Extreme Provocation

by Sarah Holland

  They drove to Kent in her father’s Bentley. Lucy felt deeply disturbed by the whole affair, aware that her finery could vanish at any moment, just as this expensive car could, and the house, stolen by bankruptcy and ruin... If only her father would stop.

  The gates of Mallory Hall were impressive white stone. A guard waved them through, an Alsatian straining at the leash, barking. The drive was long, winding, tree-lined. Lights suddenly loomed ahead, and the Hall came in sight, glittering rows of luxury cars parked outside it, the vast white Georgian mansion breathtakingly beautiful, worth millions, and looking every inch the home of a powerful man as it towered in strong masculine dignity against that moonlit night.

  After parking, they walked along the gravel drive to the white stone steps. A butler greeted them, his face impassive. Jazz music floated from the lofty ballroom as he led them to it. Voices and laughter echoed in the palatial room.

  ‘Mr Gerald Winslow,’ intoned the butler, reading the invitation, ‘and his daughter, Lucy.’

  A very tall man with broad shoulders and dark hair swung to look at them, and Lucy gasped in horror, staring into that hard face, the insolent blue eyes, that scar jagged on his tanned cheek.

  What was he doing here?

  Suddenly, she realised that he must have received an invitation, too. Obviously, as he did work for Marlborough. He was striding towards them now with a mocking smile on his ruthless mouth, wearing an impeccably cut black evening suit.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Winslow,’ he drawled.

  ‘Delighted, Marlborough.’ Her father smiled, one hand moving to encompass a white-faced, appalled Lucy. ‘May I introduce my daughter, Lucy? Lucy, darling—this is Mr Randal Marlborough.’

  Randal was taking her hand in a powerful grip, mockery in his eyes, and as she stared into his handsome face she thought, oh, my God...he’s Randal Marlborough...

  ‘Charming,’ Randal drawled, eyes sliding with cynical inspection over her body. ‘Quite charming.’

  Angrily, she flushed, deeply aware of her bare shoulders, the exposure of her breasts, the creamy swell highlighted by the exquisite décolletage of the dress, satin ribbons and lace surrounding her breasts and bare arms.

  ‘Must say,’ her father was beaming, ‘this is an exceptional house. It’s a listed building, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’ Randal smiled sardonically. ‘But my equerry could tell you more about it than I. He really knows the history of the place. Let me introduce you...’ He turned, eyes narrowing as he beckoned a well-dressed man across the room. ‘Jamieson—this is Mr Winslow. He wants to hear about the house.’ He took Lucy’s arm, adding coolly, ‘I’ll get your daughter some champagne.’

  Before she could protest, he was leading her across the vast ballroom, his face dismissive as he gave cool, polite nods to the people who clamoured for his attention, striding past them, his strong hand on Lucy’s arm.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing!’ she protested angrily as they reached the far side of the ballroom.

  ‘Chasing my prey,’ he said softly, and pushed open a door, hustling her into a lofty corridor of polished gold oak.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘WHY didn’t you tell me who you were?’ Lucy demanded. ‘I thought you were the casino manager or even a croupier. It never occurred to me that you were Randal Marlborough.’

  ‘Would it have made a difference to your response if I had told you?’

  ‘No!’ she said haughtily. ‘I would still have found you the most loathsome man I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Good,’ he drawled. ‘I’d hate to think you were only interested in my money.’

  ‘I’m not interested in you at all!’

  He laughed, eyes deliberately mocking.

  ‘Why do you laugh at me continually?’ she snapped. ‘Do you think I don’t mean what I say?’

  ‘It amuses me to see you lose your temper. You’re ice-blonde and fine-boned—a cool, classy young woman with aristocratic hauteur...’ His eyes mocked her. ‘When you’re angry you turn into a ravishing green-eyed cat. I find it very exciting to provoke you.’

  Her cheeks burned angrily. ‘If I didn’t find you so detestable, you wouldn’t be able to provoke me.’

  ‘No other man does?’

  ‘No!’ she flung at him, lifting her head.

  ‘How very interesting,’ he said softly, and Lucy felt her flush deepen, confused suddenly as she stared at him. He slowly let his blue eyes drift insolently over her naked shoulders. ‘That dress is quite superb. I’d love to take it off.’

