Unfinished Business with the Duke

Chapter Two

Issy wasn’t often rendered speechless. As a rule she liked to talk. And she was never shy about voicing her opinion. But right now she couldn’t utter a single syllable, because she was far too busy trying to figure out what outraged her the most.

That Gio thought she was a stripper. That he thought she was terrible. That he actually thought it was any of his business. Or that he should have the audacity to claim he had been her friend…

‘We’re not friends,’ she spluttered. ‘Not any more. I got over that delusion a long time ago. Remember?’

His hand stroked her nape, making it hard for her to concentrate. ‘Perhaps friendship’s not the right word.’ His eyes met hers, and what she saw made her gasp. His pupils had dilated, the chocolate-brown now black with desire. He was turned on. Seriously turned on. But what shocked her more was the vicious throb of arousal in her own abdomen.

‘How about we kiss and make up?’ he said, purpose and demand clear in the husky voice.

Before she could respond he brushed his lips across hers, then dipped his head and kissed the swell of her left breast. Raw desire assailed her, paralysing her tongue as he nipped at the sensitive flesh. Her breath gushed out and her head bumped against the door, shock and panic obliterated by the swift jolt of molten heat.

Stop him. Stop this.

The words crashed through her mind. But the only thing that registered was the brutal yearning to feel his mouth on her breast. She could still remember the way his insistent lips had once ignited her senses. Her arms relaxed their death grip on the corset, and the ripe peak spilled out.

She sobbed as he circled the rigid nipple with his tongue, then captured it between his lips and suckled strongly. Vivid memory and raw new sensation tangled as she arched into his mouth. Her thigh muscles clutched and released as she surrendered. He pushed the sagging bodice down, cupped her other breast. She moaned as he tugged at the swelling peak.

The firestorm of need twisted and built. Dazed, she clasped his head, gripping the silky waves—and felt the sharp knock on the door rap against her back.

Her eyes popped open as he raised his head.

‘Hell, ten years isn’t enough,’ he murmured, the sinful chocolate gaze hot with lust and knowledge.

She scrambled away, shame shattering the sensual spell. Drawing in a ragged breath, she grasped the sagging corset, covered herself, wincing as the cool satin touched tender flesh.

The knock sounded again, and panic skittered up her spine.

What had just happened? What had she let happen? How could he still have this effect on her?

‘Excuse me, Your Grace.’ The tentative voice, muffled by the door, broke the charged silence. ‘Would you like me to leave the tray here?’

‘Just a minute,’ Gio shouted, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘Stand over there,’ he murmured, nodding to a space behind the door that would keep her out of sight.

She bristled at the note of command, but stepped back. She had to get out of here. Before this got any worse.

‘I have your brandy and iced water, Your Grace,’ the footman announced as Gio swung open the door. ‘And the lady’s coat. It was on the hall chair downstairs.’

‘Great,’ Gio said curtly as he took the coat from unseen hands. Glancing her way, he passed it to her.

She stuffed her arms into the sleeves. Hastily tying the corset laces, she belted the mac as she watched Gio hand over a large tip and take the tray from the invisible footman.

He scowled as he pushed the door shut. ‘Let’s talk,’ he said, sliding the tray onto the table beside the door.

‘No, let’s not,’ she said, pleased that she’d stopped shaking long enough to cover some of her modesty.

She stepped forward and gripped the door handle, but she had wrestled it open less than an inch before his hand slapped against the wood, holding it closed.

‘Stop behaving like a child. Surely after ten years you’re over that night?’

She flinched at the impatient words. Then straightened, his casual reference to the worse night of her life forcing her pride to finally put in an appearance. Better late than never.

‘Of course I’m over it,’ she said emphatically, ignoring the ache under her breastbone. ‘I’m not a child any more. Or an imbecile.’

She’d rather suffer the tortures of hell than admit she’d cried herself to sleep for over a month after he’d gone. And lived with that pointless spurt of hope every time the phone rang for much longer. It was pathetic. And all completely academic now.

She might still have a problem controlling her body’s reaction to him. But thankfully her heart was safe. She wasn’t that overly romantic child any more—who’d believed infatuation was love.

But that didn’t mean she was going to forgive him.

‘I may have been young and foolish.’ She tried not to cringe at the memory of how young and foolish. ‘But luckily I happen to be a fast learner.’

Fast enough to know she would never fall that easily again. And especially not for a man like Gio, who didn’t understand love and had no idea what it was worth.

‘What’s the problem, then?’ He shrugged, as if that night had never happened. ‘There’s still a powerful attraction between us.’ His eyes lowered to her lips. ‘The way you just responded to me is proof of that. So why get upset because we acted on it?’

