Red-Hot Seduction. Amy Andrews
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only thing the handsome polo player with little interest in the swathe of family acres in Argentina he had inherited had in common with the only child of a titled British aristocrat who knew how to party hard was a total lack of self-control and a selfish disregard for the consequences of their actions.
Not that the pair could be accused of not trying: they had been married three times, divorced twice and had both had several lovers in between. Seb had been born during their first marriage, and rescued, as he always thought of it, at age eight by his maternal grandfather during their short second marriage and brought to England to live. Had the loved-up pair noticed? Or had they been just a little bit relieved to have the child that demanded too much attention removed?
His half-sister, Fleur, the result of one of his mother’s in between affairs, had been born at Mandeville and officially adopted by their grandfather. She barely had a relationship with the mother, who had left a week after the birth.
If in doubt Seb always asked himself what his parents would do, and did the opposite—and it had worked. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up Seb had said not my father.
Seb’s decision at eighteen to change his name by deed poll, adding his mother’s maiden name to his Argentine father’s, had been his attempt to say thank-you to the grandparent who had brought him up. Though there had been no display of emotion when he had told his grandfather, he knew without being told that the gesture had pleased him, as had his unspoken determination to reclaim the proud family name.
Seb had succeeded. When the Defoe family were spoken of now, 90 per cent of the time it was his own financial success that made the headlines, not the latest instalment in his parents’ soap opera of a life. His life was not about to become a spin-off series! His marriage would not be an emotional roller coaster.
He knew that in his efforts to make the name Defoe one to be proud of he had gained a reputation for ruthlessness. But personal insults aside, no one had ever connected his name with anything underhand or sleazy, which was what mattered to Seb.
When people called him proud he did not take it as an insult. He was proud—proud of not compromising his principles and of making it work, making the Defoe name synonymous with fair dealing. And the reward had come with the incredible deal that he was about to pull off. A chance like this only came along once in a lifetime and while he hadn’t planned this marriage for that reason, its timing had been perfect and probably, he suspected, swung the deal. The royal family were big on family values and believed a married man was more stable and dependable.
The idea that marriage could fundamentally change a man tugged the corners of his expressive lips upwards. Seb had no expectation or intention that marriage would change him; he saw no reason it should.
Success in marriage was about having realistic expectations; of course, there would be some compromises, and he had thought about them, but he was ready to make the commitment. He prided himself on his control and didn’t for a second doubt his ability to be faithful.
His idea of marriage hell was what his parents had.
He just wished his grandfather were around to see today, that he could know that the Defoe name would live on, that he had kept his promise. It had been an easy promise to give, because Seb recognised the attraction of continuity, the opportunity of passing on the values his grandfather had given him.
He and Elise were on the same page. She agreed that stability and discipline were important for a child; they shared the same values, which was essential—in fact they rarely disagreed on any subject. She had even agreed to give up her career to bring up a family. Seb hadn’t realised she had one, but he had been touched by the gesture.
Jake began to pace restlessly. ‘God, I hate waiting... What if...? No, she’ll turn up. You couldn’t be that lucky... Sorry, I didn’t mean... It’s just...’
There was a short silence before the screen of dark lashes lifted from olive skin stretched tight across the angle of Seb’s slanted cheekbones. His was a face with no softness in any aspect.
‘Just what?’
‘It’s such a big step being responsible for someone else, being with them every day.’
‘Elise is not...clingy.’ This understatement caused Seb’s mobile mouth to tug upwards at the corners. ‘We will both continue on with our lives much as normal.’ With no emotional dramas, no raised voices or tabloid speculation.
‘So why bother getting married?’ Jake immediately looked embarrassed, adding to it by allowing his doubt to slip through into his voice as he continued, ‘Sorry, but you are happy...?’
‘Happy?’ Seb did not consider himself a naturally happy person, and the constant pursuit of it seemed to him exhausting. He lived in the present. ‘I’ll be happy when today is over.’
* * *
After the warmth of the sun outside, the inside of the cavernous building was cool, lit by hundreds of flickering candles and filled with the almost overpowering scent of jasmine and lilies.
When she paused midway up the aisle the tension that had been building in her chest reached the point where she was fighting for breath. Mari felt as though she were drowning, standing in the middle of this beautiful building filled with beautiful people.
They were here to witness a celebration; she was here to... Oh, God, what am I doing? Mari stood there, the adrenaline in her bloodstream screaming flight or fight. She could do neither: her feet were glued to the floor; her limbs felt weirdly disconnected from her body.
‘Room for a small one here!’
The cheery cry dragged Mari back from the brink of a panic attack. Breathing deeply, she turned her head to see a woman in a very large hat was waving her hand.
‘Thanks,’ she murmured as the lady obligingly slid along the pew. She had just settled in her seat when the two men seated in the front pew rose.
‘My son, Jake,’ the woman said with maternal pride. ‘You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but he is a millionaire...a computer genius. He and Sebastian have been friends since they were at school.’
Mari wasn’t looking at the lanky man with the shock of blond hair who looked embarrassed as he waved to his mother. Her attention was riveted on the figure beside him, her narrowed eyes channelling all her pent-up hate at those imposing broad shoulders, the strong neck and the dark head. He stood with his back to the guests, frustrating Mari’s desire to see his face.
When the congregation rose, Mari, hating every hair on the back of his neck, reacted a few seconds later. Her legs were trembling; her throat was dry; she felt like someone standing on the edge of a cliff not sure if she was going to take that leap.
Her chin came up. She’d run once and regretted her cowardice. She wasn’t going to run again!
A few moments later the bride glided by in a rustle of lace, satin and the merest suggestion of complacence in her smile—not that Mari saw, as she was the only person who didn’t dutifully turn to admire the vision.
‘Get on with it, get on with it...’ she muttered between clenched teeth.
The big-hat lady moved in closer. ‘Are you all right, dear?’ she asked, using the big hat as a fan.
Mari managed a ghost of a smile. ‘Fine.’ The service began and she breathed a soft, ‘Finally!’
When she heard his voice for the first time, the cool, confident sound sent a shock wave of anger through her shaking body and burned away her last doubts as the memories came flooding back.
‘For better, for worse,’ she muttered, thinking, Pardon the pun!
When she tried later to recall the sequence of events that preceded her standing in the aisle, she couldn’t. She had not a clue of how she got there but she did have a very clear memory of opening her mouth twice and nothing coming out.
The third