Ravensdale's Defiant Captive Read online

  He looked down at her upturned face with its mocking smile and impossibly cute dimples. What was it about her that made him feel this was all a front? He was all too familiar with theatrical talent. His parents were some of the best in the theatre. Even he had to acknowledge that. But this defiant tearaway was putting on an award-winning performance. ‘Why don’t you want the room Sophia prepared for you?’ he asked.

  Her eyes lost their cheeky sparkle and her expression became sulky again. ‘I don’t want to be shoved at the top of your grand old house like some freak you want to hide in case she does the wrong thing in front of your fancy guests. I suppose you’ll insist on me taking my meals in there or with the servants in the kitchen.’

  ‘I don’t have servants,’ Julius said. ‘I have staff. And, yes, they make their own arrangements over dining but that’s more out of convenience than convention.’ He paused for a beat before adding. ‘I expect you to dine with me each evening.’ Are you out of your mind? The less time you spend with her the better.

  ‘Why?’ she said with a surly look. ‘So you can criticise me when I use the wrong fork or knife?’

  ‘Why do you think everyone you meet is automatically against you?’

  She turned and looked at the lake rather than meet his gaze. He could see the flicker of a tiny muscle in her cheek as if she was grinding down on her molars. It was a while before she spoke and when she did it was with a voice that was pitched slightly lower than normal with a distinctly husky edge. ‘I don’t want that room.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s...too posh.’

  ‘Fine,’ Julius said, mentally rolling his eyes. ‘You can choose your own room. God knows there are plenty to choose from.’

  ‘Thank you.’ It was not much more than a whisper of sound and she still wasn’t looking at him but there was something in her posture that suggested enormous relief. Her shoulders had lost their tense, bunched-up-to-her-ears look. Her spine was no longer ramrod straight. Her hands were not curled into tight fists or clutching pebbles but hanging loosely by her sides.

  He had a strong urge to reach out, take one of her hands and give it a reassuring squeeze but somehow refrained from doing so. Just. ‘Do you want to walk back with me or hang around down here for a little bit?’ he said.

  She turned her head to look at him. ‘Aren’t you worried I might run away when your back is turned?’

  He studied her for a moment, taking in her shuttered gaze and the pouty set to her mouth. ‘You’d be running towards prison if you do. Hardly something to look forward to, is it?’

  She bit down on her lower lip and turned to look at a water bird that had flown in to land in the centre of the lake, its paddling feet sending out concentric circles of disturbance. He watched as a slight breeze played with some loose tendrils of her hair and she absently brushed them back with one of her hands. His chest gave a sharp little squeeze when he saw her hand was shaking. There was no sign of the tough, angry girl. No sign of the brash guttersnipe. Right then she looked like your average girl next door who had suddenly found herself at an anxiety-inducing crossroads.

  Julius bent down, picked up a pebble and handed it to her. ‘My brother Jake holds the record down here. Seventeen skips.’

  She took the pebble from him but as her fingers touched his he felt an electric shock run up along his arm. She slowly raised her gaze to mesh with his. A pulsing moment passed when he lost all sense of time and place. It could have been seconds or minutes or even days.

  His eyes kept tracking to her mouth, the shape of it, the fullness of it that suggested passion and heat, and yet a strange sense of untouched innocence. He felt like a magnet was pulling his head down towards it. He had to fight every muscle and sinew and throbbing cell in his body to counter its force.

  He watched as the tip of her tongue slipped out between her lips and moistened the top lip, then the bottom one, leaving each one glistening with a tempting sheen. Blood rushed to his groin, thickening him with a rocket blast of lust.

  He had a sudden feeling he had been asleep all of his life until this moment. It was like coming out of cold storage. A slow melt was moving through his body; he could feel it all the way to his fingertips, the urge, the compulsion to touch, to feel her soft skin, sliding, stroking, moving against his own.

  His mind was not following its usual logical pathways. It was short-circuiting with erotic images, hot fantasies of him burying himself inside her body, bringing them both to completion in a matter of seconds.

  Could she sense the turmoil in him? Had she any idea of the effect she was having on him? He tried to read her expression but her eyelids were lowered over her eyes as she focussed on his mouth.

  He lifted his hand to her cheek, barely aware he was doing it until he felt the creamy softness of her skin against his palm, tilting her face so she had to meet his gaze. Those bewitching eyes made his pulse pound all the harder. Every beat of his heart felt like a hammer blow, each one sending a deep, resounding echo to his pelvis. Her skin felt like silk against his palm and fingers. Warm. Smooth. Sensuous. Her eyes contained a glint of anticipation, of expectation. Of triumph.

  He moved the pad of his thumb over the small, neat circle of her chin, watching as her pupils flared like pools of ink. Her lips were slightly apart, just enough for him to feel the soft waft of her vanilla-scented breath. How easy would it be to close the distance and touch his lips to hers? The urge to do so was strong, perhaps stronger than at any other time in his life, but he knew if he did it he would be crossing a line. Breaking a boundary. Inviting trouble.

  ‘I’m not going to do it,’ he said, dropping his hand from her face.

  Her look was all innocence. ‘What?’

