“I’m pregnant.”

For a few seconds he said nothing, seconds that stretched like hours for Devon. She was shivering with nerves. Then he said, each word falling like a stone, “Who’s the father?”

“You are. Of course.”

“Of course?” he said silkily. “I don’t know the first thing about you—you could be sleeping with a dozen other men.”

Appalled, she gaped at him. “There aren’t any other men, and do you think I want to be pregnant by you? That I’m trying to trap you into marriage? Believe me, you’re the last man on earth I’d ever want to marry.”

He closed the gap between them. Devon fought for breath. “So what are you going to do?” he said with icy precision.

“I’m going to keep it, Jared. I’ll manage.”

“Yes, you will. Because you’ll be my wife.”

Legally wed,

But he’s never said…

“I love you.”

They’re…

Wedlocked!

The series where marriages are made in haste…and love comes later….

Look out for the next book in the WEDLOCKED!

miniseries next month:

Wife: Bought and Paid For by Jacqueline Baird

Harlequin Presents® #2291

Penny has no choice but to agree to the Italian tycoon’s offer: he will pay the debts she owes if she becomes his wife! She will be his wife, bought and paid for—and he wants a wife in every sense of the word. Penny has discovered she’s still in love with Solo—but isn’t their marriage just a sham…?

Jared’s Love-Child
Sandra Field

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

SHE was hot. She was jet-lagged. She was late.

Very late. And the driveway to “The Oaks” was like one of those country roads that go on and on interminably and never arrive anywhere. With a sigh of impatience Devon Fraser wiped the perspiration from her forehead and tried to relax her neck muscles. Just to add to everything else that had gone wrong, she was—and had been for the last fifteen minutes—trapped in a line of limousines and chauffeur-driven Cadillacs occupied by wedding guests who were all early for the wedding. Early and fastidiously attired in formal suits and designer dresses.

Devon was driving her bright red Mazda convertible with the top down and she was wearing the same outfit she’d put on twenty-four hours ago to leave Yemen. A modestly styled and not very becoming green linen suit—now much crumpled—a blouse with a high neck, and undistinguished green pumps that were killing her feet.

No make-up. Almost no sleep. And absolutely no joy at the prospect of the next few hours.

It was her mother’s wedding she was late for. Her mother’s fifth wedding, to be accurate. This time to a man called Benson Holt. A wealthy man with a son named Jared, of whom Alicia, so she’d said, was terrified. Jared was to be best man to Devon’s maid-of-honor.

Devon had spent the last four days in negotiation with some very rich oil barons. She wasn’t about to be intimidated by a Toronto playboy called Jared Holt.

The wedding was scheduled for six p.m. and it was now five past five; she’d had to wait for several minutes to pass through the wrought-iron security gates at the entrance to Benson Holt’s property. It was going to take a small miracle, thought Devon, to get her to “The Oaks” and transform herself in less than an hour from a bedraggled dowd to a glowing maid-of-honor. All maids-of-honor glowed, didn’t they? Or was that the bride?

Devon didn’t know. She’d never been a bride and had no inclination to change that state of affairs. She could safely leave being a bride to her mother.

Venerable oak trees lined the driveway, the grass was velvet-smooth and all the fences—miles of fences—were painted a pristine white. The prospective groom was indeed rich. Surprise, surprise, Devon thought sardonically. While her mother was a professed romantic, Alicia had yet to marry a poor man.

Through the fences Devon could see open fields and placid groups of mares and foals, and for a moment she forgot how unforgivably late she was. She’d remembered to throw her riding gear into her suitcase in the ten-minute stop she’d allowed herself at her condo in Toronto. At least she might get one pleasurable experience out of this wedding. A ride on a thoroughbred.

Because she was, of course, dreading the wedding.

With a jangling of her nerves, she saw that the lane was widening into a expanse of groomed shrubs and statuary around a circular driveway. The house was an imposing mansion of Georgian brick with a great many shutters and chimneys. Ignoring the directions of the two uniformed men who were waving the cars to a parking area under the trees, Devon whipped out of the line-up, skidded to a halt not twenty feet from the front door and scrambled out, reaching into the back seat for her case and the long plastic bag that held her dresses.

Every muscle in her body ached. She felt like hell. And looked worse.

She ran for the front door. It was flanked by polished coachman’s lanterns and was painted a rich dark green. As she reached for the bell, the door swung open.

“Well,” a man’s voice said mockingly, “the late Miss Fraser.”

Devon tucked a stray blond curl into what had been, twenty-four hours ago, a sleek and well-mannered hairdo. “I’m Devon Fraser, yes,” she said. “Would you please direct me to my room? I’m in a hurry.”

The man was standing in the shadow of the door. Insolently he looked her up and down, from her windblown hair all the way to her dusty and unexciting pumps. “Very late,” he added.

Her brief assumption that this was a rather unconventional butler was just that: brief. The man blocking her entrance into the house had never in his life been the servant of others. No, he was the type who gave out the orders, and expected them, unless she was mistaken, to be instantly obeyed.

And then he stepped into the late-afternoon sunlight and for the first time she really saw him. Her eyes widened. Her heart began to hammer in her chest.

A butler? Was she crazy? He was the most magnificent specimen of manhood she’d ever seen.

Tall, dark and handsome didn’t begin to describe him.

