by Sandra Field
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?
CHAPTER THREE
THE woman kissing Jared was dainty, the kind of female who always made Devon feel outsized. She was also extremely chic, with a porcelain complexion and a cap of gleaming black hair; her pale pink raw silk suit screamed Paris.
Jared wasn’t exactly fighting her off. When he did raise his head, he had frosted pink lipstick on his mouth. A mouth, Devon thought unwillingly, that was both strongly and sensually carved. A very masculine mouth.
He said unhurriedly, “Hello, Lise…I was with Dad before the wedding, figured he needed the moral support. May I introduce the bride’s daughter, Devon Fraser? Devon, this is my friend Lise Lamont, from Manhattan. Lise is a Broadway actress.”
Lise had pale blue eyes, her least attractive feature. They didn’t look enthralled at meeting Devon. Devon said politely, “How do you do, Miss Lamont? I believe I saw you in the last Stan Niall play…a challenging role that you more than fulfilled.”
Lise inclined her head regally. “Thank you. Jared was a great support to me during that run.” She gave a delicate shudder. “I thought it would never end—you were so good to me, darling.”
So Jared and Lise went back a while. And Devon happened to know that Holt Incorporated had its headquarters in New York. Unquestionably Lise was staking her claim to Jared. Hands off, Devon. That was the message.
Two could play that game, thought Devon, and said casually, “I’m glad I managed to squeeze in a visit to the theater for your play—I was between trips to Argentina and South Africa.” I have, in other words, more important things to do with my life than keep my hands on or off Jared Holt.
Lise’s smile never faltered. “You must try and attend Marguerite Hammlin’s new play. I was fortunate enough to get the lead—an extraordinarily powerful part.” She let her fingers linger on Jared’s sleeve. “I’ll see you after the dinner, darling.”
In a wave of expensive perfume she drifted away. Two more army colonels and a couple of horse breeders followed, and then at the very end of the line a lanky, bespectacled young man with intelligent gray eyes, who was wearing a suit that badly needed pressing. “Hi, Jared, good to see you. It was snowing in Nanasivik this morning so the Twin Otter was late…I only just arrived.” He smiled at Devon. “You must be Alicia’s daughter…you’re very like your mother.”
Jared said stiffly, “Devon, this is Patrick Kendall, my cousin. Aunt Bessie’s son.”
Devon warmed to him instantly. “What were you doing on Baffin Island, Patrick?”
“I’m a geologist—I was taking core samples in the area.”
“I was there just a month ago,” Devon said, explaining some of the ramifications of her job.
Patrick’s questions were as intelligent as his eyes, and it was Jared who interrupted them. “Aunt Bessie’s waving at y
ou, Patrick—shouldn’t you say hello to her?”
“Guess I’d better…I’ll catch you after dinner, Devon.”
The receiving line was done. Devon’s feet were killing her. She rested her weight on one foot and wriggled her sore toes. “I like your cousin,” she said, glancing up at Jared. “By the way, your actress friend left lipstick on you.”
“Patrick’s okay. Although he’ll never be anything but a two-bit geologist.”
“He strikes me as a happy man,” Devon said coldly.
“Hasn’t got two cents to rub together.”
“Let’s get something straight, Jared,” she announced. “It’s very obvious to me that you’re obsessed with money. I am not, repeat not, after even a single dollar that belongs to you. I prefer to earn my own money.”
Jared fished a white handkerchief from his pocket. “Wipe the lipstick off, would you?”
He didn’t believe her. Although briefly Devon thought of refusing his request, there was a glint in his eye that told her he’d think her a coward were she to refuse. She took the smooth white linen and rubbed Aunt Bessie’s smear of tangerine from his cheek and then Lise’s more refined pale pink from his mouth, all the while keeping thought and feeling under rigid control. Jared stood very still, watching her. When she’d finished, he said, “There’s none of your lipstick on me.”
“Nor will there be.”
“Seems a pity.” He took the handkerchief from her, captured her fingers in his and raised them to his lips, kissing them slowly, one by one.
Devon’s heart seemed to stop beating. The heat of his mouth burned through all her defences; his downbent head made him seem momentarily vulnerable. She didn’t think she’d ever been the recipient of so seductive or unexpected a gesture.
Like an ambush, desire snaked through her, fierce and compelling. Her body swayed toward him, her ill-fated bouquet dropping to the floor so that she could rest her hand on his black hair, finding it, as she had expected, thick and silky to the touch. As an ache of primal need blossomed deep inside her, her surroundings fell away, leaving only her and Jared in the world. Seducer and seduced.