  ‘You know what.’

  She met his eyes with a hard gleam in her own. ‘I could make you disregard those principles you’re clinging to. I could do it in a heartbeat.’

  Julius frowned until his eyebrows met. ‘Why are you trying to ruin your one chance of getting your life in order?’

  She glared at him. ‘I don’t need you to get my life in order. I don’t need anyone.’

  ‘How’s that been working out for you so far?’

  Her eyes were twin flashpoints of heat. ‘You know what I hate about men like you? You think just because you have it all, you can have it all.’

  ‘Look,’ Julius said. ‘I get this is a tough gig for you. You don’t want to be here. But what’s your alternative?’

  She pressed her lips together and looked at him mulishly. ‘I’m not the one who should be threatened with going to prison.’

  ‘Yes, well, apparently most prisons are full of innocent people,’ he said. ‘But according to our current laws you can’t steal or damage property or whatever else you did and not be punished for it.’

  She swung away. ‘I don’t have to listen to this.’

  ‘Holly.’ Julius caught her by the arm and turned her to face him. ‘I want to help you. Can’t you see that?’

  She gave him a disdainful look as she tested his hold. ‘How? By making me get used to all this luxury, only to be tossed back out on the streets as soon as the month is up?’

  Julius’s frown deepened. ‘Don’t you have a home to go to?’

  Her eyes skittered away from his. ‘Let go of my arm.’

  He loosened his hold but kept her tethered to him with the bracelet of his fingers. ‘No one is going to toss you anywhere,’ he said. What are you going to do with her once the month is up? The thoughts were like pop-up signs in his head. If she didn’t have a home to go to, then where would she go? Where did his responsibility towards her begin and end?

  Did he have a responsibility towards her?

  ‘Is that where you’ve been living?’ he asked. ‘Out on the streets?’

  She slipped her wrist out of his hold and
folded her arms across her body, shooting him a fiery glare. ‘What would you care? People like you don’t even notice people like me.’

  Julius noticed her all right. A little too much. His hand was tingling where he’d been holding her wrist. It was as if his blood was bubbling through his veins like boiling soda. He noticed the way her brown eyes sparked with venom one minute, glittering with an erotic come-on the next. He noticed the way she moved her body like a sleek pedigree cat, only to turn around, spit and hiss at him like a cornered feral one.

  He had no idea how to handle her. He wasn’t supposed to be the one handling her. This was his housekeeper’s mission, not his. He was supposed to be getting on with his work while Sophia did her bit for society by taking in a stray and reforming her.

  But Holly Perez was no ordinary stray.

  She was a feisty little firebrand who seemed determined to cause trouble with everyone who dared to come too close.

  ‘While you’re under my roof I’m responsible for you,’ Julius said. ‘But that means you have responsibilities, too.’

  Her chin came up. ‘Like what? Servicing you in the bedroom?’

  He set his mouth. ‘No. Definitely not.’

  Her look said it all. Cynicism on steroids. ‘Sure and I believe you.’

  ‘I mean it, Holly,’ Julius said. ‘I’m not in the habit of bedding young women who have no manners, no respect and no sense of propriety.’

  She gave a musical sounding laugh. ‘I am so going to make you eat your words.’

  He stoically ignored the throb of lust that charged through his pelvis. ‘I’ll see you at dinner,’ he said. ‘I expect you to dress for the occasion. That means no jeans, no flip-flops and no plunging necklines or bare midriff. Sophia will organise suitable attire if you have none with you.’

  Holly gave him a mock salute and a deep, obsequious bow. ‘Aye-aye, Captain.’

  Julius strode about thirty or so paces before he swung back to look at her but she had already turned back to face the lake. He watched as she hurled a rock as far as she could. It landed in the middle of the water and sank with a loud plop, but not before it created tsunami-like ripples over the surface.

  CHAPTER THREE

  HOLLY WAITED UNTIL Julius was out of sight before she left the lakeside. What right did he have to tell her how to dress? No man was going to tell her what she could and couldn’t do. If she wanted to wear jeans, she would wear them. She’d wear high-cut denim shorts and trashy high heels to his stuck-up dinner table if she wanted to. He couldn’t force her to dress up like one of his posh girlfriends. He might deny having a current lady friend but no man with his sort of looks went long between hook-ups.

  He had so been going to kiss her. She had been waiting for him to do it. Silently egging him on. Waiting for him to break. What a triumph it was going to be when he finally did. She would get the biggest kick out of seeing him topple from his high horse. He had no right to lecture her as if she were ten years old. She would show him just how grown up she was. He wasn’t dealing with a wilful child. He was dealing with a woman who knew how to make a man weaken at the knees. She would do him before he could do her. Although, the thought of having him do her was strangely appealing. He wasn’t her type, with his control freak ways, but he was so darn attractive it almost hurt her eyeballs to look at him.

  What was it about him that seemed vaguely familiar? His surname kept ringing a faint bell of recognition in her head. Where had she heard the name Ravensdale before?

  And then it finally dawned on her.

