Jared's Love-Child

by Sandra Field

  He straightened, let go of her hand and said coolly, “So you’re as willing as the rest of them…I don’t know why I should be surprised.”

  It was as if he’d slapped her in the face. Feeling the crimson of humiliation creep up her cheeks, Devon said tautly, “It’s all a game to you, isn’t it?”

  A game called revenge, he thought grimly. “Just like that dress was a game.”

  And how could she deny it? She’d worn the dress out of pique and a desire to shock him. “So now we’re even,” she said. “I got you. You got me. But I don’t want to play any more, Jared. Game over.”

  “According to you.”

  “You’re already taken. Lise made that clear.”

  “I don’t belong to any woman,” Jared said with dangerous emphasis.

  “Tell that to Lise. Not to me. I’m not interested.”

  “You could have fooled me.”

  “Jared, half the guests are staring at us and the other half are trying to hear what we’re saying. And I badly need—in short order—at least three glasses of champagne.”

  “In that case, we’ll have to continue this later.”

  “There’s nothing to continue!”

  But Jared was signaling to the nearest white-coated waiter. He took two glasses from the silver tray and passed her one. “Welcome to the family, Devon.”

  The champagne was as ice-cold as ocean foam. After a swift glance around, Devon raised her glass and said gently, “Go to hell, Jared.”

  He gave a choke of laughter. “I’ll say one thing for you. Your tactics are different than most.”

  “You’re in a bad way when you confuse truth with tactics.”

  “Truth and the weaker sex don’t belong in the same category.”

  “Truth and integrity do!”

  “A woman’s integrity, my darling Devon, is married to a man’s bank account.”

  It was Devon’s turn to laugh. “All women are gold-diggers? What a cliché! Surely the head of Holt Incorporated can do better than that.”

  “If you knew I was the head of Holt Incorporated,” he rasped, “why did you ask if I worked in the stables?”

  “For the obvious reason that at that time I didn’t know.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “My mother told me right after you left my room.”

  “Whereupon you put on that amazingly provocative dress. I rest my case.”

  Devon snapped, “I put on this dress because I thought you were the rudest man I’d ever met and I wanted to take you down a peg or two. Some chance. Your ego’s impenetrable.”

  “Perhaps Aunt Bessie was right—I’ve met my match.”

  Devon took a big gulp of champagne, sneezed twice as the bubbles went up her nose, and said haughtily, “My ego’s a grain of sand compared to yours—yours is as big as a boulder. Now will you please excuse me? I have better things to do at this wedding than trade insults with you.”

  Unfortunately she then planted her foot squarely on her bouquet. Glaring at him, daring him to laugh at her, she said, “You were right about one thing, Jared Holt—I should have missed the plane in Yemen.”

  She stooped, revealing rather a lot of leg in the process, grabbed the battered orchids and stalked off in the general direction of her mother. And with every nerve in her body Devon was aware that Jared was watching her.

  She made rather febrile conversation with a lot of people, then to her relief saw that the master of ceremonies was ushering them toward a peaked tent decorated with banners and mounds of garden flowers, where dinner was to be served. A chamber orchestra was playing some bouncy Mozart. Devon, of course, was at the head table. To her dismay, she saw she was seated between Benson and his son. Aunt Bessie’s husband, he of the varicose veins, was on her mother’s other side.

  It was too late to switch the name cards. She gave Benson an insincere smile as he pulled out her chair, and sat down. A gilt-edged plate of piping hot scallops in puff pastry was put in front of her. She stared at the scallops, wishing she hadn’t drunk so much champagne, wondering how long it was since she last ate a proper meal. Too long. The pastry wavered in her vision.

  Hastily she bent down to shove her ruined bouquet under the table, feeling the blood rush back to her head. She didn’t care if she ever saw another orchid in her entire life. Or scallop.

  Hard fingers encircled her elbow, drawing her back upright. Jared said tightly, “Are you all right?”

  She gaped at him, mumbling, “I’m fine…I—I just can’t remember when—or where—I last ate a real meal. Yemen, I suppose. Was it yesterday?”