  Fury blazed through her veins. ‘You really are the most insolent man I’ve ever met!’

  ‘Quite superb,’ he said again, softly, and stroked the satin bodice with a long finger, adding lazily, ‘I wonder your father could afford it.’

  ‘What makes you think my father can’t afford to buy me a new dress?’ she demanded in a thickly choked voice, her green eyes blazing with angry pride and a tinge of fear.

  ‘I merely meant that the dress is exquisite. I imagine it cost a king’s ransom.’

  She flushed, aware that she had almost betrayed her father’s financial situation. ‘I—I see...’

  His cool hand took her chin, forced her head up. ‘What did you think I meant?’

  She paused, then lifted haughty blonde brows. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’ he drawled mockingly, and a gleam in his eyes made her confidence waver, suddenly wary again as she felt a distinct stab of fear. Did he know her father was poised on the edge of bankruptcy?

  ‘Where did you get that scar?’ Lucy asked rudely, aware that it would end the conversation about her father and money.

  ‘I wondered when you’d get around to asking me that.’ He took her wrist, and opened a door. ‘Come in here and I’ll tell you.’ With a tug on her hand, he had her inside the room and was closing the door, leaning his back against it.

  Lucy backed away from him, green eyes wary. Glancing around the room, she saw they were alone. The room was a very big study in masculine colours of red and dark brown with a desk, Regency chairs and a long, deep, brown leather couch.

  He pointed to the wall above the Georgian fireplace. ‘That’s my father. He didn’t give me this scar, but it always reminds me of him.’

  Turning, she saw an oil painting of a man. He was very handsome with black hair and penetrating blue eyes. He had a tough mouth and was dressed in an expensive black suit.

  ‘Sir Henry Mallory,’ Randal drawled beside her. ‘I like to keep his portrait here. I look at it and smile because I’m master of Mallory now, and I like that.’

  She turned to him, frowning. ‘Didn’t you get on with him?’

  ‘I’m illegitimate. We only met a few times.’

  Lucy was silent, her eyes watchful.

  ‘Don’t look so shocked, my dear,’ Randal drawled. ‘I’m not confiding in you. It’s an open secret. I’m surprised you didn’t already know.’

  ‘I had no idea...’ she murmured, glancing back at the man in the painting. He looked very like his father. That strong face, the arrogance and obvious powerful personality.

  ‘I bought Mallory three years ago when he died,’ Randal told her. ‘The newspapers made quite a fairy-tale of it. Prodigal son and all that. I’ve never made a secret of my illegitimacy. If anything, I advertise it. It gives me a dangerous edge—just as this scar does.’ He smiled lazily. ‘I’m a great believer in using every natural gift as a bonus.’

  Lucy looked up at him through her lashes. ‘How did you get the scar?’

  ‘At school. Someone made a remark about my parentage. A fight broke out. I fell through a plate glass window.’

  ‘What school did you go to?’ she asked, fascinated by his life.

  ‘A hard one,’ he drawled mockingly. ‘And you?’

  ‘A convent,’ she said simply.

  ‘Did you, by God?’ He was staring at her mouth, her bare shoulders, the full breasts which rose and fell at the creamy satin dcolla
tage of her dress.

  ‘My grandfather sent me,’ she told him, struggling not to respond to that hot blue gaze. ‘And left provision in his will for me to stay until I was eighteen.’

  ‘An astute man, your grandfather,’ Randal said with a cool frown. ‘He certainly knew what his son was made of.’

  Lucy stiffened, green eyes flashing to his face. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  He smiled slowly. ‘Nothing. And I’m tired of familial discussion. Time I stole that kiss...’ His strong hands slid to her naked shoulders, pulling her towards him.

  ‘No!’ she gasped as her pulses leapt in wild response. ‘Let me go!’

  He laughed as she struggled, dominating her easily. ‘Are you going to scratch me again?’

  ‘Yes!’ she snapped, hands flailing.

  ‘You didn’t scratch me the last time I kissed you.’ He caught her wrists in strong hands, eyes mocking.

  ‘I was too busy loathing and despising you!’

  ‘Passionately?’ he mocked, and his hands pulled her hard against his powerful male body.

  She felt him in every inch of her, her breath coming faster and her heart pounding as he pressed her against him; and those rigid thighs, that hard-muscled chest, did terrible things to her.