Certainly he was tall, several inches taller than her five-feet-ten, a fact that instantly irritated her beyond all proportion. His hair was black, his eyes dark as volcanic rock, and for a moment, her imagination working overtime, she saw him as a man who would trail devastation in his wake and bring her only sorrow.

Oh, stop it, Devon! Dozens of men have black hair and dark eyes. Get a grip.

As for handsome, his features were too strong, too infused with sheer male energy, for the word to have much meaning. He was handsome in the same way a polar bear was handsome, she thought. Take one look and run for your life.

Adding to her unease, his expensively tailored tuxedo and crisp white shirt—civilized and sophisticated attire—made him look dangerous rather than civilized, untamed rather than sophisticated. Certainly they did nothing to disguise his breadth of shoulder and depth of chest, his flat belly and lean hips.

He had a beautiful body.

Lots of men had great bodies. But this man exuded male magnetism through his very pores. What woman worthy of the name could resist him?

This one, she thought frantically. Me.

What on earth was going on here? She made it a policy never to be affected by a man’s looks or sexual charisma, a policy that had served her well over the years. Kept her from making mistakes like the ones her mother had made. So why was she now slavering over the man in the doorway? Who was, moreover, making her even later for the wedding.

Okay, Devon, calm down, she told herself. You’re exhausted and wired all at the same time, you’d rather be in the Kalahari Desert than attending a wedding at “The Oaks,” and your imagination’s gone on a rampage. A man trailing devastation? Come off it! Sure, his face is much too roughly molded to be called handsome, far too tough and full of determination to be dismissed by any label as facile as playboy. Who cares?

I don’t.

But she was certain of one thing. Certain in her bones. The man standing by the glossy green front door was the intimidating Jared Holt. Considerably less inclined to blame her mother for being afraid of him, Devon finally found her voice. “And who might you be?” she asked coolly.

Ignoring her question, he said in a deep baritone as smooth as expensive brandy, “I was hoping you wouldn’t turn up at all. So this fiasco of a wedding might at least be postponed.”

“Too bad,” Devon said. “I’m here.” Proud of how normal she sounded, she kept to herself the fact that she too thought of the fast-approaching nuptials as a fiasco. “I presume you’re Jared Holt?”

He nodded, making no attempt to shake hands. “You’re not at all what I was expecting—your mother keeps raving on about how beautiful you are.”

“Dear me,” Devon said, “you really don’t want my mother and me in the family, do you?”

“You got that right.”

“Any more than I want you and your father in mine.”

His jaw hardened; it was an extremely determined jaw. “So why didn’t you miss your plane from Yemen, Miss Fraser? I don’t think your mother would have gone through with the ceremony if you weren’t here. You could have scotched the whole thing. At least temporarily.”

“Unfortunately,” Devon said with icy precision, “I don’t see my role in life as my mother’s keeper. She may well be intent on making another ill-judged marriage. But she’s also over the age of consent. As is your father.”

“So you’ve got claws. How interesting. They don’t go with the outfit.” And in another of those scathing glances he took in her rumpled linen suit and loose-fitting blouse.

“Mr. Holt, I’ve spent the last four days negotiating mining rights with some very powerful men who live in a country with different dress codes for women than ours. My plane was late leaving Yemen, I missed my connection in Hamburg, Heathrow was a nightmare of queues and security, and then of all things there was a wildcat strike of baggage handlers in Toronto. Not to mention the traffic getting out of the city. I’m tired and I’m cranky. Why don’t you just tell me where my room is so I can get changed?”

“Cranky?” he repeated with a smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “You should choose your words more carefully—cranky doesn’t begin to describe you. You’re seething with all kinds of emotions. Typical female, in other words.”

“Generalizations are the sign of a lazy mind,” Devon said sweetly. “And the words that would most accurately describe the way I’m feeling aren’t the kind of words I’m going to use with a complete stranger. My room, Mr. Holt.”

“So I was right—there’s a lot more going on under that meek little exterior of yours than mere crankiness…although I fail to understand why you don’t want your mother marrying a very rich man. There’ll be a lot of spinoffs for you.”

Don’t lose it, Devon told herself, gritting her teeth. Jared Holt would like nothing better than for you to scream at him like a harpy five minutes after you arrive on his father’s doorstep. She said coldly, “My mother’s been married to men much richer than your father…I have no idea why she’s settling for less.” Delicately she raised one brow. “Unless, perhaps, he’s a great deal more charming than his son?”

“I can be charming when it suits me, and I hate talking to someone who’s wearing dark glasses.” Moving so fast she didn’t have time to duck, Jared whipped her glasses off her nose. For a split second she saw the contempt on his face falter, flare into something else altogether. Then that elusive emotion was gone, leaving her to wonder if she’d imagined it.

Whatever it had been, it had again set her heart to racing in her breast.

He said tightly, “I’ll show you to your room. Your mother’s room is next to it. After the wedding, of course, she’ll move into my father’s wing of the house.”

With an innocent smile Devon said, “So you have trouble with your father having a sex life, Mr. Holt? Maybe you need a good psychiatrist.”

“I don’t care who he sleeps with. I do care who he marries.”

“Control.” She gave a short laugh. “Why am I surprised?”

