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

* * *

Dev thought he’d done a damned good job of conquering his fury over that business with the photographer. Yes, he’d let it get the better of him when he’d accused Sarah’s magazine of staging her own abduction. And yes, he’d come on a little strong earlier this evening when she’d questioned whether he’d hold to his end of their agreement.

He’d had plenty of time to regret both lapses. She’d seen to that by slipping out of the hotel without him. The brief message she’d left while he was in the shower had pissed him off all over again.

Now she’d issued a summons in that aristocratic lady-of-the-manor tone. She’d better not try to shove the emerald at him again. Or deliver any more crap about their “arrangement” being over. They were long past the arrangement stage, and she knew it. She was just too stubborn to admit it.

She’d just have to accept that he wasn’t perfect. He’d screwed up this afternoon by throwing that accusation at her. He’d apologize again. Crawl if he had to. Whatever it took, he intended to make it clear she wasn’t rid of him. Not by a long shot.

That was the plan, anyway, right up until she opened the door. The mottled purple on her cheek tore the heart and the heat right out of him. Curling a knuckle, he brushed it gently across the skin below the bruise.

“Does this hurt as bad as it looks?”

“Not even close.”

She didn’t shy away from his touch. Dev took that as a hopeful sign. That, and the fact that some of the stiffness went out of her spine as she led him into the sitting area.

Nor did it escape his attention that she’d cut off the view that had so enchanted her before. The heavy, room-darkening drapes were drawn tight, blocking anyone from seeing out...or in.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked politely, gesturing to the well-stocked minibar.

“No, thanks, I’m good.”

As he spoke, an image on the TV snagged his glance. The sound was muted but he didn’t need it to recognize the amateur video playing across the screen. He’d already seen it several times.

Sarah noticed what had caught his attention and picked up the remote. “Have you seen the news coverage?”

“Yeah.”

Clicking off the TV, she sank into an easy chair and raised a stockinged foot. Her arms locked around her bent knee and her green eyes regarded him steadily.

“I took your advice and thought more about our...our situation.”

“That’s one way to describe it,” he acknowledged. “You come to any different conclusions about how we should handle it?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

Dev waited, wanting to hear her thoughts.

“I feel as though I jumped on a speeding train. Everything happened so fast. You, me, Paris. Now Grandmama is insisting on...” She broke off, a flush rising, and took a moment to recover. “I was afraid the news services might pick up the kidnapping story, so I called her and tried to shrug off the incident as the work of bumbling amateurs.”

“Did she buy that?”

“No.”

“Smart woman, your grandmother.”

“You might not agree when I tell you she segued immediately from that to insisting on a May wedding.”

Well, what do you know? Dev was pretty sure he’d passed inspection with the duchess. Good to have it confirmed, especially since he apparently had a number of hurdles to overcome before he regained her granddaughter’s trust.

“I repeat, your grandmother’s a smart woman.”

“She is, but then she doesn’t know the facts behind our manufactured engagement.”

“Do you think she needs to?”

“What I think,” Sarah said slowly, “is that we need to put the brakes on this runaway train.”

Putting the brakes on was a long step from her earlier insistence they call things off. Maybe he didn’t face as many hurdles as he’d thought.

His tension easing by imperceptible degrees, Dev cocked his head. “How do you propose we do that?”

“We step back. Take some time to assess this attraction we both seem to...”

“Attraction?” He shook his head. “Sorry, sweetheart, I can’t let you get away with that one. You and I both know we’ve left attraction in the dust.”

“You’re right.”

She rested her chin on her knee, obviously searching for the right word. Impatience bit at him, but he reined it in. If he hadn’t learned anything else today, he’d discovered Sarah could only be pushed so far.

“I won’t lie,” she said slowly. “What I feel for you is so different from anything I’ve ever experienced before. I think it’s love. No, I’m pretty sure it’s love.”

That was all he needed to hear. He started toward her, but she stopped him with a quick palms-up gesture.

“What I’m not sure of, Dev, is whether love’s enough to overcome the fact that we barely know each other.”

“I know all I need to know about you.”

“Oh. Right.” She made a wry face. “I forgot about the background investigation.”

He wouldn’t apologize. He’d been up front with her about that. But he did attempt to put it in perspective.

“The investigation provided the externals, Sarah. The time we’ve spent together, as brief as it’s been, provided the essentials.”

“Really?” She lifted a brow. “What’s my favorite color? Am I a dog or a cat person? What kind of music do I like?”

“You consider those essentials?” he asked, genuinely curious.

“They’re some of the bits and pieces that constitute the whole. Don’t you think we should see how those pieces fit together before getting in any deeper?”

“I don’t, but you obviously do.”

