If the Shoe Fits

by Megan Mulry

  Devon spent the rest of the afternoon running a few computer programs and checking on two work projects. He peeked in on the Sarah James server and saw that someone had accessed it from Chicago at three in the morning that day. He also saw two new log-ins from locations in Geneva and Milan, and added them to the still-meaningless compilation of data points that he had been amassing over the past few months.

  After he’d spent the morning hunting and riding with Eliot Cranbrook, Devon knew his paranoia where Eliot was concerned was completely unfounded. Eliot was so clearly devoted to Sarah James (the friend and the business) that it seemed totally impossible that he would have been involved in any corporate malfeasance where she (or anyone else, for that matter) was concerned. Eliot had been speaking to Abby about how he was currently sitting on the board of a nonprofit organization that did everything they could to bring to light the financial and artistic mayhem brought about by stolen intellectual property. Within the luxury goods industry, it was rampant: clothing, handbags, shoes, you name it—the designs were being stolen, meticulously replicated or cheaply imitated.

  Devon momentarily considered telling Eliot about the attention he had given to Sarah James’s website and online (lack of) security, but the more he thought about it, the more perverted it sounded. He knew he should shut it down once and for all, but he felt like he was about to get to the bottom of the whole mess. When he did, of course he would share everything with Sarah and help her remedy her existing security vulnerabilities. Until then, he wanted to track down the perpetrator. And he was embarrassed, he supposed, and didn’t really see a good moment to confess his immature prying.

  There was a light tap at his bedroom door. He shut the lid of his laptop and got up to see who it was. Sarah looked a bit mussed and disoriented. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” He didn’t even realize that he was standing there staring at her, instead of asking her to come in. “Come in, come in. You look gorgeous, by the way.”

  She gave him a careless pat on his lower back as she crossed the masculine, burgundy room to a deep, brown velveteen sofa in front of the small fireplace. “Mmmm, this is exactly where I wanted to spend the rest of the day. Curled up in front of a fire.”

  She kicked off her suede driving shoes, pulled her legs up under her, and Devon grabbed a blanket from the large wooden chest at the end of the bed. He went over to where she was already starting to fall back to sleep and draped the warm mohair over her body.

  “Mmmm, thank you.” He walked back to his desk, put his computer away, and picked up a sheaf of papers he had been reading for work.

  “Move over.” He pushed her legs aside to make room for himself on the couch, and the two of them spent the dwindling hours of the late afternoon in a blissful silence. She rubbed her leg against his in a half-sleep of dreams and desire; he simply reveled in the nearness of her body after such a long and dismal absence. When she sat up a couple hours later, looking mussed and sexy as hell, she asked him what he was working on.

  “This new polymer.” He shrugged.

  She smiled and rubbed her eyes. “Polymers sound sexy. What is it made of?”

  He tossed the sheaf of papers on the coffee table and pulled her onto his lap. Devon began kissing her neck and whispering words like retrofitting, anchorage, and water absorption.

  Sarah pulled back a few inches and looked inspired. “Water absorption?”

  “Yeah, why?” He tried to kiss her neck again and she shoved him back a little.

  “Do you want to do something for me?”

  His face split into a lazy, satisfied grin. “Day and night. Night and day.”

  “Cut it out. I mean it, for work—”

  He was trying to reach his palms up to her chest.

  “Devon!” Sarah laughed, pushing herself off his lap and grabbing a piece of paper from the work documents he’d been reading. She took his pen and asked, “May I?”

  He sat back and watched her. “You weren’t kidding about the whole compartmentalization thing, were you?”

  She was sketching a high-heeled stiletto and looked up quickly to catch his eye. “I wasn’t kidding.” She went back to the sketch for a couple seconds more, then showed him what she was thinking. “It’s always a problem, the load-bearing capacity of such a pencil-thin heel. Also, I have a theory that steel is not the only option—it offers no give on a woman’s hips and back. It has to be really strong, but I want it super-thin… it’s just so much hotter, don’t you think?” She peered up at him with a questioning, hopeful look.