“Let’s get something straight right now,” Jared Holt grated, with such suppressed rage in his voice that Devon had to fight the urge to step backward. “And you can pass this on to your mother. I will not allow her to take my father to the cleaners when—as is inevitable, given her record—the divorce comes about. Have you got that? Or do I have to repeat it?”

To hell with all her good resolutions. She hadn’t traveled thousands of miles to listen to this kind of garbage. “You know what?” Devon blazed. “I’ve been to forty or fifty different countries in the last eight years and in none of them, not one, have I met a man as gratuitously rude and ignorant as you. You take the cake, Mr. Holt. Congratulations!”

If she’d hoped to get under his skin, she’d failed. His lip curling, he said, “I’m not being rude—merely honest. Not a trait you recognize, Devon Fraser? But perhaps you’re just not used to it.”

For Devon the game, if that was what it was, had suddenly gone on too long. She said sharply, “Are you figuring on trading cheap shots with me until it’s time for the wedding? Hoping my mother will call it off at the last minute if she thinks I’m not here? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m perfectly capable of finding her on my own, thank you very much.” And she took two steps past him.

Again he moved so swiftly she scarcely even saw the movement. His hand closed around her sleeve; its grip was as tight and impersonal as a circle of steel. Devon wasn’t used to having to crane her neck to look up into a man’s face; she was too tall for that and wasn’t above using her height when it suited her. But Jared Holt made her feel diminished and ridiculously unsure of herself. Not certain which she hated more, that sensation or the man himself, she rapped, “Let go of me!”

“Calm down,” he said sardonically, “I was only going to show you to your room.” He reached round her, the scent of his aftershave drifting to her nostrils, his dark head so close she could have stroked his hair, and took her suitcase from her unresisting fingers. “Although,” he went on, “time’s running out, and I’ve never yet known a woman who could get ready for anything in less than an hour.”

She wanted to run her fingers through his hair, find out if it was as silky as it looked. No use denying it. Oh God, what was wrong with her?

With a hollow sinking in her belly, Devon strove for control, praying her crazy impulse hadn’t shown in her face. Coating her features with disdain, she looked him up and down. “I’m sure you’ve known a lot of women.”

“You could say so.”

“In my opinion, the man who has to boast of his conquests isn’t worth bothering about.”

“Those with little experience of men, Miss Fraser, have to make do with opinions.”

Obviously he thought her too unattractive to get herself a man. Gritting her teeth, Devon said, “Some of us prefer to choose our experiences! You look good, I’ll give you that. But a man—again in my opinion—should be a touch more substantial than the packaging.”

“You have a lot of opinions about men for a woman whose packaging doesn’t warrant a second look!”

You’ll pay for that, Devon seethed inwardly. I’ll make you give me more than a second look, you arrogant playboy! The plastic carrier over her arm contained two dresses, one entirely correct for a high society wedding, the other rather more interesting but by no means as correct. She now knew which one she was going to wear. Decision made.

Although if she were smart she’d go for the dull but safe dress. Because by far the worst thing about this absurd conversation was the fact that she found Jared so extraordinarily attractive. Male to her female at the most basic of levels. He exuded a sexual confidence that irritated her intensely, partly because she was sure it was completely unconscious. He wasn’t trying to attract her. Oh, no. She wasn’t worth the time or the effort.

But the ease of his stance, the shiny lock of dark hair falling so casually over his tanned forehead, the latent strength of his fingers—every molecule of his body—tugged her toward him even as every word he’d said warned her to run as far and as fast as she could. She’d managed very nicely the last few years by keeping her own sexuality under wraps. If Jared Holt attracted and infuriated her, he also frightened her. Deeply.

“You’re very quiet,” he taunted. “Don’t tell me you’ve run out of opinions already?”

“They’re wasted on you.”

He said with savage emphasis, “This whole day is wasted on me.”

“Then—at last—we agree on something.”

With sudden impatience he pulled her through the door, kicked it shut behind him and marched her across a generous and sun-filled hallway toward the graceful curve of a mahogany stairwell. More than his fingers were strong, Devon thought with a shiver of her nerves. Although she kept herself in very good physical condition, she knew it would be useless to resist him; he could overpower her without even exerting himself. Resting her hand on the banister, her one desire to puncture his intolerable ego, she said with assumed lightness, “I did compliment you, you know.”

“I must have missed it,” Jared said tersely.

“Your good looks, remember? The packaging. You look rather familiar to me…although I can’t place you. Have you ever done any modeling?”

“I have not!”

She’d gotten to him. Hurray, hurray. Taking her time going up the stairs, gazing at all the portraits of the race-horses for which Benson Holt was famous, Devon said pleasantly, “What beautiful creatures…perhaps you work for your father in the stables, Mr. Holt?”

He bit off the words. “No. I don’t.”

Score two. “Then what do you do?”

“Try and keep fortune hunters away from him. At which I’ve obviously screwed up.” He led her into a separate wing and pushed open a white-panelled door. “Your mother’s in the end room, this one’s yours. They both have private bathrooms.”

Before Devon could protest he’d walked in and was putting her case down by the bed. She didn’t want him in here. She didn’t want him anywhere near her or a bed or any combination of the two. She said amiably, “Do try and smile for the cameras, won’t you? Unless you want all the wedding albums to show you sulking like a little boy who didn’t get his own way.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Jared said softly. “I don’t like it.”