  There was an electric silence while he watched her unsmilingly. Then his dark head bent, and that hard mouth claimed hers, compelling a response. The powerful kiss made her moan softly as her mouth opened beneath his. The hot onslaught was irresistible, her heart drumming loudly as she found herself kissing him back, clinging to him, her slender body swaying in his arms.

  Suddenly, he lifted her, his mouth still burning hotly over hers as he carried her to the long, dark brown couch, placing her on it gently, lying her on her back while he continued to kiss her deeply, and as her hands slid in shaking protest to his hard chest she felt his heart beating very fast, and that heavy excited thud made her own pulses clamour. She wound her arms around his strong neck, her mouth open passionately beneath his as he ravaged her senses with his kiss.

  The door opened. They broke apart with reluctance, both staring towards the door. A woman in her fifties watched them. She had a Rubenesque quality: her body ripe and inviting, her red hair fading to gold-silver, her clothes elegantly sensual.

  ‘Excuse me...’ she murmured, closing the door.

  ‘No, don’t go, Mama,’ Randal drawled thickly. ‘I want you to meet Lucy.’

  ‘I hardly think this is the time or place, Randal,’ his mother said, lifting haughty brows. ‘Miss Winslow is obviously at a disadvantage.’

  ‘Then she will sink or swim,’ said Randal, and got to his feet. ‘Perhaps a glass of brandy will help her.’ He strode coolly to the drinks cabinet a few feet away.

  Lucy sat up, blushing furiously. She felt humiliated and dishevelled. Randal offered no help, and she loathed him for that. She got to her feet, lifting her blonde head and surveying his mother with as much cool dignity as she could muster under the circumstances.

  ‘How do you do, Mrs Marlborough,’ she said, head held high.

  A smile touched his mother’s mouth. ‘How do you do, Lucy. Please call me Edwina.’ Flicking green eyes to her son, she murmured, ‘I don’t think she needs that brandy.’

  Randal smiled and said nothing, pouring the brandy regardless.

  ‘You have a beautiful home,’ Lucy said politely.

  ‘Thank you.’ Edwina glanced around the room. ‘But the credit must go to Randal. He’s stamped his personality quite firmly on Mallory.’

  Lucy glanced quickly at the dark, exciting figure Randal was as he stood at the drinks cabinet. ‘It’s a very luxurious home.’

  Edwina smiled. ‘My son has a passion for luxury. His childhood, of course. They say deprivation is the mother of ambition.’

  ‘You make me sound like Oliver Twist, Mama,’ drawled Randal, strolling coolly back to them with a brandy, which he handed to Lucy.

  ‘Hardly Oliver Twist, darling,’ his mother said flatly. ‘He didn’t have women falling at his feet left, right and centre.’ She looked at Lucy. ‘Randal has a lethal effect on women. I do hope you’re not going to join the ranks of the broken-hearted. He’s left quite a wake.’

  ‘I can assure you I wouldn’t fall at any man’s feet!’ she said, tossing her blonde head. ‘Let alone Randal’s!’

  ‘Quite true,’ Randal said. ‘She’s more inclined to slap my face.’

  Edwina laughed. ‘How delightful!’ She patted Lucy’s hand. ‘You’re obviously a strong-willed young woman and nobody’s fool. Randal has always been too attractive for his own good. Swooning women are so pointless. He needs someone strong enough to stand up to him. An equal. Someone not afraid to slap his face and tell him to behave.’

  ‘I definitely don’t approve of this conversation,’ Randal said with a cool laugh, and took Lucy’s untouched brandy glass from her, putting it on the occasional table. ‘I’m ending it immediately.’

  ‘I always say what I think, Randal.’ Edwina arched a brow at him. ‘You didn’t expect anything less, did you?’

  ‘I had some vague hope that you might tell her how charming and irresistible I am,’ he drawled.

  ‘Surely you’ve already told her yourself?’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Repeatedly!’

  Randal took Lucy’s wrist. ‘We’re going back to the Ball now. This is fast turning into the three witches. All we need is for the ghost of my grandmother to come floating out of the walls of Mallory with her cauldron.’ He pulled Lucy with him to the door.