  Jared grabbed a roll from a nearby basket, split it and passed her a piece. “Here, eat this.”

  The bread was warm and yeasty. Devon chewed and swallowed. “Thanks,” she said ungraciously.

  Jared had already caught the attention of the nearest waiter. Her scallops were removed, replaced by a cup of clear consommé. “Try that,” Jared said. “Works wonders.”

  She stared into the fragile china bowl; he’d engineered the exchange with ruthless efficiency. Her heart beating like a triphammer and her hands cold as ice, she glanced over at him. “What you want you get,” she said. “Pronto.”

  “Drink your soup.”

  “Just don’t ever want me…okay?”

  “Do what I say, Devon.”

  “You don’t hear anything that doesn’t suit you, do you?” she retorted, fumbled for her spoon and took a mouthful of soup. It was delicious, warming her all the way down her throat to her stomach. She took another mouthful, noticing out of the corner of her eye that Benson was fully occupied with his bride and the guests were enjoying the scallops. She said, “Jared, you tried to buy off my mother.”

  “Yeah.”

  He hadn’t even bothered denying it. Shaken by sudden fury, Devon said, “That was a loathsome thing to do.”

  “Eminently practical, I’d say. And I don’t know why you’re complaining—it didn’t work.”

  “Some women can’t be bought—did you get the message?”

  “No…only that she’s angling for more.” His lip curled. “Divorce can be lucrative when you’re in my league.”

  Devon took another mouthful of soup. “You really are despicable.”

  “Not by my standards. I’ve learned something in my thirty-eight years, Devon. Everyone can be bought. All women have their price—some higher than others.” He stabbed a scallop. “Most of the time, of course, you don’t get what you pay for.”

  “That’s because you’re paying for it,” Devon flashed.

  “Haven’t you realized yet that everything comes with a price tag?”

  She thought of Steve and Peter, and said more sharply than she’d intended, “Of course I have. But your mistake is to equate the price tag with money. Hard cash. Instead of with emotion.”

  “For a while I thought…but you’re really no different from the rest.”

  She gave him a cool smile. “You realize you’ve just paid me a compliment?”

  His own smile was reluctant. “Solidarity with the sister-hood? You’re quick-witted, I’ll give you that.”

  “My goodness—two compliments. Watch out, Jared, you’re mellowing before my eyes.”

  “Good. So you’ll like it when I kiss you.”

  Soup slopped out of her spoon. Carefully Devon replaced the spoon in the bowl. “Are you trying to make Lise jealous? Is that what this is all about?”

  “Leave Lise out of this,” he rapped, his jaw hardening.

  It was a very formidable jaw. Devon retorted, “So you value fidelity as little as emotion.”

  “You’re making a lot of assumptions that are none of your business.”

  “Fine,” she said tartly. “Just as long as you remember that I’m none of your business. Literally. Because that’s all women are to you—a business deal.”

  “The so-called battle of the sexes is one big business deal.”

  “I couldn’t agree less!”

 
; “Darling,” Alicia said, “didn’t you like your scallops?”

  Very much aware that her cheeks were pink with temper and her eyes blazing with emotion—that word again— Devon said hastily, “Not on top of champagne, Mother.”

  “Benson and I were just saying how much we hope ‘The Oaks’ will see the arrival of some grandchildren,” Alicia said archly; tact had never been her strongest suit.

  “Oh…really?” Devon said weakly.

  “I do wish you’d change jobs, darling. Jared, she’s never home. How can you fall in love when you spend all your time in Borneo and Arabia and Timbuktu?”

  “Mother, I’ve never even been to Timbuktu.”

  “Don’t be so literal-minded, Devon—you know what I mean.”

  “I enjoy my job,” Devon said. “And if I was meant to fall in love, I’m sure I could do it in Arabia just as well as in Toronto.”

  “You can’t develop a relationship in between airports!”

  Her mother was serious. Devon said artlessly, “Then I guess you’ll have to depend on Jared for the grandchildren.”