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart gave an uneasy lurch. From the very first she’d thought him dangerous. And she’d been right. But something in her refused to back down, no matter how intimidating he was. Devon said, “How interesting…I also hate being ordered around. Something else we have in common.”

“Unfortunately we’re going to have far too much in common. I can’t imagine you’ll like being my stepsister any more than I’ll enjoy being your stepbrother. Thanksgiving and Christmas in the same house. Family birthdays. On and on it goes.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “You and I will be tied together once this marriage takes place—one more reason you should have missed your plane.”

She said steadily, “My job—I’m a lawyer who negotiates mining rights—requires I spend a large part of the year out of the country. You might be available for every family birthday that comes along. I won’t be.”

Jared reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear; as his hand streaked her neck with fire, it took every ounce of Devon’s control to keep her face immobile. He said smoothly, “Talking of wedding photos, I hope you’re planning on doing something with your hair in the next forty minutes. But don’t keep us waiting, will you, Miss Fraser? That’s the bride’s prerogative.”

He strode across the carpet and shut the door very quietly behind him. Devon dropped the plastic carrier on her bed and took half a dozen long, steadying breaths. The room seemed bigger without him. Bigger and emptier. Then a tap came at the door and she jumped as though a gun had gone off in her ear. “Yes?” she quavered.

“Darling, is that you?”

“Come in, Mother,” Devon said, and braced herself.

“Jared told me you’d arrived. I’ve been so worried, I thought you weren’t going to make it in time, and I really need your support—Jared looks at me as though I’m the original scarlet woman, quite frankly he terrifies me. I can’t imagine how Benson fathered him…darling, you’re not even dressed!”

“That’s because I’ve only just arrived,” Devon said, and kissed her mother’s exquisitely made-up cheek and looked her up and down. “You look lovely,” she said truthfully.

“I didn’t want to wear white—not really suitable. Do I really look all right?” And anxiously Alicia tweaked at the long skirt of her cream-colored silk dress.

For once Alicia had avoided the frills, lace and beadwork that were her normal adornment. The dress was elegant, and her hairdo equally restrained. It was five months since Devon had seen her, at which time Benson Holt had simply been a name Alicia had dropped into the conversation rather more often than was necessary. For the first time wondering if Benson had brought about other changes, Devon said, “It’s a wonderful dress! Show me your ring.”

With a shyness that Devon scarcely thought appropriate, considering this was her mother’s fifth engagement ring, Alicia held out her left hand. The diamond blazed in its ornate setting. Devon had never been fond of diamonds; their cold glitter never looked anything other than mercenary to her. “I hope you’ll be very happy,” she said.

Alicia gave a hunted look at her gold watch. “The ceremony begins in thirty-five minutes.”

“Then you’d better get out of here and let me get ready,” Devon said, smiling. “I’m sorry I’m so late. You know I’d originally planned to be here for last night’s rehearsal dinner—but between Yemen and here it was one delay after another.”

“I had to sit between Benson and Jared.” Alicia gave a shudder of pure nerves. “Do you know what he did three days ago? Jared, I mean. He tried to buy me off.”

“He what?”

“He offered me a great deal of money to call off the wedding. And I can’t even tell Benson; Jared is his only son, after all.”

“How dare he do that?”

“He’d dare anything. He’s the head of Holt Incorporated. Millions of dollars, darling. Millions. He didn’t make those by pussyfooting around.”

Devon’s jaw dropped. “Jared Holt runs Holt Incorporated?”

“He doesn’t just run it. He owns it. He’s made a fortune; he’s fifty times richer than Benson.”

Holt Incorporated involved chains of resorts the world over, some of which Devon had stayed in, a fleet of cruise ships, several commodity conglomerates and an outstandingly successful computer company. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Devon croaked.

With some of her normal spirit Alicia said, “Long distance? From Borneo and Papua New Guinea and all those other places you’re always going to? I’ve got better things to talk about than Jared Holt.”

Devon sat down on the bed and said with a gurgle of laughter, “Guess what? I asked him if he worked in his father’s stables.”

“Darling, you didn’t!”

“And before that I wanted to know if he’d ever done any modeling.”

Alicia groaned. “Oh, no…how could you?”

“Very easily. He’s the rudest and most arrogant man I’ve ever met in my entire life. And I’ve met a few.”

Alicia gave a little shiver. “You don’t want to cross him. He’d make a bad enemy, Devon.”

Her mother only called her Devon when she meant business. “I’m not scared of Jared Holt,” Devon said, not altogether accurately. “But I am scared of arriving half an hour late at that charming arbour I saw set up in the garden. Out, Mother. I’ve got to get ready.”

Alicia gave her a quick, fervent hug. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said, and clicked the door shut behind her.

Wishing she could feel the same way, Devon unzipped her case, shook out one of the two dresses, and headed for the shower.

CHAPTER TWO

AT ONE minute to six Alicia tapped on Devon’s door. “Are you ready, darling?”

Devon was standing in front of the full-length mirror outlining her mouth in Luscious Pink. “Come in, Mother. Two seconds more,” she called, and swiftly filled in the outline. Then she inserted long drop earrings made of Australian opals, deeply blue and iridescent.

“I’m a nervous wreck,” Alicia babbled. “I know this is my fifth wedding, but I truly love Benson and I really want this one to last forever. For all of us to be one happy family. Do you think I should marry him, Devon, or do you think I’m making another terrible mistake?”