  He stared at her and felt the now-familiar pounding in his chest. Bam. Bam. Bam. He felt like a stranger in his own body sometimes, the way she could turn him on with a look or a quick lift of her beautiful face in his direction. It was terrifying. Exhilarating but terrifying.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  He shook his head. His expression must have looked angry or confused. “I’m not—”

  “Oh.” She looked disheartened, then defiant. “Just dumb old shoes. I get it.” She threw the drawing back onto the coffee table and let the pen drop on top of it, then folded her arms across her chest.

  He pulled her back into his arms so she was reluctantly straddling him, her arms folded between them. “I have no idea what the hell you are on about,” Devon said, “but I would love to help you work on the sexiest goddamned stilettos in the history of sexy stilettos.”

  She looked like a chastised girl, trying to avoid his gaze, then she looked up into his eyes. “You would?”

  “Yes, you fool.”

  “Don’t call me that,” she said bitterly.

  Devon put his finger under her chin. “What is it, love? You know I don’t think you are in the least foolish. That’s my job, to play the fool. I am your devoted servant. I would love to help you in your business any way I can.”

  She tried to look away but he held her in place. She realized he’d done that while he was making love to her last night. He didn’t want her to look away. Ever.

  “I… it’s dumb. I just think men, or my dad, or whoever, think the whole enterprise is silly. And—” She took a shallow breath as his thumb began to touch the edge of her mouth. “I guess I just assumed you were—” Her eyes slid shut as he kissed her on her neck, then pulled at the fold of her turtleneck and kissed farther down, near her collarbone. “Oh, Devon, it just seems so unlikely that you could care for me like you do…”

  He pulled back and smiled, still keeping his fingers on her neck and near her mouth. “I know exactly how you feel. I kind of lose my breath when I think of you discovering that I am totally unworthy. A sham. But apparently, we’re seeing things in each other that we can’t possibly see in ourselves.” He raised an eyebrow and she blushed. His hands began to roam down to her chest and along her hips. His voice sounded thicker. “I see a blindingly beautiful woman.” He cupped her breasts in his hands and her breath caught. “I see a body that makes me weak with longing.” Sarah’s eyes closed and she pressed her hips into him.

  “I see a man who cares so deeply about everyone around him, but he pretends to be careless instead.” She opened her eyes and looked into his dreamy gray eyes. “I see a brilliant mind that is afraid of being found out.” Sarah’s hands were running through his hair, massaging his scalp. He melted into her touch, his eyes softening.

  He whispered, “I see a confident woman who underestimates her own power.”

  Sarah’s body responded to his voice like it always did: melting. She was ravenous for him and swept her lips down onto his and squeezed his head in her hands. She pulled away after a few minutes, overcome. “I love you, Devon. I just do. I’m sorry if it’s too soon to say it or—”

  “Oh, Sarah, you must know I love you. I can barely say the words without sounding like the biggest ass—the lover who wants to rip you to shreds—but there it is. You make me wildly happy.”

  “I feel the same. Just shockingly happy.”

  They leaned d
eeper into the couch, then Sarah urged his body so he was flat on his back and she began to work on his belt buckle with shaking hands. “I’ve been wanting to try this…”

  ***

  By seven o’clock, it was almost time to start getting ready for dinner. Devon resisted waking Sarah because he was having too much fun entertaining a string of fantasies that involved Sarah napping in just the same way in palatial hotel rooms across Europe. He wanted to check into the Danieli in Venice for a few nights (and see the curve of her hip against the Grand Canal), then Villa d’Este (her hair sparkling in the reflection of Lake Como), then maybe go to Florence for a few days at the Villa La Vedetta (all that Botticellian hair framed by the domes and River Arno), and then hunker down at the Hotel du Cap, maybe forever.