If this was a business decision, he would ruthlessly override what he privately considered trivial objections. He’d made up his mind. He knew what he wanted.

Sarah did, too, apparently. With a flash of extremely belated insight, Dev realized she wanted to be courted. More to the point, she deserved to be courted.

Lady Sarah St. Sebastian might work at a magazine that promoted flashy and modern and ultrachic, but she held to old-fashioned values that he’d come to appreciate as much as her innate elegance and surprising sensuality. Her fierce loyalty to her sister, for instance. Her bone-deep love for the duchess. Her refusal to accept anything from him except her grandmother’s emerald ring, and then only on a temporary basis.

He could do old-fashioned. He could do slow and courtly. Maybe. Admittedly, he didn’t have a whole lot of experience in either. Moving out and taking charge came as natural to him as breathing. But if throttling back on his more aggressive instincts was what she wanted, that was what she’d get.

“Okay, we’ll do it your way.”

* * *

He started toward her again. Surprised and more than a little wary of his relatively easy capitulation, Sarah let her raised foot slip to the floor and pushed out of her chair.

He stopped less than a yard away. Close enough to kiss, which she had to admit she wouldn’t have minded all that much at this point. He settled for a touch instead. He kept it light, just a brush of his fingertips along the underside of her chin.

“We’ll kick off phase two,” he promised in a tone that edged toward deep and husky. “No negotiated contracts this time, no self-imposed deadlines. Just you and me, learning each other’s little idiosyncrasies. If that’s what you really want...?”

She nodded, although the soft dance of his fingers under her chin and the proximity of his mouth made it tough to stay focused.

“It’s what I really want.”

“All right, I’ll call Patrick.”

“Who? Oh, right. Your executive assistant. Excuse me for asking, but what does he have to do with this?”

“He’s going to clear my calendar. Indefinitely. He’ll blow every one of his fuses, but he’ll get it done.”

His fingers made another pass. Sarah’s thoughts zinged wildly between the little pinpricks of pleasure he was generating and that “indefinitely.”

“What about your schedule?” he asked. “How much time can you devote to phase two?”

“My calendar’s wide-open, too. I quit my job.”

“You didn’t have to do that. I’m already past the business with the photographer.”

“You may be,” she retorted. “I’m not.”

He absorbed that for a moment. “All right. Here’s what we’ll do, then. We give our statements to the Brigade criminelle at nine tomorrow morning and initiate phase two immediately after. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Good. I’ll have a car waiting at eight-thirty to take us downtown. See you down in the lobby then.”

He leaned in and brushed his lips over hers.

“Good night, Sarah.”

She’d never really understood that old saying about being hoisted with your own petard. It had something to do with getting caught up in a medieval catapult, she thought. Or maybe hanging by one foot in a tangle of ropes from the mast of a fourteenth-century frigate.

Either situation would pretty much describe her feelings when Dev crossed the room and let himself out.

Thirteen

Sarah spent hours tossing and turning and kicking herself for her self-imposed celibacy. As a result, she didn’t fall asleep until almost one and woke late the next morning.

The first thing she did was roll over in bed and grab her cell phone from the nightstand to check for messages. Still nothing from Gina, dammit, but Alexis had left two voice mails apologizing for what she termed an unfortunate misunderstanding and emphatically refusing to accept her senior layout editor’s resignation.

“Misunderstanding, my ass.”

Her mouth set, Sarah deleted the voice mails and threw back the covers. She’d have to hustle to be ready for the car Dev had said would be waiting at eight-thirty. A quick shower eliminated most of the cobwebs from her restless night. An equally quick cup of strong brew from the little coffeemaker in her room helped with the remainder.

Before she dressed, she stuck her nose through the balcony doors to assess the weather. No fog or drizzle, but still chilly enough to make her opt for her gray wool slacks and cherry-red sweater coat. She topped them with a scarf doubled around her throat European-style and a black beret tilted to a decidedly French angle.

She rushed down to the lobby with two minutes to spare and saw Dev had also prepared for the chill. But in jeans, a black turtleneck and a tan cashmere coat this morning instead of his usual business suit. He greeted her with a smile and a quick kiss.

“Bonjour, ma chérie. Sleep well?”

She managed not to wince at his accent. “Fairly well.”

“Did you have time for breakfast?”

“No.”

“I was running a little late, too, so I had the driver pick up some chocolate croissants and coffees. Shall we go?”

He offered his arm in a gesture she was beginning to realize was as instinctive as it was courteous. When she tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, she could feel his warmth through the soft wool. Feel, too, the ripple of hard muscle as he leaned past her to push open the hotel door.

