A Business Engagement

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, I know. Even worse, there was a totally obnoxious woman inside the restaurant. She recognized Devon and made a rather rude comment. I suspect she may have snapped a picture or two. The kiss may well show up in some tabloid.”

“I should hope not!”

Her lips thinning, the duchess contemplated that distasteful prospect for a moment before making a shrewd observation.

“Alexis will throw a world-class tantrum if something like this appears in any magazine but hers. You’d best forewarn her.”

“I intend to.” She glanced at the pillbox and crystal water decanter on the marble-topped nightstand. “Did you take your medicine?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Are you sure? Sometimes you doze off and forget.”

“I took it, Sarah. Don’t fuss at me.”

“It’s my job to fuss.” She leaned forward and kissed a soft, lily-of-the-valley-scented cheek. “Good night, Grandmama.”

“Good night.”

She got as far as the bedroom door. Close, so close, to making an escape. She had one hand on the latch when the duchess issued an imperial edict.

“Bring this Mr. Hunter by for drinks tomorrow evening, Sarah. I would like to meet him.”

“I’m not certain what his plans are.”

“Whatever they are,” Charlotte said loftily, “I’m sure he can work in a brief visit.”

Sarah went to sleep trying to decide which would be worse: entering into a fake engagement, informing Alexis that a tabloid might beat Beguile to a juicy story involving one of its own editors or continuing to feed her grandmother half-truths.

* * *

The first thing she did when she woke up the next morning was grab her cell phone. No text from Gina. No email. No voice message.

“You’re a dead woman,” she snarled at her absent sibling. “Dead!”

Throwing back the covers, she stomped to the bathroom. Like the rest of the rooms in the apartment, it was high ceilinged and trimmed with elaborate crown molding. Most of the fixtures had been updated over the years, but the tub was big and claw-footed and original. Sarah indulged in long, decadent soaks whenever she could. This morning she was too keyed up and in too much of a hurry for anything more than a quick shower.

Showered and blow-dried, she chose one of her grandmama’s former favorites—a slate-gray Pierre Balmain minidress in a classic A-line. According to Charlotte, some women used to pair these thigh-skimming dresses with white plastic go-go boots. She never did, of course. Far too gauche. She’d gone with tasteful white stockings and Ferragamo pumps. Sarah opted for black tights, a pair of Giuseppi Zanottis she’d snatched up at a secondhand shoe store and multiple strands of fat faux pearls.

Thankfully, the duchess preferred a late, leisurely breakfast with Maria, so Sarah downed her usual bagel and black coffee and left for work with only a quick goodbye.

She got another reprieve at work. Alexis had called in to say she was hopping an early shuttle to Chicago for a short-notice meeting with the head of their publishing group. And to Sarah’s infinite relief, a computer search of stories in print for the day didn’t pop with either her name or a lurid blowup of her wrapped in Devon Hunter’s arms.