As Devon had yet to meet Benson, she could scarcely answer this question. Although if Benson was anything like Jared, her mother was making the biggest mistake of her marital career. And “one happy family” was sure to be a pipe dream. Christmas with Jared Holt? Devon would rather die. “Of course you’ll be happy,” she said soothingly, seeing with a twinge of compassion that her mother’s lips were quivering. Briefly she tucked Alicia’s arm in hers and said, gazing at their joint reflections in the mirror, “Come on, Ma, let’s go knock ’em out.”

“The flowers are on the table in the hall…we do look rather nice, don’t we?” Alicia said naively.

“Nice” wasn’t the effect Devon had been aiming for. Her dress, a long shimmer of turquoise Thai silk, was artfully simple, its neckline cut so that it cupped her breasts, its slim-fitting skirt slit to the knee. Another opal nestled in her cleavage; her shoes were thin-strapped sandals with very high heels. She’d piled her hair on her head, a few curls casually caressing her neck and her cheeks. “We’re gorgeous,” Devon said. “And don’t you dare let Jared Holt ruin your wedding day; he’s not worth it.”

“I won’t,” Alicia said, and gave her daughter a militant smile. “I’m learning a few things, Devon. I told Benson I wouldn’t promise to obey, I was too old for that. He just laughed and said he didn’t want a doormat for a wife. He’s a very nice man; you’ll like him.”

The romantic Italian, the British aristocrat and the Texas oilman, husbands two, three and four, had all been introduced to Devon in a similar manner; Alicia always wanted her daughter to like the prospective groom. Devon said diplomatically, “I’m looking forward to meeting him.”

The flowers were clusters of pale orchids and the photographer was waiting for them. Feeling her heart begin to beat uncomfortably fast, Devon picked up the smaller of the two bouquets and smiled obediently into the camera. Then she walked down the stairs at her mother’s side. As they reached the bottom step, Alicia said, “I did ask you to give me away, darling, didn’t I?”

Devon almost tripped over the faded Ushak runner on the hall floor. “Nope.”

“Benson’s brother-in-law was to have done it. But he had an operation for varicose veins two weeks ago. The only other choice was Jared. Please say you’ll do it, Devon!”

Allow that cynical, overbearing creep to escort her mother up the aisle? No way. “Sure I will,” said Devon.

After they’d emerged into the sunshine on the front step, the photographer took several shots of them gazing in a heartfelt manner into their bouquets. Devon in the meantime was sneaking peaks at the set-up. White awnings stretched between the trees, providing shade from the sun. Baskets of mock-orange, roses and delphiniums flanked the array of wicker chairs where the guests were seated, and the soft ripple of harp music fell over their chatter.

Finally the photographer was satisfied. As Alicia and Devon approached the chairs, the harpist drew one last chord from her instrument and fell silent. From an organ near the white flower-bedecked altar came the first notes of the wedding processional. It was being played, Devon noticed abstractedly, with very little regard for either rhythm or accuracy.

Alicia whispered, “That’s Benson’s sister at the organ. She insisted. Benson didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Oh, Devon, I’m so nervous. I should never have agreed to marry him. Why do I keep getting married? I’m not young, like you; I should know better.”

“Come on, Mother, it’s too late now. So let’s do it in style,” Devon said, took her mother’s hand and drew it through her arm, and then struggled to establish some kind of accord between their steps and the music. It wasn’t easy. But it did take her mind off the array of guests, the waiting clergyman, and the two men standing in front of the altar. Benson, the groom, and Jared, his son. Both had their backs to the two women pacing up the green carpet that had been laid over the grass.

Benson was shorter than his son and had a well-groomed crop of gray hair. As the organ hit a sharp instead of a flat, he turned, saw Alicia walking toward him and smiled at her. He wasn’t as handsome as Jared and his waist had a comfortable thickness. He looked human, thought Devon. Unlike Jared. And his smile was both loving and kind. Also unlike Jared.

Kindness was right up there on Devon’s list of virtues. She had long ago decided you couldn’t fake it.

Well, she thought, how interesting. And not at all what I was expecting. She whispered into her mother’s ear, “I think you picked a good ’un, Mother,” and was rewarded with a watery and grateful smile from Alicia.

The organ emitted an uncertain twiddle, then managed to land on a chord that was loud, triumphant and startlingly off-key. Devon shuddered. And finally Jared turned his head.

He didn’t even look at Alicia. His gaze went straight to Alicia’s daughter, and for a most satisfactory moment that she knew she wasn’t imagining Devon saw blank shock rigidify every muscle of his face. She lowered her lids demurely, as befitted a woman with very little experience. A woman whose packaging, to quote him, didn’t warrant a second look. Then she allowed the most innocent of smiles to play on her lips.

But when she looked up, her smile was directed solely at Benson.

Right up until the last minute, Jared had thought he’d have to give Alicia away: a duty he would have performed punctiliously and with genuine loathing. But as he and Benson had left the house via the conservatory, his father had said, “Alicia’s going to ask Devon to give her away. So you’re off the hook.”

Annoyed with himself for having made his distaste for the task so obvious, Jared said shortly, “I met her. The daughter, I mean. She’s not what I’d expected. She’s tall and frumpy with a tongue like a chainsaw.”

“Really? Alicia showed me a photo—I thought she was very pretty.”