  He had a momentary worry that she might be booked with work engagements, then tried to push that aside: her shoes are all made in Italy—she must have to go there occasionally, he argued weakly. The real worry was that he did not want to be apart from her at all, a situation that was patently untenable. He figured an ongoing itinerary of glamorous travel would postpone the need to decide whether they would live at his place or hers or get a new place altogether, in London or New York or Chicago, and how soon. Even he knew he was pressing the accelerator with far too much pressure, but he was beyond reason.

  Chapter 15

  The purported reason for the entire weekend finally came to pass at eleven o’clock sharp on Sunday morning. The bright spring sun streamed through the beveled, lead windows of the family chapel at Dunlear Castle, shining in piercing beams that were worthy of a Renaissance annunciation picture. The trickle of water that served to welcome little Charles Heyworth into the flock glistened and sparkled as the drops caught the light. Max and Bronte both held him as the vicar said the benediction, and Sarah thought again how much they looked like some sort of holy trinity.

  She was not a religious person by nature, but the entire ritual brought on a powerful surge of bittersweet emotions: the loss of her mother, the joy of Devon’s hand squeezing hers as he watched the beautiful moment with her, the unspoken implication that he wanted that for them—from her—and her answering grip. After the initial baptism, the vicar continued the ceremony and the babe was passed to his godfather, for Devon to accept the responsibility he was asked to undertake.

  Sarah was hard-pressed to keep her tears at bay, seeing this incredible man (tall, formal, wicked) holding this innocent creature in his arms. He smiled into the little face, then looked up and caught Sarah staring at him. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he handed her the baby, the linen of the antique christening gown wrinkling against her fingers as Devon’s strong hand touched hers under the fall of the fabric.

  “Ow!” Devon grumbled under his breath.

  “Enough swooning. Give her the baby,” Max muttered, having just kicked his younger brother in the shin, the little act of adolescent violence hidden behind the column of the baptismal font.

  How is it, Devon wondered, that everyone thinks Max is the pillar of the family?

  Devon winked at Sarah and finally released Wolf into her caring embrace. He had to keep his gaze away from hers for fear he would further embarrass himself in front of the small gathering of family and friends, by weeping or falling to his knees or something equally ludicrous.

  The reception after the ceremony was a beautiful, intimate spread in the bright, sunny morning room that led out to the terrace at the southern side of the castle. Devon’s mother was there, and his aunt and uncle, several cousins, and a few other close friends of Bronte and Max’s, as well as Bronte’s mother, who had flown in for the ceremony.

  Abigail, Narinda, and Eliot had formed a little trio of rebellion, as if to announce that all this fornication and procreation and adulation was just about enough. The three of them laughed at bawdy jokes and stayed out on the terrace, taking in the midday sun for most of the party.

  Devon’s older sister Claire had also arrived from her home in the farthest reaches of northern Scotland. Alone again, Devon thought when he saw Claire’s drawn expression while she hugged Bronte across the room. Her relations with her husband now appeared to be so permanently strained that no one in the family even pretended to ask after The Missing Marquess nor cared to hear the latest embarrassing scandal involving Claire’s hard-partying daughter, Lydia.

  Devon introduced Sarah to his mother with little ceremony. The two women had met at the rehearsal dinner and wedding in October, and Bronte had spent hours regaling Sarah with anecdotes about the formidable doyenne (did she dare say bitch?). Oddly enough, the rigid woman seemed to take a shine to Sarah.

  “Devon, dear, wherever did you find the lovely Miss James?”

  “She came prevetted”—he smiled at Sarah then back at his mother—“from Bronte.”

  That rankled. Of course, the Dowager Duchess of Northrop had forced herself to accept the crass American as her daughter-in-law—what choice did she have, after all?—but she was reluctant to give her anything but the most rudimentary courtesy. This lovely, feminine, blond angel, on the other hand, was quite the thing.

  “I suppose certain associations must be overlooked.”

  Sarah nearly spewed her champagne onto the dowager duchess’s stunning Chanel suit.

  Devon elaborated, “My mother and Bronte are way too much alike to ever get along.”

  “Devon, you are cruel. How dare you compare me to that overbearing young woman?”

