‘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.