Sarah Holland - Extreme Provocation

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.

‘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 dcollatage of her dress.