A Business Engagement. Merline Lovelace
correct, very polite, not really possessive but edging too close to it for Sarah’s comfort. Walking beside him only reinforced the impression she’d gained yesterday of his height and strength.
They passed the redhead’s table on the way to the door. She glanced up, caught Sarah’s dismissive stare and stuck her nose back in the menu.
“I’ll hail you a cab,” Hunter said as they exited the restaurant.
“It’s only a few blocks.”
“It’s also getting dark. I know this is your town, but I’ll feel better sending you home in a cab.”
Sarah didn’t argue further, mostly because dusk had started to descend and the air had taken on a distinct chill. Across the street, the lanterns in Central Park shed their golden glow. She turned in a half circle, her artist’s eye delighting in the dots of gold punctuating the deep purple of the park.
Unfortunately, the turn brought the redhead into view again. The picture there wasn’t as delightful. She was squinting at them through the restaurant’s window, a phone jammed to her ear. Whoever she was talking to was obviously getting an earful.
Sarah guessed instantly she was spreading the word about Sexy Single Number Three and his fiancée. The realization gave her a sudden, queasy feeling. New York City lived and breathed celebrities. They were the stuff of life on Good Morning America, were courted by Tyra Banks and the women of The View, appeared regularly on Late Show with David Letterman. The tabloids, the glossies, even the so-called “literary” publications paid major bucks for inside scoops.
And Sarah had just handed them one. Thoroughly disgusted with herself for yielding to impulse, she smothered a curse that would have earned a sharp reprimand from Grandmama. Hunter followed her line of sight and spotted the woman staring at them through the restaurant window, the phone still jammed to her ear. He shared Sarah’s pessimistic view of the matter but didn’t bother to swallow his curse. It singed the night air.
“This is going turn up in another rag like Beguile, isn’t it?”
Sarah stiffened. True, she’d privately cringed at some of the articles Alexis had insisted on putting in print. But that didn’t mean she would stand by and let an outsider disparage her magazine.
“Beguile is hardly a rag. We’re one of the leading fashion publications for women in the twenty to thirty-five age range, here and abroad.”
“If you say so.”
“I do,” she ground out.
The misguided sympathy she’d felt for the man earlier had gone as dry and stale as yesterday’s bagel. It went even staler when he turned to face her. Devon Hunter of the crinkly squint lines and heart-stuttering grin was gone. His intimidating alter ego was back.
“I guess if we’re going to show up in some pulp press, we might as well give the story a little juice.”
She saw the intent in his face and put up a warning palm. “Let’s not do anything rash here, Mr. Hunter.”
“Dev,” he corrected, his eyes drilling into hers. “Say it, Sarah. Dev.”
“All right! Dev. Are you satisfied?”
“Not quite.”
His arm went around her waist. One swift tug brought them hip to hip. His hold was an iron band, but he gave her a second, maybe two, to protest.
Afterward Sarah could list in precise order the reasons she should have done exactly that. She didn’t like the man. He was flat-out blackmailing her with Gina’s rash act. He was too arrogant, and too damned sexy, for his own good.
But right then, right there, she looked up into those dangerous blue eyes and gave in to the combustible mix of guilt, nagging worry and Devon Hunter’s potent masculinity.
Three
Sarah had been kissed before. A decent number of times, as a matter of fact. She hadn’t racked up as many admirers as Gina, certainly, but she’d dated steadily all through high school and college. She’d also teetered dangerously close to falling in love at least twice. Once with the sexy Italian she’d met at the famed Uffizi Gallery and spent a dizzying week exploring Florence with. Most recently with a charismatic young lawyer who had his eye set on a career in politics. That relationship had died a rather painful death when she discovered he was more in love with her background and empty title than he was with her.
Even with the Italian, however, she’d never indulged in embarrassingly public displays of affection. In addition to Grandmama’s black-and-white views of correct behavior, Sarah’s inbred reserve shied away from the kind of exuberant joie de vivre that characterized her sister. Yet here she was, locked in the arms of a near stranger on the sidewalk of one of New York’s busiest avenues. Her oh-so-proper self shouted that she was providing a sideshow for everyone in and outside the restaurant. Her other self, the one she let off its leash only on rare occasions, leaped to life.
If Beguile ever ran a list of the World’s Ten Best Kissers, she thought wildly, she would personally nominate Devon Hunter for the top slot. His mouth fit over hers as though it was made to. His lips demanded a response.
Sarah gave it. Angling her head, she planted both palms on his chest. The hard muscles under his shirt and suit coat provided a feast of tactile sensations. The fine bristles scraping her chin added more. She could taste the faint, smoky hint of scotch on his lips, feel the heat that rose in his skin.
There was nothing hidden in Hunter’s kiss. No attempt to impress or connect or score a victory in the battle of the sexes. His mouth moved easily over hers. Confidently. Hungrily.
Her breath came hard and fast when he raised his head. So did his. Sarah took immense satisfaction in that—and the fact that he looked as surprised and disconcerted as she felt at the moment. When his expression switched to a frown, though, she half expected a cutting remark. What she got was a curt apology.
“I’m sorry.” He dropped his hold on her waist and stepped back a pace. “That was uncalled for.”
Sarah wasn’t about to point out that she hadn’t exactly resisted. While she struggled to right her rioting senses, she caught a glimpse of a very interested audience backlit inside the restaurant. Among them was the redhead, still watching avidly, only this time she had her phone aimed in their direction.
“Uncalled for or not,” Sarah said with a small groan, “be prepared for the possibility that kiss might make its way into print. I suspect your friend’s phone is camera equipped.”
He shot a glance over his shoulder and blew out a disgusted breath. “I’m sure it is.”
“What a mess,” she murmured half under her breath. “My boss will not be happy.”
Hunter picked up on the ramifications of the comment instantly. “Is this going to cause a problem for you at work? You and me, our engagement, getting scooped by some other rag, uh, magazine?”
“First, we’re not engaged. Yet. Second, you don’t need to worry about my work.”
Mostly because he wouldn’t be on scene when the storm hit. If Beguile’s executive editor learned from another source that Sarah had locked lips with Number Three on busy Central Park West, she’d make a force-five hurricane seem like a spring shower.
Then there was the duchess.
“I’m more concerned about my grandmother,” Sarah admitted reluctantly. “If she should see or hear something before I get this mess straightened out...”
She gnawed on her lower lip, trying to find a way out of what was looking more and more like the kind of dark, tangly thing you find at the bottom of a pond. To her surprise, Hunter offered a solution to at least one of her problems.
“Tell you what,” he said slowly. “Why don’t I take you home tonight? You can introduce me to your grandmother. That way, whatever happens next