’t so much as blink.

“Think again, sweetheart.”

Twelve

Left alone in her misery, Sarah opened her hand and stared at the emerald-and-gold ring. No matter what Dev said, she couldn’t keep it.

Nor could she just leave it lying around. She toyed briefly with the thought of taking it downstairs and asking Monsieur LeBon to secure it in the hotel safe, but didn’t feel up to explaining either her bruised cheek or the call from Brigade criminelle.

With an aching sense of regret for what might have been, she slipped the ring back on her finger. It would have to stay there until she returned it to Dev.

She was trying to make herself go into the bedroom and pack when a loud rumble from the vicinity of her middle reminded her she hadn’t eaten since her breakfast croissant and coffee. She considered room service but decided she needed to get out of her room and clear her head. She also needed, as Dev had grimly instructed, to think more.

After a fierce internal debate, she picked up the house phone. A lifetime of etiquette hammered in by the duchess demanded she advise Dev of her intention to grab a bite at a local café. Fiancé or not, furious or not, he deserved the courtesy of a call.

Relief rolled through her in waves when he didn’t answer. She left a quick message, then took the elevator to the lobby. Slipping out one of the hotel’s side exits, she hiked up the collar of her sweater coat. It wasn’t dusk yet, but the temperature was skidding rapidly from cool to cold.

As expected this time of day, the sidewalks and streets were crowded. Parisians returning from work made last-minute stops at grocers and patisseries. Taxis wove their erratic path through cars and bicycles. Sarah barely noticed the throng. Her last meeting with Dev still filled her mind. Their tense confrontation had shaken her almost as much as being snatched off the street and tossed into a delivery van like a sack of potatoes.

He had every right to be angry about the photographer, she conceded. She was furious, too. What had hurt most, though, was Dev’s assumption that Beguile had staged the kidnapping. And that Sarah was part of the deception. How could he love her, yet believe she would participate in a scam like that?

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 her magazine stalking him, he’d still raced to her rescue. Then, of course, he’d accused her of being party to the ruse. As much as she wanted to, Sarah couldn’t quite get past the disgust she’d seen in his face at that moment.

Yet he’d also shown her moments of incredible tenderness in their short time together. Moments of thoughtfulness and laughter and incredible passion. She couldn’t get past those, either.

Or the fact that she’d responded to him so eagerly. So damned joyously. However they’d met, whatever odd circumstances had thrown them together, Dev Hunter stirred—and satisfied—a deep, almost primal feminine hunger she’d never experienced before.

The problem, Sarah mused as she paid her check and walked out into the deepening dusk, was that everything had happened so quickly. Dev’s surprise appearance at her office. His bold-faced offer of a deal. Their fake engagement. This trip to Paris. She’d been caught up in the whirlwind since the day Dev had showed up at her office and tilted her world off its axis. The speed of it, the intensity of it, had magnified emotions and minimized any chance to catch her breath.

What they needed, she decided as she keyed the door to her room, was time and some distance from each other. A cooling-off period, after which they could start over. Assuming Dev wanted to start over, of course. Bracing herself for what she suspected would be an uncomfortable discussion, she picked up the house phone and called his room.

He answered on the second ring. “Hunter.”

“It’s Sarah.”

“I got your message. Did you have a good dinner?”

She couldn’t miss the steel under the too-polite query. He wasn’t happy that she’d gone to eat without him.

“I did, thank you. Can you come down to my room? Or I’ll come to yours, if that’s more convenient.”

“More convenient for what?”

All right. She understood he was still angry. As Grandmama would say, however, that was no excuse for boorishness.

“We need to finish the conversation we started earlier,” she said coolly.

He answered with a brief silence, followed by a terse agreement. “I’ll come to your room.”