Unfinished Business with the Duke Read online

  She snapped her eyelids shut, threw one arm over her face and sank back down into the pillows. ‘Go away. You’re a hallucination,’ she groaned. But it was too late.

  Even the brief glimpse had seared the image of his harsh, handsome features onto her retinas and made her heartbeat hit panic mode. The sculpted cheekbones, the square jaw with a small dent in the chin, the wavy chestnut hair pushed back from dark brows and those thickly-lashed chocolate eyes more tempting than original sin. Pain lanced into her chest as she recalled how those eyes had looked the last time she’d seen them, shadowed with annoyance and regret.

  Then everything else came flooding back. And Issy groaned louder.

  Carstairs’s sweaty hands gripping her waist, the rank whiff of whisky and cigars on his breath, the pulse of fear replaced by shock as Carstairs’s head snapped back and Gio loomed over her. Then the deafening buzzing in her ears before she’d done her ‘Perils of Pauline’ act.

  No way. This could not be happening. Gio had to be a hallucination.

  ‘Leave me alone and let me die in peace,’ she moaned.

  She heard a husky chuckle and grimaced. Had she said that out loud?

  ‘Once a drama queen, always a drama queen, I see, Isadora?’

  She dropped her arm and stared at her tormentor. Taking in the tanned biceps stretching the sleeves of his black polo shirt and the teasing glint in his eyes, she resigned herself to the fact this was no hallucination. The few strands of silver at his temples and the crinkles around the corners of his eyes hadn’t been there ten years ago, but at thirty-one Giovanni Hamilton was as devastatingly gorgeous as he had been at twenty-one—and twice as much of a hunk.

  Why couldn’t he have got fat, bald and ugly? It was the least he deserved.

  ‘Don’t call me Isadora. I hate that name,’ she said, not caring if she sounded snotty.

  ‘Really?’ One eyebrow rose in mocking enquiry as his lips quirked. ‘Since when?’

  Since you walked away.

  She quashed the sentimental thought. To think she’d once adored it when he’d called her by her given name. Had often basked for days in the proof that he’d noticed her.

  How pitiful.

  Luckily she wasn’t that needy, eager-to-please teenager any more.

  ‘Since I grew up and decided it didn’t suit me,’ she said, pretending not to notice the warm liquid sensation turning her insides to mush as he smiled at her.

  The eyebrow rose another notch and the sexy grin widened as he lounged in his chair. He didn’t look the least bit wounded by her rebuff.

  His gaze dipped to her cleavage. ‘I can see how grown up you are. It’s kind of hard to miss.’

  Heat sizzled at the suggestive tone. She bolted upright, aware of how much flesh she had on display as the bustier drooped. She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her shins as the brutal blush fanned out across her chest.

  ‘I was on a job,’ she said defensively, annoyed that the costume felt more revealing now than it had in front of Carstairs and all his mates.

  ‘A job? Is that what you call it?’ Gio commented dryly. ‘What sort of job requires you to get assaulted by an idiot like Carstairs?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘What exactly do you think would have happened if I hadn’t been there?’

  She heard the sanctimonious note of disapproval—and the injustice of the accusation made her want to scream.

  In hindsight, she should never have accepted the booking. And maybe it had been a mistake to walk into that room once she’d known how plastered her audience was. But she’d been under so much pressure for months now. Her livelihood and the livelihood of people she loved was at stake.

  So she’d taken a chance. A stupid, desperate, foolish chance that had backfired spectacularly. But she wasn’t going to regret it. And she certainly wasn’t going to be criticised for it by someone who had never cared about anyone in his entire life but himself.

  ‘Don’t you dare imply I’m to blame for Carstairs’s appalling behaviour,’ she said, fury making the words louder than she’d intended.

  Surprise flickered in Gio’s eyes.

  Good.

  It was about time he realised she wasn’t the simpering little groupie she’d once been.

  ‘The man was blind drunk and a lech,’ she continued, shuffling over to the other side of the bed and swinging her legs to the floor. ‘Nobody asked you to get involved.’ She stood and faced him. ‘You did that all on your own. I would have been perfectly fine if you hadn’t been there.’

  Probably.

  She marched across the lavishly furnished bedroom—keeping a death grip on the sagging costume. What she wouldn’t give right now to be wearing her favourite jeans and a T-shirt. Somehow her speech didn’t have as much impact while she was dressed like an escapee from the Moulin Rouge.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he said, his voice dangerously low.

  ‘I’m leaving,’ she replied, reaching for the doorknob.

  But as she yanked the door, all set to make a grand exit, a large, tanned hand slapped against the wood above her head and slammed it shut.

  ‘No, you’re not,’ he said.

  She whipped round and immediately realised her mistake. Her breath caught as her bare shoulders butted the door. He stood so close she could see the flecks of gold in his irises, taste the spicy scent of his aftershave, and feel the heat of his body inches from hers.

  She clasped her arms over her chest as her nipples puckered, awareness making every one of her pulse-points pound.

  ‘What?’ she snapped, cornered. The last time she’d been this close to Gio she’d been losing her virginity to him.

  ‘There’s no need to go storming off.’ The rock-hard bicep next to her ear tensed before his arm dropped to his side. Her breath released in an audible puff as he eased back.

  ‘You misunderstood me,’ he said, heaving an impatient sigh.

  ‘About what, exactly?’ She tilted her head, thrust her chin out.

  How infuriating.

  At five foot six, and with six-inch heels on, she ought to be able to look him in the eye. No such luck. Gio had always been tall—tall and lanky—but when had he got so…solid?

  She tried to look bored. No easy feat, given her limited acting skills and the fact that her heart felt as if it were being ripped out of her chest all over again. She pushed the memory back, locking it back in the box marked ‘Biggest Mistake of your Life’, while his gaze roamed over her, the chocolate-brown giving nothing away. To think she’d once believed that bleak expression was enigmatic, when all it had ever been was proof Gio had no soul.

  ‘Carstairs deserved everything he got, and I enjoyed giving it to him,’ he said coldly, shoving a fist into the pocket of his trousers. ‘I’m not blaming you. I’m blaming the situation.’ His eyes met hers and she saw something that stunned her for a second. Was that concern?

  ‘If you needed money you should have come to me,’ he said with dictatorial authority, and she knew she’d made a stupid mistake. That wasn’t concern. It was contempt.

  ‘There was no need for you to become a stripper,’ he remarked.

  Her heart stopped and the blush blazed like wildfire.

  Did he just say stripper?

  He cupped her cheek. The unexpected contact had her outraged reply getting stuck in her throat.

  ‘I know things ended badly between us, but we were friends once. I can help you.’ His thumb skimmed across her cheek with the lightest of touches. ‘And, whatever happens, you’re finding another job.’ The patronising tone did nothing to diminish the arousal darkening his eyes. ‘Because, quite apart from anything else, you’re a terrible stripper.’

  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.