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