‘I’m not upset!’ she shouted. She paused, lowered her voice. ‘To get upset, I’d actually have to give a damn.’

She turned to make her getaway again, but his hand slammed back against the door.

‘Will you stop doing that?’ she said, exasperated.

‘You’re not leaving until we sort out your situation,’ he said, with infuriating patience.

‘What situation?’

‘You know very well what situation.’

His mouth had flattened into a grim line. What on earth was he on about?

‘In case you haven’t noticed, Your Dukeship, this is a free country. You can’t hold me here against my will.’

‘Nothing’s free—and you know it.’ His eyes raked over her outfit. ‘Let me spell it out. I’m here in the UK having Hamilton Hall renovated, which means I can transfer the money you need by the end of today.’

What?

Her tongue went numb. Good God, he’d rendered her speechless again.

‘And don’t tell me you like working as a stripper,’ he continued, clearly oblivious to her rising outrage, ‘because I saw how petrified you were when Carstairs put his paws on you. My guess is this was your first job. And I intend to ensure it’s also your last.’

‘I’m not a stripper,’ she all but choked. Of all the arrogant, patronising, overbearing…‘And even if I were, I would never be desperate enough to ask you for help.’

She’d always stood on her own two feet, had worked hard for her independence and was proud of what she’d achieved—even if it was all about to belong to the bank.

‘If you’re not a stripper,’ he said, scepticism sharpening his voice, ‘then what on earth were you doing downstairs?’

‘I was delivering a singing telegram.’

His brow furrowed. ‘A what?’

‘Never mind.’ She waved the question away. Why was she explaining herself to him? ‘The point is, I don’t need your help.’

‘Stop being stupid.’ He gripped her arm as she tried to turn. ‘Whatever you were doing, it’s obvious you must be desperate. I’m offering you a way out here. No strings attached. You’d be a fool not to take it.’

She tried to wrestle free, glaring at him when his fingers only tightened. ‘I’d be an even bigger fool to take anything from you.’ Anger and humiliation churned, bringing back the feeling of defeat and inadequacy that had dogged her for years after he’d walked away. And she hit back without thinking. ‘Haven’t you figured it out yet, Gio?’ she said, hating the bitterness and negativity in her voice. ‘I’d rather do twenty stripteases for Carstairs and his whole entourage than accept a penny from you. I happen to have a few principles, and I would never take money from someone I detest.’

His fingers released as the words struck home.

She fumbled with the door and darted out of the room, determined not to care about the shock on his face.

‘Your body may be all grown up, Isadora.’ The deep voice taunted her as her booted heels clicked on the polished parquet. ‘What a shame the rest of you still has a way to go.’

She squared her shoulders as the door slammed at her back, and plunged her fists into the pockets of the mac, battling the blush burning her scalp. As she rushed down the hallway she played her parting shot over in her mind.

If only she did detest him.

Unfortunately, where Gio was concerned, nothing was ever that simple.

Gio strode into the living room of the suite and dumped the tray on the coffee table. Sitting on the fussy Queen Anne chaise-longue, he kicked off his shoes, propped his feet on the equally fussy antique table, and for the first time in years fervently wished for a cigarette.

Reaching for the generous glass of vintage cognac, he chugged it down in one punishing swallow. The burn in his throat did nothing to alleviate the pain in his groin, or the frustration making his head start to throb.

Issy Helligan was a walking disaster area.

He stared at the thick ridge in his trousers.

If that didn’t go down in a minute he’d be forced to take a cold shower. Dropping his head against the sofa’s backrest, he gazed at the ceiling. When had he last been stuck with an erection this persistent?

The vivid memory of Issy, her lithe young body moulded to his as he rode his motorcycle through the leafy country lanes to the Hall, instantly sprang to mind. And the blood pounded even harder.

Unbelievable. He could still recall every detail of that twenty-minute trip. As if it had happened ten seconds ago instead of ten years. Her full breasts flattening against his back, her thighs hugging his backside, her arms clinging to his waist—and the earlier shock to his system when she’d first strolled out of the school gates and climbed aboard the reconditioned Harley.

He’d expected to see the plump, cute tomboy he remembered—not a statuesque young woman with the face and figure of a goddess.

At twenty-one, he had been far more experienced than most men his age, and lusting after a girl of seventeen—a girl who had once been his only friend—had seemed wrong. But he hadn’t been able to control his reaction to her then any more than he had today.

He cursed. If it hadn’t been for the footman’s welltimed interruption five minutes ago things would have gone a great deal further.