Traffic was its usual snarling beast, but the coffee and chocolate croissants mitigated the frustration. They were right on time when they pulled up at the block-long building overlooking the Seine that housed the headquarters of the Brigade criminelle. A lengthy sequence of security checkpoints, body scans and ID verification made them late for their appointment, however.

Detective Inspector Marie-Renée Delacroix waved aside their apologies as unnecessary and signed them in. Short and barrel-shaped, she wore a white blouse, black slacks and rubber-soled granny shoes. The semiautomatic nested in her shoulder holster belied her otherwise unprepossessing exterior.

“Thank you for coming in,” she said in fluent English. “I’ll try to make this as swift and painless as possible. Please, come with me.”

She led them up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor interspersed with heavy oak doors. When Delacroix pushed through the door to her bureau, Sarah looked about with interest. The inspector’s habitat didn’t resemble the bull pens depicted on American TV police dramas. American bull pens probably didn’t, either, she acknowledged wryly.

There were no dented metal file cabinets or half-empty cartons of doughnuts. No foam cups littering back-to-back desks or squawking phones. The area was spacious and well lit and smoke free. Soundproofing dividers offered at least the illusion of privacy, while monitors mounted high on the front wall flashed what looked like real-time updates on hot spots around Paris.

“Would you like coffee?” Delacroix asked as she waved them to seats in front of her desk.

Sarah looked to Dev before answering for them both. “No, thank you.”

The inspector dropped into the chair behind the desk. Shoulders hunched, brows straight-lined, she dragged a wireless keyboard into reach and attacked it with two stubby forefingers. The assault was merciless, but for reasons known only to French computer gods, the typed versions of the statements Sarah and Dev had given to the responding officers wouldn’t spit out of the printer.

“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 about you?” she asked, glancing up at him again. “Do you prefer dogs or cats?”

“Bluetick coonhounds,” he answered without hesitation. “Best hunters in the world. We had a slew of barn cats, though. My sisters were always trying to palm their litters off on friends, too.”

Intrigued, Sarah pumped him for more details about his family. “I know you grew up on a ranch. In Nebraska, wasn’t it?”

“New Mexico, but it was more like a hardscrabble farm than a ranch.”

“Do your parents still work the farm?”

“They do. They like the old place and have no desire to leave it, although they did let me make a few improvements.”

More than a few, Sarah guessed.

“What about your sisters?”

He had four, she remembered, none of whom had agreed to be interviewed for the Beguile article. The feeling that their business was nobody else’s ran deep in the Hunter clan.

“All married, all comfortable, all happy. You hungry?”

The abrupt change of subject threw Sarah off until she saw what had captured his attention. They’d reached the Pont de l’Alma, which gave a bird’s-eye view of the glass-roofed barges docked on the north side of the Seine. One boat was obviously set for a lunch cruise. Its linen-draped tables were set with gleaming silver and crystal.

“Have you ever taken one of these Seine river cruises?” Dev asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They’re, uh, a little touristy.”

“This is Paris. Everyone’s a tourist, even the Parisians.”

“Good God, don’t let a native hear you say that!”

“What do you say? Want to mingle with the masses for a few hours?”

She threw a glance at a tour bus disgorging its load of passengers and swallowed her doubts.

“I’m game if you are.”

He steered her to the steps that led down to the quay. Sarah fully expected them to be turned away at the ticket office. While a good number of boats cruised the Seine, picking up or letting off passengers at various stops, tour agencies tended to book these lunch and dinner cruises for large groups months in advance.

Whatever Dev said—or paid—at the ticket booth not only got them on the boat, it garnered a prime table for two beside the window. Their server introduced herself and filled their aperitif glasses with kir. A smile in his eyes, Dev raised his glass.

“To us.”

“To us,” Sarah echoed softly.

The cocktail went down with velvet smoothness. She savored the intertwined flavors while Dev gave his glass a respectful glance.

“What’s in this?”

“Crème de cassis—black-currant liqueur—topped with white wine. It’s named for Félix Kir, the mayor of Dijon, who popularized the drink after World War II.”

“Well, it doesn’t have the same wallop as your grandmother’s Žuta Osa but it’s good.”

“’Scuse me.”

The interruption came from the fortyish brunette at the next table. She beamed Sarah a friendly smile.

“Y’all are Americans, aren’t you?”

“Yes, we are.”

“So are we. We’re the Parkers. Evelyn and Duane Parker, from Mobile.”

Sarah hesitated. She hated to be rude, but Evelyn’s leopard-print Versace jacket and jewel-toed boots indicated she kept up with the latest styles. If she read Beguile, she would probably recognize Number Three from the Sexiest Singles article. Or from the recent news coverage.

Dev solved her dilemma by gesturing to the cell phone Evelyn clutched in one hand. “I’m Dev and this is my fiancée, Sarah. Would you like me to take a picture of you and your husband?”