  Benson said, “Unfortunately, Jared doesn’t believe in commitment…Lise looked very charming, by the way.”

  “It’s all these careers,” Alicia said crossly. “In my day, women stayed home.”

  Devon bit hard on her lip. Alicia had made a career out of marriage and had stayed in any number of homes, although this was scarcely the appropriate time to say so. One waiter removed her soup; another put a plate of pork medallions in front of her. As her stomach lurched uneasily, she started asking Benson about his horses, and soon they were safely launched. The rest of the dinner, the speeches, the obligatory kissing of the bride by the groom, all passed by her in a blur. As soon as she was released from the head table she sought out Jared’s cousin Patrick; he introduced her to some of his friends and for the first time since the wedding had begun Devon started to enjoy herself.

  They were laughingly exchanging horror stories about overseas travel when Devon saw Jared striding toward them: tall and commanding, wrapped in an aura of power and sexual charisma that made her deeply wary. The man of danger, she thought with an inner shiver, and wished him a thousand miles away.

  He said abruptly, “The dancing’s getting underway, Devon—we’re expected to lead off after Dad and Alicia.”

  Dance with Jared? She’d rather march barefoot through the desert. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

  “They want us now.”

  Short of making a scene, what choice did she have? Devon said, “Be sure you ask me to dance, Patrick,” and swept past Jared, her head held high.

  As she crossed the grass, he put an arm hard around her waist; the contact scorched through her silk gown. He said tersely, “Two more hours and this shindig’ll be over. Can’t be too soon for me.”

  Or for me, thought Devon.

  Dusk had fallen; the dance tent, a ghostly white under the tall elm trees, was entwined with ivy and scented with baskets of roses. Inside, scores of tiny lights sparkled like stars. For a moment Devon relaxed in the circle of Jared’s arm, forgetting that she despised him and that a minute ago she also had been longing for the wedding to be over. “Oh, Jared, it’s enchanting,” she whispered, and twisted in his arms, her smile as vivid as a child’s.

  His mouth tightened. “Let’s dance,” he said.

  He took her in his arms as though she had some kind of communicable disease. He was a skillful dancer, his steps perfectly in time with the music as they circled Benson and Alicia, and Devon hated every minute of it. When the waltz ended, there was a smattering of applause from the assembled guests. Devon said flatly, “Duty done. Thank you.”

  “The next one we’re dancing for us.”

  “There isn’t any us!”

  The orchestra was playing a slow and dreamy melody; as Devon tried to pull free, Jared tightened his hold on her, pulling her to stand body to body, her breasts soft against the wall of his chest. Then he rested his cheek on her hair and in the semi-darkness began to sway to the music.

  Her face was nestled in the hollow between his shoulder and his throat; she could smell, very subtly, his aftershave, and, even more subtly, the clean, masculine scent of his skin. His hand slid down to hold her by the hips; his other hand was clasping hers. Nothing in the world could have prevented the flood of desire, sweet and hot and urgent, that swept over Devon.

  She wanted this man. Wanted to lie with him, skin to skin, naked bodies entwined. Wanted to travel with him the many roads of passion. Her heartbeat quickened; she was achingly conscious of the thrust of his erection that said more clearly than words that desire was mutual.

  She hated everything he stood for. How could she even think of going to bed with him?

  With a little moan of dismay she tried to push away from him. But as though her movements excited him, Jared took her chin in his strong fingers and bent his head to kiss her.

  As if a spell had been cast over her, Devon waited, letting her lids drift shut as she felt the first light pressure of his lips. To her surprise, there was no anger in his kiss, simply the need—or so she felt—to give her pleasure. Scarcely aware of what she was doing, she looped her arms around his neck, offering her mouth gladly to the warmth of his. He muttered something that she didn’t catch, then his tongue swept the soft curve of her lower lip, dipping deeper as she opened to him.

