Midnight at Mallyncourt Read Free

a cold, steely quality about the man that was strangely attractive. His serene composure, his quiet, silken voice merely emphasized it. Edward Baker, elegantly, almost foppishly dressed, calm, confident, seemed, because of this, far more masculine than the more aggressive, robust types who swaggered and flaunted their virility. I was attracted to him, in spite of myself, and he was perfectly aware of it. That irritated me all the more.
    â€œI had a reason for approaching you, Miss Randall.”
    â€œI’m certain of that ,” I snapped.
    â€œYou’re intrigued. Admit it.”
    â€œMr. Baker, I—”
    He scowled, his features suddenly hard, the blue eyes cold.
    â€œEnough!” he said sharply. “I intend to talk to you. I’m wearied by all this banter.”
    â€œIf you think—”
    â€œI think you’ll listen to me!”
    â€œYou’re mistaken about that!” I retorted.
    I started to move away. He seized my wrist. His fingers wrapped around it like tight steel bands, and when I tried to pull away they tightened even more. I winced. He was hurting me. He knew it. He was a man used to having his own way, a man who would brook no opposition. There was cruelty in that handsome face, and I sensed that Edward Baker was totally without scruples. Sapphire blue eyes icy cold, features impassive, he gave my wrist a savage twist. I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
    â€œThere’s no reason for you to be so skittish,” he said, and again the voice was calm, silken. “I have no intentions of raping you here in broad daylight. I have no designs on you whatsoever, Miss Randall. I want to discuss a business proposition, and, by God, I shall, whether you like it or not. Come—”
    He moved briskly toward the small park at the end of the street, still holding on to my wrist, and I could do nothing but stumble along after him, tottering on my high heels. My skirts billowed in the breeze. The ostrich plumes waved. I had never been so humiliated in my life, my anger mounting with each second that passed. Reaching the park, he pulled me over to a small gray wooden bench in front of a clump of rhododendron bushes abloom with brilliant purple and purple-red blossoms. He shoved me unceremoniously onto the bench, and, seeing the expression on his face as he stood in front of me, I didn’t dare attempt to get back up. No man had ever intimidated me before. This one did.
    â€œNow,” he said, “we’ll talk.”
    â€œYou must be very pleased with yourself,” I told him. “Terrorizing helpless women—”
    â€œCertain cases call for stronger measures than others,” he replied in that smooth voice. “You’re a very stubborn young woman, Miss Randall. I’m not accustomed to meeting such determined opposition.”
    â€œYou’re accustomed to having your own way.”
    â€œNaturally,” he said.
    â€œIf I were a man, Mr. Baker—”
    â€œIf you were a man, Miss Randall, I’d probably have murdered you for the insolence you’ve shown. As is, I’ve had to curb a terribly powerful urge to throttle you with my bare hands. I might yet, if you don’t stop babbling on like the hysterical schoolgirl you most assuredly are not. Are you going to behave, or shall we fight some more?”
    I didn’t deign to answer. I was on the verge of tears, and the mere thought of displaying such weakness in front of him was appalling. My chin held high, I gazed across the street at the pavilion, fighting back the tears. Ordinarily I was strong and self-reliant, hard, even, because I’d had to be for the past four years, but this man made me feel weak and vulnerable. He made me terribly conscious of being a woman. He stood two or three feet away from the bench, legs spread wide, arms folded across his chest. The black silk ascot rustled against his throat. Locks of dark blond hair fell across his