The second his lips had tasted her warm, fragrant flesh, and he’d heard her breath catch and felt her shudder of response, instinct had taken over—as it always did with Issy. His mouth had closed over her breast and he’d revelled in the feel of her nipple swelling and hardening under his tongue.

He blew out a breath and adjusted his trousers.

But Issy had changed. She wasn’t the sweet, passionate teenager who had once adored him, but a vibrant, self-aware and stunningly beautiful young woman—who detested him.

Gio placed the brandy glass back on the tray, frustrated by the strange little jolt in his chest. He pressed the heel of his hand against his breastbone. He didn’t care what she thought of him. Why should he?

Women tended to overreact about this stuff. Look at most of the women he’d dated.

He always made it crystal-clear he was only interested in recreational sex and lively companionship but they never believed him. And recently the triple whammy of career success, reaching his thirties and inheriting a dukedom had only made them harder to convince.

Angry words had never bothered him before when the inevitable breakup occurred. So why had Issy’s?

Gio frowned and pushed the hair off his brow.

Why was he even surprised by his odd reaction? Nothing made sense where Issy was concerned, for the simple reason that he stopped thinking altogether whenever she was around. He was probably lucky the sudden rush of blood from his head hadn’t left him with permanent brain damage.

Gio brought his feet off the table and rested his elbows on his knees. He poured himself a glass of the iced water and gulped it down. Much more concerning was his idiot behaviour this afternoon.

He’d decided at an early age never to be controlled by his lust or his emotions—yet he’d been controlled by both as soon as he’d spotted Issy downstairs.

But then, this wasn’t the first time Issy had torpedoed his self-control.

Images swirled of Issy at seventeen, her eyes brimming with adulation, her beautiful body gilded by moonlight, the scent of fresh earth and young lust in the air.

She’d caught him in a moment of weakness ten years ago, but he still didn’t understand why he’d given in to her innocent attempts to seduce him. The way things had ended had been messy and unnecessary—and he had to take the lion’s share of the blame.

He rolled the chilled glass across his forehead. Damn Issy Helligan. At seventeen she had been irresistible. How could she be even more so now?

Standing, he crossed to the window and peered out at the tourists and office workers jostling for space on the pavement below.

Why was he even worrying about this? He would never see Issy again. He’d offered her money, and she’d declined. End of story.

But then his gaze caught on a familiar shock of red curls weaving through the crowd. With her raincoat barely covering her bottom, and those ludicrous boots riding halfway up her thighs, she stood out like a beacon.

As he studied her, striding away disguised as a highclass hooker, a picture formed of Issy ten years ago, with the vivid blue of her eyes shining with innocence and hope and a terminal case of hero-worship. He heard the echo of her voice, telling him she would love him forever.

And the jolt punched him in the chest again.

‘Iss, I’ve got dreadful news.’

Issy glanced over as her admin assistant Maxi put down the phone, peering over the teetering pile of papers on her desk. Maxi’s small pixie-like face had gone chalk white.

‘What is it?’ Issy asked, her heart sinking. Had one of the company broken a leg or something equally catastrophic? Maxi was exceptionally calm and steady. Panicking was Issy’s forte.

Issy steeled herself for very bad news. But, really, how much worse could it get?

After her aborted singergram a week ago, the singing telegram business had dried up completely. The three grants they’d applied for had been awarded elsewhere, and all her sponsorship requests had come back negative. She’d spent the week frantically cold-calling a new list of potential but even less likely donors, while also arranging the schedule for a season of plays that would probably never go into production. And the boiler had sprung another leak. Not a problem in the height of summer, but come autumn it would be another major expenditure they couldn’t afford. Assuming they still had a theatre to heat.

‘That was the bank manager,’ Maxi muttered.

Issy’s heart sank to her toes. Okay, that was worse.

‘He’s demanding payment of the interest in ten working days. If we don’t find the thirty thousand to cover the payments we’ve missed, he’s calling in the bailiffs.’

‘What the—?’ Issy shouted.

Seeing Maxi flinch, she held on to the swear word that wanted to fly out of her mouth and deafen the whole of Islington.

‘That toerag,’ she sneered. ‘But we paid something. Not the full amount, I know, but something.’ Her fingers clenched so tightly on her pen she felt as if she were fighting off rigor mortis. ‘He can’t do that.’

‘Apparently he can,’ Maxi replied, her voice despondent. ‘Our last payment was so low it amounts to defaulting on the loan. Technically.’ She huffed. ‘Toerag is right.’

