Читать книгу Extreme Provocation - Sarah Holland - Страница 6

‘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.’