A Business Engagement

Sarah heard the low buzz but didn’t pay any attention to it. She was on deadline and only had until noon to finish the layout for Beguile’s feature on the best new ski resorts for the young and ultrastylish. She wanted to finish the mock-up in time for the senior staff’s weekly working lunch. If she didn’t have it ready, Alexis Danvers, the magazine’s executive editor, would skewer her with one of the basilisk-like stares that had made her a legend in the world of glossy women’s magazines.

Not that her boss’s stony stares particularly bothered Sarah. They might put the rest of the staff in a flophouse sweat, but she and her sister had been raised by a grandmother who could reduce pompous officials or supercilious headwaiters to a quivering bundle of nerves with the lift of a single brow. Charlotte St. Sebastian had once moved in the same circles as Princess Grace and Jackie O. Those days were long gone, Sarah acknowledged, as she switched the headline font from Futura to Trajan, but Grandmama still adhered to the unshakable belief that good breeding and quiet elegance could see a woman through anything life might throw at her.

Sarah agreed completely. Which was one of the reasons she’d refined her own understated style during her three years as layout editor for a magazine aimed at thirtysomethings determined to be chic to the death. Her vintage Chanel suits and Dior gowns might come from Grandmama’s closet, but she teamed the gowns with funky costume jewelry and the suit jackets with slacks or jeans and boots. The result was a stylishly retro look that even Alexis approved of.

The primary reason Sarah stuck to her own style, of course, was that she couldn’t afford the designer shoes and bags and clothing featured in Beguile. Not with Grandmama’s medical bills. Some of her hand-me-downs were starting to show their wear, though, and...

The buzz cut into her thoughts. Gaining volume, it rolled in her direction. Sarah was used to frequent choruses of oohs and aahs. Alexis often had models parade through the art and production departments to field test their hair or makeup or outfits on Beguile’s predominantly female staff.

Whatever was causing this chorus had to be special. Excitement crackled in the air like summer lightning. Wondering what new Jimmy Choo beaded boots or Atelier Versace gown was creating such a stir, Sarah swung her chair around. To her utter astonishment, she found herself looking up into the face of Sexy Single Number Three.

“Ms. St. Sebastian?”

The voice was cold, but the electric-blue eyes, black hair and rugged features telegraphed hot, hot, hot. Alexis had missed the mark with last month’s issue, Sarah thought wildly. This man should have topped the magazine’s annual Ten Sexiest Single Men in the World list instead of taking third place.

The artist in her could appreciate six-feet-plus of hard, muscled masculinity cloaked in the civilized veneer of a hand-tailored suit and Italian-silk tie. The professional in her responded to the coldness in his voice with equally cool civility.

“Yes?”

“I want to talk to you.” Those devastating blue eyes cut to the side. “Alone.”

Sarah followed his searing gaze. An entire gallery of female faces peered over, around and between the production department’s chin-high partitions. A few of those faces were merely curious. Most appeared a half breath away from drooling.

She turned back to Number Three. Too bad his manners didn’t live up to his looks. The aggressiveness in both his tone and his stance were irritating and uncalled for, to say the least.

“What do you want to talk to me about, Mr. Hunter?”

He didn’t appear surprised that she knew his name. She did, after all, work at the magazine that had made hunky Devon Hunter the object of desire by a good portion of the female population at home and abroad.

“Your sister, Ms. St. Sebastian.”

Oh, no! A sinking sensation hit Sarah in the pit of her stomach. What had Gina gotten into now?

Her glance slid to the silver-framed photo on the credenza beside her workstation. There was Sarah, dark-haired, green-eyed, serious as always, protective as always. And Gina. Blonde, bubbly, affectionate, completely irresponsible.

Two years younger than Sarah, Gina tended to change careers with the same dizzying frequency she tumbled in and out of love. She’d texted just a few days ago, gushing about the studly tycoon she’d hooked up with. Omitting, Gina style, to mention such minor details as his name or how they’d met.

Sarah had no trouble filling in the blanks now. Devon Hunter was founder and CEO of a Fortune 500 aerospace corporation headquartered in Los Angeles. Gina was in L.A. chasing yet another career opportunity, this time as a party planner for the rich and famous.