“Please. And I’ll do one of y’all.”

The accordion player began strolling the aisle while cell phones were still being exchanged and photos posed for. When he broke into a beautiful baritone, all conversation on the boat ceased and Sarah breathed easy again.

Moments later, they pulled away from the dock and glided under the first of a dozen or more bridges yet to come. Meal service began then. Sarah wasn’t surprised at the quality of the food. This was Paris, after all. She and Dev sampled each of the starters: foie gras on a toasted baguette; Provençal smoked salmon and shallots; duck magret salad with cubes of crusty goat cheese; tiny vegetable egg rolls fried to a pale golden brown. Sarah chose honey-and-sesame-seed pork tenderloin for her main dish. Dev went with the veal blanquette. With each course, their server poured a different wine. Crisp, chilled whites. Medium reds. Brandy with the rum baba they each selected for dessert.

Meanwhile, Paris’s most famous monuments were framed in the windows. The Louvre. La Conciergerie. Notre Dame. The Eiffel Tower.

The boat made a U-turn while Sarah and Dev lingered over coffee, sharing more of their pasts. She listened wide-eyed to the stories Dev told of his Air Force days. She suspected he edited them to minimize the danger and maximize the role played by others on his crew. Still, the war-torn countries he’d flown into and the horrific disasters he’d helped provide lifesaving relief for made her world seem frivolous by comparison.

“Grandmama took us abroad every year,” she related when he insisted it was her turn. “She was determined to expose Gina and me to cultures other than our own.”

“Did she ever take you to Karlenburgh?”

“No, never. That would have been too painful for her. I’d like to go someday, though. We still have cousins there, three or four times removed.”

She traced a fingertip around the rim of her coffee cup. Although it tore at her pride, she forced herself to admit the truth.

“Gina and I never knew what sacrifices Grandmama had to make to pay for those trips. Or for my year at the Sorbonne.”

“I’m guessing your sister still doesn’t know.”

She jerked her head up, prepared to defend Gina yet again. But there was nothing judgmental in Dev’s expression. Only quiet understanding.

“She has a vague idea,” Sarah told him. “I never went into all the gory details, but she’s not stupid.”

Dev had to bite down on the inside of his lower lip. Eugenia Amalia Therése St. Sebastian hadn’t impressed him with either her intelligence or her common sense. Then again, he hadn’t been particularly interested in her intellectual prowess the few times they’d connected.

In his defense, few horny, heterosexual males could see beyond Gina’s stunning beauty. At least not until they’d spent more than an hour or two in the bubbleheaded blonde’s company. Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, he chose not to share that particular observation.

He couldn’t help comparing the sisters, though. No man in his right mind would deny that he’d come out the winner in the St. Sebastian lottery. Charm, elegance, smarts, sensuality and...

He’d better stop right there! When the hell had he reached the point where the mere thought of Sarah’s smooth, sleek body stretched out under his got him rock hard? Where the memory of how she’d opened her legs for him damned near steamed up the windows beside their table?

Suddenly Dev couldn’t wait for the boat to pass under the last bridge. By the time they’d docked and he’d hustled Sarah up the gangplank, his turtleneck was strangling him. The look of confused concern she flashed at him as they climbed the steps to street level didn’t help matters.

“Are you all right?”

He debated for all of two seconds before deciding on the truth. “Not anywhere close to all right.”

“Oh, no! Was it the foie gras?” Dismayed, she rushed to the curb to flag down a cab. “You have to be careful with goose liver.”

“Sarah...”

“I should have asked if it had been wrapped in grape leaves and slow cooked. That’s the safest method.”

“Sarah...”

A cab screeched to the curb. Forehead creased with worry, she yanked on the door handle. Dev had to wait until they were in the taxi and heading for the hotel to explain his sudden incapacitation.

“It wasn’t the foie gras.”

Concern darkened her eyes to deep, verdant green. “The veal, then? Was it bad?”

“No, sweetheart. It’s you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Startled, she lurched back against her seat. Dev cursed his clumsiness and hauled her into his arms.

“As delicious as lunch was, all I could think about was how you taste.” His mouth roamed hers. His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “How you fit against me. How you arch your back and make that little noise in your throat when you’re about to climax.”

She leaned back in his arms. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He could see it in the desire that shaded her eyes to deep, dark emerald. In the way her breath had picked up speed. Fierce satisfaction knifed into him. She was rethinking the cooling-off period, Dev thought exultantly. She had to recognize how unnecessary this phase two was.

His hopes took a nosedive—and his respect for Sarah’s willpower kicked up a grudging notch—when she drew in a shuddering breath and gave him a rueful smile.

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t the goose liver.”