  Between one instant and the next, desire was engulfed in a passion so fierce and so primitive that Devon began to tremble. Jared’s arm tightened around her waist; for a few brief seconds that could have been hours, he plundered all the sweetness of her mouth. Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

  His eyes were as dark as pits; Devon had no idea what he was thinking. He was a stranger to her, she thought in utter panic. Not only a stranger: an enemy. Yet she had allowed him intimacies that she rarely allowed anyone.

  She had to end this. Now. In a voice that was almost steady she said, “That’ll teach me to drink champagne.”

  His lashes flickered; dark lashes, she thought abstractedly, as black as his hair. He grated, “You’d only kiss me if you were drunk? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  Momentarily his arms were lax around her. Devon stepped back, smoothing her hair. “Let’s not kid ourselves, Jared—you don’t like me and I don’t like you. I’ve had less than four hours’ sleep in the last couple of days, and weddings—especially my mother’s weddings—are guaranteed to push all my buttons. You go find Lise and I’ll ask Patrick to dance with me.”

  “So that’s what you’re after? Some guy you can lead around by the nose?”

  “I want someone who won’t crawl all over me like a starving mongrel!”

  “You know what you need? Taming, Devon Fraser—”

  “Are you trying to tell me that any woman with the guts to say no to you needs fixing?”

  “—and I’m the man to do it.”

  “Go tame Lise! Go tame any other woman on this dance floor who’s stupid enough to get within ten feet of you! But don’t you dare talk about taming me, as though I’m some kind of a pink poodle that’s up for grabs. You’re just not used to a woman saying no. It’s a very simple word. One syllable, two letters—I don’t know why you have such a problem with it.” Briefly she paused for breath. “Thank heavens, there’s Patrick. Goodbye, Jared. It’s been most instructive meeting you. And you can bet your bottom dollar that this is the year I’ll be spending Christmas in Antarctica.”

  She marched off the dance floor toward the table where Patrick and his friends had ensconced themselves with three bottles of wine and a candle whose flame wavered in the summer breeze. They were all delighted to see her. When next she looked around, Jared was nowhere to be seen. Good riddance, she thought, and hoped her mother and his father had been too wrapped up in each other to see the way she’d kissed Jared.

  For the briefest of moments Jared contemplated going after Devon. Seizing her in his arms, regardless of the wedding guests, and kiss
ing her into submission in the middle of the dance floor. Because he could. He knew it. He’d felt her delicious surrender through the whole length of his body: so sudden and so complete.

  She wanted him just as much as he wanted her.

  So why was he standing all by himself on the dance floor?

  Was she an extremely clever tactician, dishing out just enough of her sexual lures to keep him interested and then removing herself? There were words for that kind of behavior, very crude words. Or did she really want nothing to do with him?

  Christmas in Antarctica. Dammit, she’d liked being kissed by him! He’d swear to it on every fence post on his father’s land.

  Tension thrummed in his shoulders. His fists, he realized, were clenched at his sides, and a few of the guests were starting to eye him curiously. Jared let out his breath in a long swoosh and went in search of Lise.

  He’d been avoiding Lise, no question of it. But when he approached the group of which she was part she greeted him with her usual provocative smile, and it would have taken a keener ear than his to detect any annoyance in her voice.

  She was a very good actress. And he knew for sure she was interested in him. He’d swear to that on a whole stack of Bibles.

  Grimly he strove to enjoy himself, but it was as though Devon was hovering beside him in her turquoise gown the whole time, listening to every platitude, counting how many times Lise called him darling. A word he hated, he decided with the calm of extreme rage. Alicia used that particular endearment for Devon all the time.

  Would he ever forget Devon’s childlike pleasure when she’d seen the dance tent? What had she called it? Enchanting?

  If she’d faked that, she was the one who should be playing on Broadway. Not Lise.

  Enchanting. It was he who’d been enchanted, Jared thought with an honesty he couldn’t gainsay. He’d intended, when he’d kissed Devon’s hand, that it be the equivalent of her turquoise dress: a slap in the face. But when he’d kissed her on the dance floor he’d forgotten all about teaching her a lesson. All he’d wanted to do was seduce her.