From Paris With Love Collection. Кэрол Мортимер

her husband’s execution by firing squad. Most of her remaining family had disappeared forever in the notorious gulags. Charlotte herself had gone into hiding with her infant daughter and endured untold hardships before escaping to the West.

      That would be heartbreak enough for anyone. Yet the duchess had also been slammed with the tragic death of her daughter and son-in-law, then had raised her two young granddaughters alone. Few, if any, of her friends and acquaintances were aware that she maintained only the facade of what appeared to be a luxurious lifestyle. Dev knew because he’d made it his business to learn everything he could about the St. Sebastians after beautiful, bubbly Lady Eugenia had lifted the Byzantine medallion.

      He could have tracked Gina down. Hell, anyone with a modicum of computer smarts could track a GPS-equipped cell phone these days. Dev had considered doing just that until he’d realized her elder sister was better suited for his purposes. Plus, there was the bonus factor of where Sarah St. Sebastian worked. It had seemed only fair that he get a little revenge for the annoyance caused by that article.

      Except, he thought as he exited the elevator, revenge had a way of coming back to bite you in the ass. What had seemed like a solid plan when he’d first devised it was now generating some serious doubts. Could he keep his hands off the elegant elder sister and stick to the strict terms of their agreement? Did he want to?

      The doubts dogged him right up until he pressed the button for the doorbell. He heard a set of melodic chimes, and his soon-to-be fiancée opened the door to him.

      “Hello, Mr.... Dev.”

      She was wearing chunky pearls, a thigh-skimming little dress and black tights tonight. The pearls and gray dress gave her a personal brand of sophistication, but the tights showcased her legs in a way that made Dev’s throat go bone-dry. He managed to untangle his tongue long enough to return her greeting.

      “Hello, Sarah.”

      “Please, come in.”

      She stood aside to give him access to a foyer longer than the belly of a C-17 and almost as cavernous. Marble tiles, ornate wall sconces, a gilt-edged side table and a crystal bowl filled with something orange blossomy. Dev absorbed the details along with the warning in Sarah’s green eyes.

      “I’ve told my grandmother that you and Gina are no more than casual acquaintances,” she confided in a low voice.

      “That’s true enough.”

      “Yes, well...” She drew in a breath and squared shoulders molded by gray silk. “Let’s get this over with.”

      She led the way down the hall. Dev followed and decided the rear view was as great as the front. The dress hem swayed just enough to tease and tantalize. The tights clung faithfully to the curve of her calves.

      He was still appreciating the view when she showed him into a high-ceilinged room furnished with a mix of antiques and a few pieces of modern technology. The floor here was parquet; the wood was beautifully inlaid, but cried for the cushioning of a soft, handwoven carpet to blunt some of its echo. Windows curtained in pale blue velvet took up most of two walls and gave what Dev guessed was one hell of a view of Central Park. Flames danced in the massive fireplace fronted in black marble that dominated a third wall.

      A sofa was angled to catch the glow from the fire. Two high-backed armchairs faced the sofa across a monster coffee table inset with more marble. The woman on one of those chairs sat ramrod straight, with both palms resting on the handle of an ebony cane. Her gray hair was swept up into a curly crown and anchored by ivory combs. Lace wrapped her throat like a muffler and was anchored by a cameo brooch. Her hawk’s eyes skewered Dev as he crossed the room.

      Sarah summoned a bright smile and performed the introductions. “Grandmama, this is Devon Hunter.”

      “How do you do, Mr. Hunter?”

      The duchess held out a veined hand. Dev suspected that courtiers had once dropped to a knee and kissed it reverently. He settled for taking it gently in his.

      “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. Gina told me she’d inherited her stunning looks from her grandmother. She obviously had that right.”

      “Indeed?” Her chin lifted. Her nose angled up a few degrees. “You know Eugenia well, then?”

      “She coordinated a party for me. We spoke on a number of occasions.”

      “Do sit down, Mr. Hunter.” She waved him to the chair across from hers. “Sarah, dearest, please pour Mr. Hunter a drink.”

      “Certainly. What would you like, Dev?”

      “Whatever you and your grandmother are having is fine.”

      “I’m having white wine.” Her smile tipped into one of genuine affection as she moved to a side table containing an opened bottle of wine nested in a crystal ice bucket and an array of decanters. “Grandmama, however, is ignoring her doctor’s orders and sipping an abominable brew concocted by our ancestors back in the sixteenth century.”

      “Žuta Osa is hardly abominable, Sarah,” the duchess countered. She lifted a tiny liqueur glass and swirled its amber-colored contents before treating her guest to a bland look. “It simply requires a strong constitution.”

      Dev recognized a challenge when one smacked him in the face. “I’ll give it a try.”

      “Are you sure?” Sarah shot him a warning glance from behind the drinks table. “The name translates roughly to yellow wasp. That might give you an idea of what it tastes like.”

      “Really, Sarah! You must allow Mr. Hunter to form his own opinion of what was once our national drink.”

      Dev was already regretting his choice but concealed it behind a polite request. “Please call me Dev, ma’am.”

      He didn’t presume to address the duchess by name or by rank. Mostly because he wasn’t sure which came first. European titles were a mystery wrapped up in an enigma to most Americans. Defunct Eastern European titles were even harder to decipher. Dev had read somewhere that the form of address depended on whether the rank was inherited or bestowed, but that didn’t help him a whole lot in this instance.

      The duchess solved his dilemma when she responded to his request with a gracious nod. “Very well. And you may call me Charlotte.”

      Sarah paused with the stopper to one of the decanters in hand. Her look of surprise told Dev he’d just been granted a major concession. She recovered a moment later and filled one of the thimble-size liqueur glasses. Passing it to Dev, she refilled her wineglass and took a seat beside her grandmother.

      As he lifted the glass in salute to his hostess, he told himself a half ounce of yellow wasp couldn’t do much damage. One sip showed just how wrong he was. The fiery, plum-based liquid exploded in his mouth and damned near burned a hole in his esophagus.

      “Holy sh...!”

      He caught himself in time. Eyes watering, he held the glass at arm’s length and gave the liqueur the respect it deserved. When he could breathe again, he met the duchess’s amused eyes.

      “This puts the stuff we used to brew in our helmets in Iraq to shame.”

      “You were in Iraq?” With an impatient shake of her head, Charlotte answered her own question. “Yes, of course you were. Afghanistan, too, if I remember correctly from the article in Beguile.”

      Okay, now he was embarrassed. The idea of this gray-haired matriarch reading all that nonsense—and perusing the picture of his butt crack!—went down even rougher than the liqueur.

      To cover his embarrassment, Dev took another sip. The second was a little easier than the first but still left scorch marks all the way to his gullet.

      “So tell me,” Charlotte was saying politely, “how long will you be in New York?”

      “That depends,” he got out.

      “Indeed?”

      The