Jared's Love-Child

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.”