Escape for Valentine's: Beauty and the Billionaire / Her One and Only Valentine / The Girl Next Door. Caroline Anderson
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waiting at the airport.”
“Did I miss the part where I said yes?”
He reached for her hand. “I’m generally one step ahead of you, Sinclair.”
She shook her head, but she also grabbed her purse. Because she realized he was right. He had an uncanny knack for anticipating her actions, along with her desires.
Five
They slept on the plane, and arrived in Paris a week before Valentine’s Day. Then a limousine took them to the Ciel D’Or Hotel. And Hunter insisted they get right to the makeover.
So, before Sinclair could even get her bearings, they were gazing up at the arched facade of La Petite Fleur—a famous boutique in downtown Paris. A uniformed doorman opened the gold-gilded glass door.
“Monsieur Osland,” he said and tipped his hat.
Sinclair slid Hunter a smirking gaze. “Just how many makeovers do you do around here?”
“At least a dozen a year,” said Hunter as their footfalls clicked on the polished marble floor.
“And here I thought I was special.” They passed between two ornate pillars and onto plush, burgundy carpeting.
“You are special.”
“Then how come the doorman knew you by sight? And don’t try to tell me you’ve been shopping for Kristy.”
“Like good ol’ cousin Jack wouldn’t kill me if I did that. They don’t know me by sight. They know me because I called ahead and asked them to stay open late.”
Sinclair glanced around, realizing the place was empty. “They stayed open late? Don’t you think you’re getting carried away here?” She’d agreed to a makeover, not to star in some remake of Pygmalion.
He chuckled. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”
“Hunter.”
“Shhh.”
A smartly dressed woman appeared in the wide aisle and glided toward them.
“Monsieur Osland, Mademoiselle,” she smiled. “Bienvenue.”
“Bienvenue,” Hunter returned. “Thank you so much for staying open for us.”
The woman waved a dismissive hand. “You are most welcome, of course. We are pleased to have you.”
“Je vous présente Sinclair Manhoney,” said Hunter with what sounded like a perfect accent.
Sinclair held out her hand, trying very hard not to feel as if she’d dropped through the looking glass. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” the woman returned. “I am Jeanette. Would you care to browse? Or shall I bring out a few things?”
“We’re looking for something glamorous, sophisticated but young,” Hunter put in.
Jeanette nodded. “Please, this way.”
She led them along an aisle, skirting a six-story atrium, to a group of peach and gold armchairs. The furniture sat on a large dais, outside a semicircle of mirrored changing rooms.
“Would either of you care for a drink?” asked Jeanette. “Some champagne?”
“Champagne would be very nice,” said Hunter. “Merci.”
Jeanette turned to walk away, and Hunter gestured to one of the chairs.
Sinclair dropped into it. “Overkill. Did I mention this is overkill?”
“Come on, get into the spirit of things.”
“This place is …” She gestured to the furnishings, the paintings, the clothing and the atrium. “Out of my league.”
“It’s exactly in your league.”
“You should have warned me.”
“Warned you about what? That we’re getting clothes? That we’re getting jewelry? What part of makeover didn’t you understand?”
“The part where you go bankrupt.”
“You couldn’t bankrupt me if you tried.”
“I’m not going to try.”
“Oh, please. It would be so much more fun if you did.”
Jeanette reappeared, and Sinclair’s attention shifted to the half a dozen assistants who followed her, carrying a colorful array of clothes.
“Those are pink,” whispered Sinclair, her stomach falling. “And fuzzy. And shiny.” Okay, there was makeover, and then there was comic relief.
“Time for you to go to work,” said Hunter.
“Pink,” she hissed at him.
Hunter just smiled.
Jeanette hung two of the outfits inside a large, well-lit changing room. It had a chair, a small padded bench, a dozen hooks and a three-way mirror.
In the changing room, Sinclair stripped out of the gray skirt suit she’d worn on the plane, and realized her underwear was looking a bit shabby. The lace on her bra had faded to ivory from the bright white it was when she’d bought it. The elastic had stretched in the straps, and one of the underwires had a small bend.
She slipped into the first dress. It was a pale pink sheath of a thing. It clung all the way to her ankles, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. Making matters worse, it had an elaborate beading running over the cap sleeves and all the way down the sides. And it came with a ridiculous ivory lace hood thing that made her look like some kind of android bride.
There was a small rap at the door. “Mademoiselle?”
“Yes?”
“Is there anything you need?”
Cyanide? “Would you happen to have a phone?” Or maybe an escape hatch out the back? She could catch a plane to New York and start over again.
“Oui. Of course. Un moment.”
Sinclair stared at the dress, having some very serious second thoughts. Maybe other women could pull this off, taller, thinner, crazier women. But it sure wasn’t working for her.
Another knock.
“Yes?” If that was Hunter, she wasn’t going out there. Not like this. Not with a gun to her head.
“Your phone,” said Jeanette.
Sinclair pulled off the hood, cracked the door and accepted the wireless telephone.
She dialed her sister Kristy, the fashion expert.
Kristy answered after three rings. “Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
“Hey, you,” came Kristy’s voice above some background noise of music and voices. “What’s going on? Everything all right?”
“It’s fine. Well, not fine exactly. I’m having a few problems at work.”
“Really? That’s not like you. What kind of problems?”
“It’s a long story. But, I’m in Paris right now, and we’re trying to fix it.”
“Hang on,” said Kristy. “I’m at the Manchester Hospital Foundation lunch. I need to get out of the ballroom.” The background noise disappeared. “Okay. There. Did you say you were in Paris?”
Sinclair’s glance went to the three-way mirror. “Yes. I’m doing a makeover, but I think I many have taken a wrong turn here, and I need some advice.”
“Happy to help. What kind of advice?”
“What