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.”