Extreme Provocation

Quietly closing the door, she escaped upstairs. Her bedroom was filled with that damned scent. Prickling angrily, she opened a window, but it didn’t help much. All she could think of was Randal: his hard insolent face, the ruthless mouth and the mocking blue eyes.

She remembered him spraying the scent on the pulse that had throbbed at her throat. She remembered the intimate eroticism of the act, and the way he had promised he would scent her wrists and ankles.

Lying down on her bed, she thought she was furious, but she wasn’t...she was aroused. Her eyes closed and she remembered his hard body against hers, his hot mouth taking possession...

I hate him! she thought fiercely, sitting bolt upright on the bed. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him...! As for his boast that he always got what he wanted—he was in for a surprise. He could pursue her as much as he wanted—he would never catch this prey.

Three days later, her father got in at dawn and left a joyful, drunken note for her propped on the kitchen table.

‘Guess what! We’ve been invited to the Mallory Ball!’

Lucy read the note with a frown as she made herself breakfast at eight. The Mallory Ball? The name rang a faint bell, but she couldn’t place it, so she shrugged and went to work without giving it another thought.

When she got home that evening, she found Edward and her father drinking champagne in the drawing-room and laughing loudly while Carmina Burana crashed in fatalistic drama from the stereo.

‘Darling!’ her father laughed when he saw her. ‘You shall go to the Ball!’

Lucy slid her jacket off, frowning. ‘Yes, what is all this about?’

‘The Mallory Ball, darling!’ Her father turned the stereo down, smiling. ‘Only the most important event in the social calendar. My word, I’m surprised you’re not over the moon. Most young women your age would jump at the chance to go.’

‘But what is it?’ she persisted, sighing.

‘It’s a glittering affair,’ her father said, ‘held annually at Mallory Hall in Kent.’

‘Look it up in Tatler,’ Edward commented drily.

‘Who invited you?’ Lucy asked, impressed.

‘That’s the most exciting part.’ Her father was beaming. ‘Marlborough himself.’

‘Marlborough?’ Her eyes widened with dismay. ‘The casino...?’

‘The owner of the casino.’ Gerald Winslow nodded. ‘He also owns Mallory Hall—my God, he’s one of the richest men in England. And he obviously likes me, or he wouldn’t have invited me to his home.’

‘He’s a powerful man,’ Edward said, smiling at Lucy. ‘Owns a string of racehorses, several banks, and of course the casino. It’s a real accolade for your father to be invited to this Ball, Lucy.’

‘But it’s not just me,’ Gerald Winslow said proudly. ‘The invitation was delivered personally to me by Marlborough himself, and it includes my family.’

‘Shame I can’t go,’ Edward complained. ‘Couldn’t you pass me off as your son?’

‘I wish I could,’ Gerald sighed. ‘But I don’t dare. If he found out—well, I might destroy this sudden friendliness that’s sprung up.’

‘You’re right.’ Edward shrugged. ‘Take Lucy. I’ll be happy just to hear about it.’

‘I shall buy you a new dress for the occasion, Lucy.’ Gerald beamed at his daughter. ‘Something superb...a fairy-tale creation...’

‘No,’ she said at once, paling. ‘I have plenty of dresses good enough to wear.’

‘We’ll go to Harrods—’

‘We can’t afford it,’ she said, horrified. ‘Daddy, I don’t even want to go to this wretched ball and—’

‘You’ll do as you’re told,’ her father said flatly. ‘You must make a good impression on Marlborough. Edward—talk some sense into the girl.’

‘All right.’ Edward laughed, moving towards Lucy, taking her arm and leading her into the kitchen.

‘You shouldn’t encourage him like that,’ Lucy said as he closed the kitchen door behind them. ‘Making friends with the owner of that casino is just disastrous. Surely you can see—?’

‘It’s not disastrous,’ said Edward under his breath, pale blue eyes fierce and his tone a warning note. ‘It’s the best thing that could have happened, and you mustn’t interfere, Lucy.’

She stared at him, her lips parted. ‘But—’

‘No buts,’ he said flatly. ‘Don’t do anything to jeopardise this friendship with Marlborough. I can’t begin to tell you how vital this is. The invitation to Mallory Hall is a life-saver.’

‘But how can it be when—?’ she wailed.

‘Just do it, Lucy,’ he cut in angrily. ‘Go to the ball, wear something fantastic, and make a good impression on the man.’ He turned, opening the door, casting a brief, irritated look back at her. ‘And get the dinner on, will you? I’m starving.’

Lucy suddenly wanted to throw something at his back as the door closed. Fury rose in her like fire. How could he speak to her like that? After everything she’d said about how worried she was, how frightened about her father’s increasing gambling and drinking...to encourage him to go to this party.

Still, he had sounded earnest. Was it true that this friendship with Marlborough was the best thing that could have happened? And if so—why? It just didn’t make sense.

The day of the ball dawned. Lucy changed into the fairy-tale dress her father had bought her, and shuddered at the thought of how much it had cost.

Made of ivory satin, it was off-the-shoulder, flouncing to a boned waist and flowing over hoops to the floor. She looked like a fairy princess in it, her blonde hair piled in loose curls on her head, the Winslow pearls that had been her mother’s gleaming at ears and throat.

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 dcollatage 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.’

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