“A good photographer can make a rose out of a cactus.”

Benson said abruptly, “Have you got the ring?”

“Yes, Dad—you’ve asked me that twice already.”

“There’s Martin, waving at us. Time to take our places.”

Martin was the butler; his signal meant that Alicia was ready. Jared glanced at his watch. Seven minutes past six. Devon Fraser was remarkably prompt. For a woman.

He followed his father under the shade of the awning, nodded at the clergyman and studiously avoided looking at the guests. Lise was presumably somewhere in that crush. She’d cajoled him for an invitation, and he’d made the mistake of sending her one. He was going to have to decide what to do about Lise, he thought, and winced as Aunt Bessie attacked the portable organ with her usual gusto and total disregard for the printed score. If he, Jared, were ever foolish enough to get married—a stupid proposition; he had no intention of allowing himself to be tied for life to one woman—he’d get married on his yacht. Aunt Bessie suffered from seasickness. Aunt Bessie wouldn’t set foot on anything remotely resembling the deck of a ship.

From the corner of his eye he saw his father turn and smile at his prospective bride. He was about to become her fifth husband. Anger coiled tight in Jared’s gut. He’d done his best to talk his father out of this ill-advised wedding, and then he’d tried a little judicious bribery of Alicia. Neither of which had worked. Even though he’d offered Alicia a very considerable sum.

She could get more from a divorce settlement; that, he was sure, had been her reasoning.

He was damned if he was going to smile at Alicia. At least the clergyman had insisted the photographer keep his distance during the ceremony. So if he, Jared, didn’t feel like smiling at anyone, he didn’t have to.

Devon Fraser had claimed he was sulking because he hadn’t gotten his own way. Had he ever known a woman to get so quickly and so thoroughly under his skin?

Another of Aunt Bessie’s chords screeched along his nerves. Surely Alicia and her daughter were nearly at the altar—they could have walked from Central Park to the Bronx by now. Fighting down his impatience, Jared looked around to check on their progress.

A tall woman in a shimmer of turquoise was walking toward him, looking straight at him, her head held high.

Her beauty slammed into his chest as though he’d been punched, hard, on the breastbone.

Her hair was heaped on her head, and shone like ripe wheat, baring the slim line of her throat. Her shoulders rose from her dress in impossibly elegant curves; the swell of her breasts made his heart thud as though he’d dropped a twenty-kilo weight. Ripe breasts. Full breasts. Voluptuous breasts, their pale sheen like the petals of the orchids she was carrying. In her cleavage a blue stone shot sparks of fire.

Her hips swayed gracefully as she walked; under the gleaming silk skirt her legs seemed to go on forever.

But it was her eyes that held him. Those exquisitely wide-spaced eyes that had so disconcerted him when he’d pulled off her sunglasses on the front step. He’d been expecting mousy brown, or light gray. Anything but irises the brilliant blue of a tropical sea. Eyes he could drown in.

As his groin tightened involuntarily, Jared knew with every fiber of his being that he wouldn’t rest until he had Devon Fraser in his bed. Until he possessed her in the most primitive of ways.

This was the woman whose packaging he’d derided? The woman he’d labelled a frump? Was he losing his marbles?

With a faraway part of his brain, the only part that still seemed to be functioning, Jared suddenly realized that Devon was fully aware of the effect she was having on him, and that his response had pleased her enormously. Then she dropped her lids, the smallest of smiles playing on the soft pink curves of her mouth.

A kissable mouth. A deliciously seductive mouth.

Damn you, Devon Fraser, Jared thought vengefully. You took me in with your high-necked blouse and your rumpled suit and your washed-out cheeks. Took me in but good. But you won’t do it again. Not twice in one day.

Because I’m going to teach you a lesson. I don’t know how yet. But I’ll figure out something.

I don’t like being jerked around by a woman. Made to look like a fool. I don’t like that at all. Before this farce of a wedding’s over, you’re going to wish you hadn’t done it.

With a small jolt he realized the clergyman was clearing his throat, and that the four of them were now neatly lined up in front of all the guests. Pay attention, Jared. Forget Devon Fraser, at least for the next few minutes. You’re supposed to be the best man.

May the best man win.

He didn’t know where that line had come from. But he did know he meant it as far as Devon was concerned. She might have won the first round. She wasn’t going to win the second. He was going to get his revenge one way or another.

Revenge was a strong word.

The sonorous, old-fashioned words of the marriage service rolled over him. Devon’s profile was turned to him: a straight nose and decided chin, the gleaming weight of her hair. He wanted to pull out the pins and let it tumble to her shoulders. He wanted to thread his fingers in its soft sheen, and through it caress the rise of her breasts. He wanted to push her flat on satin sheets and lower his body onto hers until… He was doing it again, he thought viciously. What the hell was wrong with him? She was a woman, that was all. One more woman.

She’d be willing. Of course. They all were.

Which was the crux of the problem.

He was an extremely rich man. He wielded a lot of power in the places where it mattered. Plus there was something about his looks and his body—he knew this without vanity—that women found attractive. Add to that the fact that he was unmarried and what did you have? A challenge that every female between the ages of eighteen and forty-five thought they should take up.

It would be a change, he thought cynically, to be seen for once as a man. Just a man. Instead of a corporate figurehead wrapped in thousand dollar bills.

