From Paris With Love Collection - Кэрол Мортимер Mills & Boon e-Book Collections

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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

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