“I think it best if we make this discussion private, Ms. St. Sebastian.”

Resigned to the inevitable, Sarah nodded. Her sister’s flings tended to be short and intense. Most ended amicably, but on several occasions Sarah had been forced to soothe some distinctly ruffled male feathers. This, apparently, was one of those occasions.

“Come with me, Mr. Hunter.”

She led the way to a glass-walled conference room with angled windows that gave a view of Times Square. Framed prominently in one of the windows was the towering Condé Nast Building, the center of the universe for fashion publications. The building was home to Vogue, Vanity Fair, Glamour and Allure. Alexis often brought advertisers to the conference room to impress them with Beguile’s proximity to those icons in the world of women’s glossies.

The caterers hadn’t begun setting up for the working lunch yet but the conference room was always kept ready for visitors. The fridge discreetly hidden behind oak panels held a half-dozen varieties of bottled water, sparkling and plain, as well as juices and energy drinks. The gleaming silver coffee urns were replenished several times a day.

Sarah gestured to the urns on their marble counter. “Would you care for some coffee? Or some sparkling water, perhaps?”

“No. Thanks.”

The curt reply decided her against inviting the man to sit. Crossing her arms, she leaned a hip against the conference table and assumed a look of polite inquiry.

“You wanted to talk about Gina?”

He took his time responding. Sarah refused to bristle as his killer blue eyes made an assessing trip from her face to her Chanel suit jacket with its black-and-white checks and signature logo to her black boots and back up again.

“You don’t look much like your sister.”

“No, I don’t.”

She was comfortable with her slender build and what her grandmother insisted were classic features, but she knew she didn’t come close to Gina’s stunning looks.

“My sister’s the only beauty in the family.”

Politeness dictated that he at least make a show of disputing the calm assertion. Instead, he delivered a completely unexpected bombshell.

“Is she also the only thief?”

Her arms dropped. Her jaw dropped with them. “I beg your pardon?”

“You can do more than beg my pardon, Ms. St. Sebastian. You can contact your sister and tell her to return the artifact she stole from my house.”

The charge took Sarah’s breath away. It came back on a hot rush. “How dare you make such a ridiculous, slanderous accusation?”

“It’s neither ridiculous nor slanderous. It’s fact.”

“You’re crazy!”

She was in full tigress mode now. Years of rushing to her younger sibling’s defense spurred both fury and passion.

“Gina may be flighty and a little careless at times, but she would never take anything that didn’t belong to her!”

Not intentionally, that is. There was that nasty little Pomeranian she’d brought home when she was eight or nine. She’d found it leashed to a sign outside a restaurant in one-hundred-degree heat and “rescued” it. And it was true Gina and her teenaged friends used to borrow clothes from each other constantly, then could never remember what belonged to whom. And, yes, she’d been known to overdraw her checking account when she was strapped for cash, which happened a little too frequently for Sarah’s peace of mind.

But she would never commit theft, as this...this boor was suggesting. Sarah was about to call security to have the man escorted from the building when he reached into his suit pocket and palmed an iPhone.

“Maybe this clip from my home surveillance system will change your mind.”

He tapped the screen, then angled it for Sarah to view. She saw a still image of what looked like a library or study, with the focus of the camera on an arrangement of glass shelves. The objects on the shelves were spaced and spotlighted for maximum dramatic effect. They appeared to be an eclectic mix. Sarah noted an African buffalo mask, a small cloisonné disk on a black lacquer stand and what looked like a statue of a pre-Columbian fertility goddess.

Hunter tapped the screen again and the still segued into a video. While Sarah watched, a tumble of platinum-blond curls came into view. Her heart began to thump painfully even before the owner of those curls moved toward the shelving. It picked up more speed when the owner showed her profile. That was her sister. Sarah couldn’t even pretend to deny it.

Gina glanced over her shoulder, all casual nonchalance, all smiling innocence. When she moved out of view again, the cloisonné medallion no longer sat on its stand. Hunter froze the frame again, and Sarah stared at the empty stand as though it was a bad dream.

“It’s Byzantine,” he said drily. “Early twelfth century, in case you’re interested. One very similar to it sold recently at Sotheby’s in London for just over a hundred thousand.”