Some chance. Women didn’t operate that way.

Trouble was, he was also bored to the back teeth with all the games. He knew every move from beginning to end. The first date, the artful questions, the intimate dinner—during which he always made his boundaries plain: the relationship had to be on his terms or not at all. But very few of them listened, and if they did they took it as another challenge—to achieve what other women hadn’t been able to. Then there was the first kiss, the gifts he got his secretary to send, the flowers. The lovemaking, the pouting when he made it plain that, no, he wouldn’t stay overnight; he never did. The inevitable expectations of commitment. The anger or the weeping—depending on the woman—when for the second time he made it clear that he didn’t share those expectations, he wasn’t into commitment. Never had been, never would be. Then, last of all, the break-up.

The last few years he’d played the game less and less. Lise was an example of his breaking of the pattern. He was honest enough with himself to know he was using Lise as protective coloration: if his social circle assumed he was having an affair with her, it kept the majority of the other women at bay, as well as the gossip columnists. Very few of his compatriots would have believed he wasn’t sleeping with Lise. She sure wasn’t going to tell them; he knew that much. She was using him just as blatantly as he was using her. To be seen as the mistress of Jared Holt was a boost for Lise’s ego—and for her career.

As for his sexual needs, he’d been subduing those for months in a ferocious focus on his far-flung business empire, and by engaging in strenuous athletic pursuits in various untamed parts of the world.

In the last few minutes Devon Fraser had put paid to all that. Since his first glimpse of her in that dress his sexuality had been running rampant. He knew what he wanted. And he wanted it soon.

Her dress, he thought caustically, had cost money. Big bucks. That stunning combination of elegance and provocation didn’t come cheap. So was she also after him, one more woman chasing after the security of a big bankroll? Like mother, like daughter?

Except the daughter was twenty years younger and ten times more beautiful.

Alicia had snagged Benson with very little effort. So now was it Devon’s turn to get the head of the company, the one with the real bucks? She was just being a little more subtle about it than all the other females of his acquaintance.

Subtle? Or downright devious? Keep on track, Jared, he told himself. After all, Devon could scarcely be said to have encouraged him on the front steps of his father’s house. Neither in her dress or her conversation.

Could he be mistaken? Was she genuinely as antagonistic toward him as she’d seemed?

“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

Devon said clearly, “I do,” gave her mother a smile that made Jared’s heart lurch in his chest, and stepped a little to one side. He fought to pay attention to the service: he’d really look an idiot if he flubbed his own cue.

He’d already made an idiot of himself once in front of Devon Fraser. He was damned if he was going to do it twice in one day.

Devon had been to lots of weddings, for by now most of her contemporaries were married. She’d thought she was immune to the whole ritual. Yet today for some reason the words, so simple yet so powerful, had gone straight through her. “To love and to cherish…” Who, except for her almost forgotten father, had ever cherished her? Not Alicia, she’d been too busy chasing romance from one continent to the next. Not any of her stepfathers. Certainly not Steve, who’d been her lover for over three years. Or, more recently, Peter. Who, luckily, hadn’t become her lover.

So what? She didn’t need cherishing; she was an independent, intelligent, thirty-two-year-old woman who excelled at a difficult job and who’d constructed her whole life so as to avoid intimacy and long-term relationships.

Then why was she feeling as weepy as any bride?

“…till death do us part.”

Alicia had been parted from Devon’s father by death. Devon’s father, according to Alicia, had been the love of her life—a story clung to more obsessively with every ensuing divorce. Devon had been seven when he died. She could remember as clearly as if it were yesterday that she’d been out in the garden when her mother had told her. The blackberries had been ripe and a thrush had been singing in the walnut tree…

Oh God, she felt far weepier than any bride. She wouldn’t cry; she wouldn’t! Apart from anything else it would only confirm Jared Holt’s low estimation of women. Emotional basket cases, that was how he saw the female sex. Irrational, completely at the mercy of their feelings. Not like him.

Jared had passed his father the ring and the clergyman was intoning the age-old symbolic words. Nervously Devon eased Benson’s ring from her thumb. Suddenly it slipped through her fingers and fell into the midst of the orchids. She scrabbled for it, bruising the sleek, expensive petals; when it didn’t emerge, she gave the bouquet a shake, and with an inward moan of dismay watched the ring plummet to the ground and roll along the green carpet. Toward Jared.

He moved very swiftly for so big a man. Stooping, he grabbed the ring and passed it to her. His eyes were looking straight into hers. They weren’t black, as she’d thought when she’d been standing on the front step. They were a dark midnight blue, impenetrable and cold as a winter sky. Her lashes flickered. Gingerly, trying not to touch him, she plucked the ring from his open palm, hearing the low murmur of amusement from the congregation. Blushing scarlet, she passed the ring to her mother.

Let this be over soon, please, she prayed. Let me get out of here without disgracing myself. Without revealing to anyone—especially Jared—how fragile I feel.

He probably already knows. He doesn’t miss a trick, that man.

Benson kissed his new wife with decorum. Her mother, Devon noticed distantly, looked flushed and very happy. Then Aunt Bessie swung into action again, pulling out all the stops. Benson took Alicia’s hand in his with a big grin, and started down the aisle between the ranked chairs. Now it’s our turn, Devon thought. Mine and Jared’s.