‘Remind me not to send Mr Toerag any more complimentary tickets,’ Issy replied, trying to put some of her usual spirit into the put-down. But her heart wasn’t in it, her anger having deflated like a burst party balloon.

This wasn’t the banker manager’s fault. Not really. The theatre had been skirting the edge of a precipice for months; all he’d done was give it the final nudge into the abyss.

Issy crossed to the office’s single dust-covered window and stared at the back alley below, which looked even grottier than usual this morning.

Maybe a broken leg wouldn’t have been so bad. Three weeks laid up in bed on a morphine drip with excruciating pain shooting through her entire body couldn’t make her feel any worse than she did at this moment.

She’d failed. Utterly and completely. How was she going to break the news to everyone? To Dave their principal director, to Terri and Steve and the rest of their regular crew of actors and technicians, not to mention all the ushers and front-of-house staff? They’d worked so hard over the years, many of them offering their time and talent for free, to make this place work, to make it a success.

They’d have to stop all the outreach projects too, with the local schools and the church youth group, and the pensioners’ drop-in centre.

She pressed her teeth into her bottom lip to stop it trembling.

‘Is this finally it, then?’

Issy turned at the murmured question to see a suspicious sheen in her assistant’s eyes.

‘Are we going to have to tell Dave and the troops?’ Maxi asked carefully. ‘They’ll be devastated. They’ve worked so hard. We all have.’

‘No. Not yet.’ Issy scrubbed her hands down her face, forced the lump back down her throat.

Stop being such a wimp.

The Crown and Feathers Theatre wasn’t going dark. Not on her watch. Not until the fat lady was singing. And until Issy Helligan admitted defeat the fat lady could keep her big mouth shut.

‘Let’s keep it quiet for a bit longer.’ No point in telling anyone how bad things were until she absolutely had to. Which would be when the bailiffs arrived and started carting away crucial parts of the stage. ‘There must be some avenue we haven’t explored yet.’

Think, woman, think.

They had two whole weeks. There had to be something they could do.

‘I can’t think of any,’ Maxi said. ‘We’ve both been racking our brains for months over this. If there’s an avenue we haven’t tried, it’s probably a dead end.’ Maxi gave a hollow laugh. ‘I even had a dream last night about us begging Prince Charles to become our patron.’

‘What did he say?’ Issy asked absently, eager to be distracted. Her head was starting to hurt.

‘I woke up before he gave me an answer,’ Maxi said dejectedly, giving a heartfelt sigh. ‘If only we knew someone who was loaded and had a passion for the dramatic arts. All our problems would be over.’

Issy swallowed heavily, Maxi’s words reminding her of someone she’d been trying extra hard to forget in the past seven days.

Not that. Anything but that.

She sat back down in her chair with an audible plop.

‘What’s the matter?’ Maxi asked, sounding concerned. ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet.’

‘I do know someone. He’s a duke.’

‘A duke!’ Maxi bounced up. ‘You’re friends with a duke, and we haven’t approached him for sponsorship yet?’ She waved the comment away as she rushed to Issy’s desk, her eyes bright with newfound hope. ‘Does he have a passion for theatre?’

‘Not that I know of.’ And they weren’t exactly friends either.

Heat rose up her neck and her nipples pebbled painfully as the memory she’d been trying to suppress for a week burst back to life.

No, they definitely weren’t friends.

‘But he is loaded,’ she added, not wanting to extinguish the excitement in Maxi’s gaze.

Or she assumed Gio was loaded. She had absolutely no idea what he did for a living, or even if he did anything. But he was a duke. And he kept a room at the swanky gentlemen’s club. And hadn’t he said something about renovating Hamilton Hall? Surely it made sense to assume he must be loaded?

Issy crossed her arms over her chest as her breasts began to throb. Something they’d been doing on a regular basis for days, every time she thought about Gio and his hot, insistent lips…She shook her head. Those thoughts had been coming a lot thicker and faster than she wanted to admit. And not just those thoughts, but other ones—which involved his lips and tongue and teeth and hands on the whole of her naked body, driving her to untold…

Issy squeezed her pulsating breasts harder as all her nerve endings started to tingle.

‘When are you going to see him again? Can you contact him today?’

She tensed at Maxi’s eager question.

‘What’s wrong?’ Maxi asked, the light leaving her eyes. ‘You don’t look all that enthusiastic.’

‘It’s a long shot, Max. At best.’

More than a long shot, if she were being totally honest. She’d told Gio she detested him, for goodness’ sake. Like a spoilt child. And, while it had given her some satisfaction at the time, and she doubted he cared what she thought of him, it wasn’t going to make begging him for money any easier.