Jared's Love-Child. Sandra Field

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