She turned to him with a brilliant smile, resting her fingers on the arm he was proffering, not at all surprised to feel the muscles taut as stretched cable.

With a deliberation that was somehow terrifying, he put his own hand on top of hers. The heat of his skin burned into her flesh like a brand; the raw hunger in his eyes filled her with panic. Then, suddenly, the hunger was gone, vanished as if it had never been.

Turned off, as though by a switch.

Every nerve in her body screamed at her to beware. She dragged her gaze away from his and smiled into the sea of faces, dimly rather proud of her composure. With a super-human effort she retrieved her voice, saying lightly, “Your aunt is excelling herself.”

“You got a real kick out of shoving that dress in my face, didn’t you?”

He towered over her, even when she was wearing high heels. Devon looked up at him limpidly and said in a voice as smooth as cream, “At this precise moment we’re being observed by a couple of hundred socialites, some of whom I assume are friends of yours…do try and control your temper. As for your aunt, any musician worth her salt should be able to improvise.”

“She never does anything but improvise, and I really hate being made a fool of.”

The photographer planted himself in front of them and angled the camera at their faces. “Just a little closer to her, Mr. Holt. Big smile—that’s great.”

Blinded by the flash, horribly aware of the jut of Jared’s hip and the hard line of his shoulder, Devon stumbled on a fold of the carpet. Quickly Jared’s arm went round her waist, and for a moment all her weight was resting on him. Instinctively she knew that with very little effort he could have picked her up and carried her the rest of the way. One arm around her hips, the other pressing her to his chest…

Was she losing her mind?

She pushed free of him, struggling for composure, and with huge relief saw that Benson and Alicia were waiting for them. “Mother, congratulations,” Devon said warmly, kissing Alicia on the cheek. Then she held out her hand to Benson. “I’m so happy to meet you,” she said. “I’m only sorry I had to wait until you were all the way to the altar.”

Benson planted a kiss on her cheek. “Devon…a pleasure. You’re almost as beautiful as your mother.”

Alicia gave a delighted giggle, and Devon heard Jared’s breath hiss between his teeth. “You’re much better-looking than your son,” she responded cordially. “I wish you both every happiness.”

As Alicia hugged her again, spilling out how nervous she’d been and how relieved she was that the ceremony was over, Benson drew his son aside. “You need glasses, boy,” he said in a jovial undertone. “A frump? The girl’s gorgeous!”

“You should have seen her,” Jared muttered. “It looked like she’d slept in her suit for a week and her hair was—”

“Bifocals,” Benson interrupted, clapping Jared on the arm.

Jared bit his tongue. Bad enough that Devon had made a fool of him; he didn’t need his father rubbing it in. But he’d get even, he thought, if it took him the rest of the day. Devon had used her sexuality—not to mention that blue dress—to get at him; he just might use his own sexuality in revenge. God knows enough women had made it clear how attractive he was.

He would show Devon Fraser she shouldn’t play with fire. And what enormous pleasure that would give him.

“You’re very quiet, Jared,” Alicia said provocatively.

Jared gave himself a mental shake, pasted a smile on his face, and with impeccable good manners congratulated his new stepmother and his father on their marriage. An ordinary observer couldn’t have faulted him. But Devon, attuned to him in a way that disconcerted her, could see the stiffness in his shoulders and hear the reservations in his voice. He was playing to the audience. And he didn’t mean a word of it.

The four of them then formed an impromptu receiving line. The faces passed in front of Devon in a blur, Jared’s manners irreproachable as he said, time after time, “May I introduce Alicia’s daughter to you?…Miss Devon Fraser.”

Aunt Bessie stood out from the crowd. Aunt Bessie was wearing orange shantung and a lime-green hat; her fingers were so cluttered with diamonds Devon was amazed she’d been able to play any notes at all, right or wrong. She kissed her nephew and said in a piercing voice, “Time you got yourself hitched, Jared. You’re not getting any younger.”

“You married Uncle Leonard instead of waiting for me,” Jared said. “It broke my heart.”

Aunt Bessie chuckled, looking from him to Devon. “Now this young lady looks like she’d be your match,” she remarked. “You must be Alicia’s daughter.”

“I’m Devon, yes.”

“Don’t let him fool you with that big-businessman act. Heart of gold.” She gave another raucous chuckle. “Pockets full of gold, too. You after his money?”

Devon said crisply, “I’m not after him at all. Despite your recommendation.”

“That’s what you need, Jared, a woman who’ll stick up for herself.” Jared’s aunt leaned toward Devon. “Too many of ’em let him walk all over them. Not good for him.”

“Aunt Bessie,” Jared said, “you’re holding up the line.”

“I’ll talk to you later, dear,” Aunt Bessie said, squeezing Devon’s fingers meaningfully. Then, with some determination, she waddled off toward the nearest tray of champagne.

Not if I can help it, thought Devon, and smiled at the next guest, whose name totally escaped her. She had the beginnings of a headache and a whole bottle of champagne was starting to seem like a very viable option.

Then a female voice said warmly, “Darling—I’m so sorry I missed you before the wedding.”

Devon blinked as the owner of the voice pulled Jared’s head down and kissed him explicitly on the lips. Ownership, Devon thought intuitively. A public display of ownership, that’s what this kiss is all about.

So why wasn’t she feeling relieved that Jared Holt was already spoken for?

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