From Paris With Love Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

was warm, her lips parted, her gaze steady. The thought flashed into Dev’s mind that he was already pretty far down the road.

      Rock hard and hurting, he bent his head again. No mere brush of lips this time. No tentative exploration. No show for the cameras. This was hunger, raw and hot. He tried to throttle it back, but Sarah sabotaged that effort by matching him kiss for kiss, touch for touch. His fingers speared through her hair. Hers traced the line of his jaw, slipped inside his collar, found the knot of his tie.

      “To hell with Oscar Wilde,” she muttered after a moment. “The tie has to go.”

      The tie went. So did the suit coat. When she popped the top two buttons of his dress shirt, he reached for the ones on her jacket. The first one slid through its opening and Dev saw she wasn’t wearing a bra. With a fervent prayer of thanks, he fingered the second button.

      “I’ve been fantasizing about doing this from the moment you opened the door to me this evening,” he admitted, his voice rough.

      “I fantasized about it, too. Must be why I discarded the chemise I usually wear with this outfit.”

      Her honesty shot straight to his heart. She didn’t play games. Didn’t tease or go all pouty and coy. She was as hungry as Dev and not ashamed to show it.

      Aching with need, he slid the second button through its opening. The satin lapels gaped open, baring her breasts. They were small and proud and tipped with dark rose nipples that Dev couldn’t even begin to resist. Hefting her a little higher, he trailed a line of kisses down one slope and caught a nipple between his lips.

      Her neck arched. Her head tipped back. With a small groan, Sarah reveled in the sensations that streaked from her breast to her belly. They were so deep, so intense, she purred with pleasure.

      It took her a few moments to realize she wasn’t actually emitting that low, humming sound. It was coming from the clutch purse she’d dropped on the sofa table.

      “That’s my cell phone,” she panted through waves of pleasure. “I put it on vibrate at the Giraults.”

      “Ignore it.”

      Dev turned his attention to her other breast and Sarah was tempted, so tempted, to follow his gruff instruction.

      “I can’t,” she groaned. “It could be Grandmama. Or Maria,” she added with a little clutch of panic.

      She scrambled upright and grabbed her bag. A glance at the face associated in her address book with the incoming number made her sag with relief.

      Only for a moment, however. What could Alexis want, calling this late? Remembering her conversation with Paul Vincent at Beguile’s Paris office this afternoon, Sarah once again felt the tug of conflicting loyalties.

      “Sarah? Are you there?” Alexis’s hoarse rasp rattled through voice mail. “Pick up if you are.”

      Sarah sent Dev an apologetic glance and hit Answer. “I’m here, Alexis.”

      “Sorry, kiddo, I didn’t think about the time difference. Were you in bed?”

      “Almost,” Dev muttered.

      Sarah made a shushing motion with her free hand but it was too late. Alexis picked up the scent like a bloodhound.

      “Is that Hunter? He’s with you?”

      “Yes. We just got in from a late dinner.”

      Not a lie, exactly. Not the whole truth, either. There were some things her boss simply didn’t need to know.

      “Good,” Alexis was saying. “He can look over the JPEGs I just emailed you from the photo shoot at Cartier. I marked the one we’re going to use with the blurb about your engagement.”

      “We’ll take a look at them and get back to you.”

      “Tonight, kiddo. I want the story in this month’s issue.”

      “Okay.” Sighing, Sarah closed the flaps of her jacket and fastened the top button one-handed. “Shoot me the blurb, too.”

      “Don’t worry about it. It’s only a few lines.”

      The too-bland assurance set off an internal alarm.

      “Send it, Alexis.”

      “All right, all right. But I want it back tonight, too.”

      She cut the connection, and Sarah sank back onto the cushions. Dev sat in his corner, one arm stretched across the sofa back. His shirttails hung open and his belt had somehow come unbuckled. He looked more than willing to pick up where they’d left off, but Sarah’s common sense had kicked in. Or rather her sense of self-preservation.

      “Saved by the bell,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “At least now I won’t have to improvise when Elise starts digging for details.”

      The phone pinged in her hand, signaling the arrival of a text message.

      “That’s the blurb Alexis wants to run with the pictures from Cartier. I’ll pull it up with the photos so you can review them.”

      “No need.” Dev pushed off the sofa, stuffed in his shirt and buckled his belt. “I trust you on this one.”

      “I’ll make sure there are no naked body parts showing,” she promised solemnly.

      “You do that, and I’ll make sure we’re not interrupted next time.”

      “Next time?”

      He dropped a quick kiss on her nose and grabbed his discarded suit coat.

      “Oui, ma chérie,” he said in his truly execrable French. “Next time.”

       Nine

      Dev had a breakfast meeting with his people, who’d flown in the night before. That gave Sarah the morning to herself. A shame, really, because the day promised glorious sunshine and much warmer temperatures. Perfect for strolling the Left Bank with that special someone.

      Which is what most of Paris seemed to be doing, she saw after coffee and a croissant at her favorite patisserie. The sight of so many couples, young, old and in between, rekindled some of the raw emotions Dev had generated last night.

      In the bright light of day, Sarah couldn’t believe she’d invited him to make love to her. Okay, she’d practically demanded it. Even now, as she meandered over the Pont de l’Archevêché, she felt her breasts tingle at the memory of his hands and mouth on them.

      She stopped midway across the bridge. Pont de l’Archevêché translated to the Archbishop’s Bridge in English, most likely because it formed a main means of transit for the clerics of Notre Dame. The cathedral’s square towers rose on the right. Bookseller stalls and cafés crowded the broad avenue on the left. The Seine flowed dark and silky below. What intrigued her, though, were the padlocks of all shapes and sizes hooked through the bridge’s waist-high, iron-mesh scrollwork. Some locks had tags attached, some were decorated with bright ribbons, some included small charms.

      She’d noticed other bridges sporting locks, although none as heavily adorned as this one. They’d puzzled her but she hadn’t really wondered about their significance. It became apparent a few moments after she spotted a pair of tourists purchasing a padlock from an enterprising lock seller at the far end of the bridge. The couple searched for an empty spot on the fancy grillwork to attach their purchase. Then they threw the key into the Seine and shared a long, passionate kiss.

      When they walked off arm in arm, Sarah approached the lock seller. He was perched on an upturned wooden crate beside a pegboard displaying his wares. His hair sprouted like milky-white dandelion tufts from under his rusty-black beret. A cigarette hung from his lower lip.

      “I’ve been away for a while,” she said in her fluent Parisian. “When did this business with the locks begin?”