LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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