She Devil - Christy McKellen

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an heir to his vast business empire—and I know that some people even think they’re doing it for fun but, take it from me, sex is just a tool we use to manipulate each other.

      And, yes, it is true what people say about me—and when I say people I’m specifically talking about Jamie De Montfort here—I am a total and utter bitch.

      Because I’ve had to be.

      ‘Hard as nails’ is one of the things I hear people say about me behind my back.

      I like that.

      Nails are useful items—essential, even. Structures would fall down without them.

      ‘As cold as a polar bear’s arsehole’—that one I’m not quite so keen on.

      But I wouldn’t have risen to the position of Chief Operating Officer at DH Worldwide, my father’s aforementioned multinational corporation, if I hadn’t developed the ability to ignore what people say about me.

      Except this time when I say people I don’t mean Jamie De Montfort because I’ve always been uncomfortably aware of what he thinks of me. Let’s just say that ever since my mother died and I was forced to step into her role as matriarch of the family—much to my sister Maya’s disgust—my relationship with Jamie has been on less than friendly terms.

      Because it’s had to be.

      I’ve never been able to tell him exactly why I finished our eighteen-month relationship during our third year at St Andrew’s University, so he’s chosen to think the very worst of me—and to make sure everyone knows it too.

      But that’s okay. It’s had to be. For both our sakes.

      If I told him why I’d been forced to do what I did it would destroy him—and me too.

      Because I loved him.

      But not any more. Not after the way he’s treated me since then.

      Unfortunately we end up running in the same social circles a lot nowadays and he never misses an opportunity to let me know exactly how little respect he has for me now.

      Like he did last night, for example.

      Except in the end, last night turned out to be completely different from all the other times. In fact, thinking back, I can hardly believe it happened now. It feels more like a dream—or perhaps a nightmare, depending on how you choose to interpret it.

      I’d gone to a charity fundraiser that my business associate’s wife had organised to raise money for a children’s charity that’s very close to her heart, having agreed to attend at the last minute after a meeting in Rome had fallen through and I’d found myself without anything to do that evening.

      Which is why I had no idea that Jamie De Montfort was compèring the event.

      As a world-famous former tennis champion, securing him as the host was quite a coup, and it was clear from the reaction to his obsequious, crowd-pleasing performance there was going to be a lot of money dropping into the charity’s coffers that evening.

      At least from my seat near the back of the room I was able to observe him without feeling the usual compulsion to turn away.

      I grudgingly have to admit he was looking good. Very good, in fact. His athletic physique was very much in evidence, despite being encased in a dinner jacket. He’s always had a great body, even in his early twenties, when I knew him best. And by ‘knew him’ I mean when I’d seen him naked on a regular basis.

      Prohibiting my body from reacting to those memories, I attempted to study him with a dispassionate eye. He’d grown his strawberry-blond hair a little longer since the last time I’d seen him a few months previously so it curled around his collar at the nape of his neck and fell in tousled strands over his forehead. It reminded me of the way he used to wear it when we were dating, when he’d had to push his fringe out of his striking blue eyes whenever he’d turned to look at me. That simple idiosyncrasy had never failed to conjure a need in me that I’ve never been able to explain in words.

      His strong jawline was very much in evidence that night too, because he was clean-shaven for once, seemingly taking a break from the designer stubble he’s famously sported in the ads he’s starred in for his own line of men’s sports clothing.

      He’s always been demonstrably aware of how attractive he is, so it doesn’t surprise me at all that he has no qualms about using his looks for monetary gain.

      The self-important narcissist.

      I think that’s why he was so incredulous—and unreasonably malicious—when I called a halt to our relationship. He couldn’t believe I’d had the nerve to dump someone as outstanding as him.

      But dump him I did. And I don’t regret that decision. Even now, ten years later. Especially when I see him flirting shamelessly with every single woman in the room, even the women I know he’s already talked into his bed—including some of my friends, I might add—but still treating me like the scum of the earth.

      But I don’t care any more.

      I really don’t.

      Ironically, it happened to be that exact thought that was racing round my mind when the person sitting to my left—who I think was one of the organiser’s good friends—leaned over to me and whispered, ‘Did you hear about Jamie De Montfort’s father, Cliff?’

      Just the mention of that name sent a shiver of unease through me.

      ‘No,’ I managed to reply, even though my mouth felt like someone had just filled it with rocks.

      My dinner companion shook her head sadly, her eyes wide with compassionate dismay. ‘He had another heart attack and passed away a few days ago. Jamie was devastated, apparently, but he was determined to still come and host tonight.’ She nodded towards where Jamie stood proudly on stage, shaking the hand of the director of the children’s charity as everybody clapped. ‘That man is the definition of a true hero,’ she shouted above the sound of the applause, admiration shining in her eyes.

      A thin smile was all I could manage as blood thumped in my temple and my stomach did sickening somersaults.

      So Cliff was dead. And Jamie had still turned up for this gig. I couldn’t quite get my head around that. Jamie had idolised his father and, even though I had no kind feelings towards him any more, I understood how much he must be hurting right then. The news brought back a flood of painful memories from when my mother had died after a skiing incident, swiftly moving on to remind me of the dread and fear I’d felt when I heard that my own father had been in a near-fatal car accident only a month ago.

      Yes, I knew exactly how he felt.

      Frighteningly alone.

      Especially because he was now the only De Montfort left. The last of his kind.

      A wave of something like nostalgia crashed through me—undoubtedly in response to my own tormenting memories—and I had to excuse myself and stumble out of the room to drag some air back into my lungs. I meant to go towards the bathrooms, but there appeared to be a stream of other women doing the same thing ahead of me, so instead I diverted to a nearby office, which was mercifully empty. I didn’t bother switching on the light and strode straight over to the window, cracking it open so that the cool evening air rushed over my heated face.

      My heart was pounding like I’d just run a mile at full pelt and my whole body hummed with agitation.

      Cliff was dead.

      I wondered whether my father had heard and if so why he hadn’t told me.

      I jumped as the door to the room opened behind me, flooding it with light from the corridor.

      I blinked at the outline of the tall, broad-shouldered man who stood in the doorway, instinctively knowing who it was even before my eyes adjusted and I was able to make out the familiar features of his face.

      ‘Good evening, Jamie,’ I said with as much indifference

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