  “Careful, Mother, she is Sarah’s best friend, and I suspect Sarah does have the occasional flare of loyal indignation. If you persist in bashing her best mate, Sarah may not send you a complimentary pair of her latest stilettos. Let’s move on.”

  Sarah watched the two as they continued a wicked game of verbal banter that often veered toward malice, but never quite got there. Devon seemed to be the only one who could manage his mother. The perfectly manicured older woman hung on his every word, if only to toss the perfect quip in reply.

  “Very well. What happens in the tawdry world of commerce these days?” his mother asked Devon with impatience.

  Aaaah, Sarah mused, Devon in his role as the layabout was about to enter stage left.

  “Necessarily tedious. I show up. They pay me. It helps to fill the day. But I was thinking of going to Italy this week. With Sarah.”

  That champagne was destined to fly out of her mouth one way or the other.

  “Excuse me,” Sarah sputtered in surprise.

  “I don’t know,” he said, looking out to the terrace as if the idea had just occurred to him, then returning his full attention to his mother. “I was thinking of Venice, maybe the Danieli? What do you think, Mother? The Danieli or the Gritti?”

  “The Gritti, darling.”

  “Then Como for a few days. Then maybe Florence, La Vedetta?”

  “Of course.”

  Sarah continued to watch the verbal volley that proceeded as if she were nothing more than a passing observer, then she dove in: “I hate to bring up the rather unpleasant topic of corporate responsibility, but there is no way I could do any of that this week.”

  The duchess rolled her eyes. “You girls today—women, I suppose you will correct me—are so unromantic. Look at this handsome, strapping man inviting you on a petit grand tour for heaven’s sake, and you waver? It’s laughable. Your priorities are completely upside down.”

  Sarah smiled at the woman who reminded her almost too much of her grandmother. “You must meet my grandmother. You two are cut from the same cloth. She tolerates what she calls my ‘youthful foray into cobblery,’ but only as long as it does not interfere with trips to Fiesole or Bequia.”

  “She sounds divine! I would love to meet her. Where does she live? It cannot be America.”

  Sarah ignored the nationalistic slur. “She was born in Boston and lived there and in New York for many years, but after my grandfather died, she married a fair-to-middling French artist named Jacques Fournier—”

  It was now Sylvia�
��s turn to ensure her champagne remained in her mouth. “Your grandmother is Letitia Fournier! Oh, Devon, you have landed in the honey pot, my dear. How delicious! I used to actually clip images of her from magazines in my youth. Devon’s father recoiled at the idea of paying those prices for haute couture, so I used to take the images to a local seamstress in Norfolk and she made copies for me. I still have them in storage somewhere, you must come see them some time.”

  “Oh, how wonderful!” Sarah said. “I’d love that.”

  “You know I adored your father, Devon”—the dowager duchess put her hand on her son’s upper arm—“but he had no patience for fashion. Early on in our marriage, he didn’t see the point, but I wore him down.”

  Sarah stared at the quick intimacy of the mother’s touch: nothing saccharine or cloying (ever), but just enough.

  “Letitia has that effect on people,” Sarah said. “I’d love for the two of you to meet. She’s in Paris at the moment but probably heading to Florence within a week or two.” Sarah turned her pointed look to Devon. “Perhaps you could visit her when you are gallivanting around Florence on your upcoming trip.”

  “Our upcoming trip, darling.” He squeezed her around the waist with the arm that had been loosely draped there for most of the past hour. “You must have factories or minions or someone who needs to be prodded in northern Italy. Maybe your Eliot has something that requires your expertise in Milan. We can research those new stilettos you talked about. Come on, don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

  If she hadn’t known he was speaking with such careless dismissal almost entirely for his mother’s benefit, she would have been furious.

  “You two are devils,” Sarah said. “I’m going to talk to Max and Bronte and remind myself that there are still people around here who live in the real world.”

  Devon smiled and let her go reluctantly after a brief kiss on the cheek.