  He was the son—one of the twin sons—of the famous Shakespearean actors Richard Ravensdale and Elisabetta Albertini. They were London theatre royalty; Holly had seen articles about them in gossip magazines. Not that she ever had the money to buy such magazines but occasionally one of the shelters she had stayed in had them lying about.

  Julius’s parents had married thirty-four years ago after an affair during a London season of Much Ado About Nothing and celebrated their first wedding anniversary with the birth of identical twin boys. Seven turbulent years later, they had had a very public and acrimonious divorce. Then, three years later, they’d reunited in a whirlwind of publicity, remarried in a big celebrity-attended wedding service, and exactly nine months later Elisabetta had given birth to a daughter called Miranda.

  Holly wondered if Julius had chosen to work and live in Argentina as a way of putting some distance between himself and his famous parents. The attention they attracted would be difficult to deal with, especially since what she had read indicated neither he nor his siblings had any aspirations to be on the stage. He hadn’t once mentioned his parents’ fame, although he’d had plenty of opportunity to do so.

  Was that why he had initially been so reluctant to have her here? Would her presence draw press attention his way he would rather avoid? If the press got a whiff of her chequered background it might cause all sorts of speculation. Holly could imagine the headlines: Celebrities’ Son Living with Trailer Trash with Criminal Record. How would that go down with Julius’s sense of propriety?

  Holly pursed her lips as she thought about her next move. If she called the press it would draw too much attention to herself just now. She didn’t want her creep-aholic stepfather to know where she currently was, although, given the friends in high places he had, she wouldn’t put it past him to know already or to make it his business to find out.

  Franco Morales had influence that had already stretched further and wider than she had planned and prepared for. No sooner would she get herself back on her feet in a new job and a new place than something would go wrong. Her last employer had accused her of stealing from the till. Holly might have a rebellious streak that got her into trouble now and again but she was no thief. But the money had been found in her purse and she’d had no way of explaining how it had got there. Even the shop’s security cameras had ‘mysteriously’ been switched off at the alleged time of the theft.

  Holly had been evicted from her last three flats due to property damage that had been wrongfully levelled at her. But she knew her stepfather had staged it, along with the shop theft. He had set her up by sending in a mole to do his dirty work. That was why she had keyed his brand-new sports car and sprayed that message in weed killer on his perfectly manicured front lawn right where his neighbours would see it: wife beater.

  Holly believed her mother would never have killed herself if it hadn’t been for the long years of physical, emotional and financial abuse dished out to her by a man who had insisted on total obedience. Slavish obedience. Demeaning obedience that had left her mother a shadow of her former self. Franco had kept Holly and her mother oscillating between grinding poverty and occasional, large cash hand-outs that he’d never explained where they were sourced from. It was feast or famine. One minute the fridge was full of food. The next it was empty. Or sold. Furniture and appliances would be bought and then they would be sold to solve a ‘cash-flow problem’. Things Holly had saved up for and bought with her meagre and hard-earned pocket money would be tossed out in the garbage or disappear without any explanation.

  Holly vowed she would never break under Franco’s tyranny. Even as a young child she had suffered his slaps and back-handers and put-downs without shedding a tear. Not even a whimper had escaped her lips. Not even her ‘time-outs’ on the balcony had made her give in. Even if her mother hadn’t been abused on the other side, Holly would have locked off her feelings; cemented them deep inside. Hardened herself so she could withstand the abuse without giving him the satisfaction of breaking her spirit.

  But unfortunately her mother had not been as strong, or maybe it had just become too hard for her to try to protect Holly as well as herself. Holly had never doubted her mother’s love for her. Her mother had done everything she could to protect Holly from her stepfather but eventually it had become too much for her. She had become drug-and a
lcohol-dependent as a way to anaesthetise herself against the prison of her marriage to a beast of a man who had exploited her from the moment he’d met her.

  Even though she had only been four at the time, Holly remembered the way Franco Morales had charmed her poor, grieving mother a few months after Holly’s father had been killed in a work-place accident. He had taken control of her mother as soon as he’d married her.

  At first he had been supportive, taking care of everything so she no longer had to worry about keeping a roof over their heads. He’d even been kind to Holly, buying her toys and sweets. But then things had started to change. He’d begun subjecting her mother to physical and verbal punishment. It had started with the occasional blow-out at first. One-off losses of temper that he would profusely apologise for and then everything would return to normal. Then a week or two would pass and it would happen again. Then it was every week. Then it was every day—twice a day, even.

  And then he’d started in on Holly. Insisting she be brought up according to his rules. His regulations. The slaps had begun for supposed disobedience. The back-handers for insolence or often for no reason at all. Holly had got so stressed and wound up by the anticipation of his abuse she would often trigger it so it was out of the way for that day.

  Although he’d no longer smacked her once she got a little older, his verbal sprays had worsened as she’d got to her teens. He’d called her filthy names, taunting her with how unattractive she was, how unintelligent she was, how no one would ever want her. All of which had been confirmed when her mother had died. Holly hadn’t known what to do, where to go, how to manage her life. During that awful, anchorless time she had done things she wished she hadn’t and not done things she wished she had. She had mixed with the wrong people for the right reasons and mixed with the right people for the wrong reasons.