  ‘Goodnight, Lucy,’ Edwina called, watching with an interested smile.

  ‘Goodnight, Edwina,’ Lucy called over one bare shoulder as Randal led her to the door.

  They left the room, going back into that lofty polished corridor.

  ‘I liked your mother,’ Lucy remarked as he led her down the corridor towards the ballroom, his strong hand possessive on her wrist. ‘She’s funny.’

  ‘She’s as tough as old boots,’ he replied. ‘A survivor from way back. If this was the Wild West, she’d be Annie Oakley.’

  He pushed open the ballroom door and led her back into that glittering high-ceilinged ballroom.

  ‘Randal, where have you been, mio caro!’ A smouldering brunette with a throaty Italian accent and a revealing red ballgown intercepted them with a very dark look at Lucy. ‘You haven’t danced with me for ages. I insist you come and dance with me now.’

  ‘Of course,’ drawled Randal, giving a mocking half-bow to Lucy. ‘Excuse me, Miss Winslow,’ he said and he whirled the brunette away in his arms.

  Lucy felt a sharp stab of jealousy which she irritably ignored. Walking across the polished gold oak floor, she seemed to glide, the satin ballgown glowing beneath the lights of the chandeliers.

  She saw her father, and went to stand beside him. He was telling witty anecdotes to a group of people.

  Staring across the ballroom, she saw Randal dancing with the sultry brunette.

  ‘He’s obviously lost interest in the blonde.’ A voice floated to her from a group of people nearby. ‘I thought gentlemen were supposed to prefer them?’

  ‘Randal Marlborough is no gentleman,’ a female voice said.

  Lucy stiffened.

  ‘The blonde was a fairy-tale princess...I suppose she gave in to him too soon.’

  ‘That’s always when he drops women,’ the woman replied bitterly.

  Lucy caught her breath. Angrily, she took a gulp of champagne, telling herself that she didn’t care what they said. She thought of her passionate response to his kiss and her cheeks burned. No doubt he thought she was ready to give in to him. Fury made her eyes blaze. He could think again!

  A shadow fell over her. Her eyes flew to the hard face as Randal bent his head and whispered in her ear, ‘Come and dance.’

  ‘No.’

  He laughed. ‘No polite excuses? And I thought we were getting on so well.’

  Lucy glared at him. ‘How many times do I have to
refuse before you get the message?’

  ‘You refuse my invitations,’ he murmured, ‘but never my kisses.’

  Her cheeks burned. ‘You can force kisses. You can’t force invitations.’

  ‘Is that so?’ he said softly, eyes mocking her, and turned suddenly to her father. ‘Winslow—that must be your fifth glass of champagne. Surely you won’t be able to drive back to London tonight?’

  Her father flushed deeply, saying, ‘I...well, I...’

  ‘Why not stay here?’ Randal drawled. ‘We have plenty of room and you don’t need to be back early, do you?’

  Lucy was appalled, her body rigid and her face chalk-white.

  Her father was staring at Randal. ‘That’s very kind of you—’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Randal said lazily. ‘You can return the hospitality some time. I shall be driving back to London tomorrow. Perhaps I could stop by for lunch?’

  ‘We’d be delighted.’ Her father stumbled over the words in his haste to accept. ‘My daughter is an excellent cook and—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Randal interrupted, ‘I’ll look forward to it. In the meantime, I’ll speak to the housekeeper and have your rooms made ready. Excuse me...’ He moved away with a mocking smile directed at Lucy’s furious face.

  It had happened so fast. How had he managed it? She stood there, shaking, fury blazing from her green eyes as she watched him move around the ballroom with that cool arrogance, talking to people, occasionally dancing with a beautiful woman. There was nothing she could do or say to stop him, either. Anything she could have said would have revealed to her father the exact nature of her growing relationship with Randal Marlborough, and the thought of that was almost as appalling as the thought of staying here overnight. Apart from anything else—what would Edward say if he found out?

  Later, Edwina Marlborough swept towards them, slender and beautiful on the arm of an austere silver-haired man in his late fifties.

  ‘My dears,’ she said with an amused glance at Lucy, ‘I understand from my son that you’re to be our house guests for the night? I’ve spoken to Mrs Travers. Your rooms will be ready in twenty minutes. I hope that’s convenient for you?’