Unfinished Business with the Duke

by Heidi Rice

  ‘If that’s all you want, why don’t you take it?’ she goaded, revelling in the rush of power as his eyes darkened. ‘You don’t have to worry. I won’t sugar-coat it a second time.’

  His lips crushed hers. He tasted of fury and frustration and demand, his fingers caressing her scalp as he invaded her mouth. She clutched his shoulders and kissed him back, all thoughts of revenge, of vindication, incinerated by the firestorm of need.

  He broke away first, only to swing her up in his arms. She fell back on the bed, feeling as if she were careering over Niagara Falls in a barrel—terrified and exhilarated, her body battered by its own sensual overload. He struggled to get the dress over her head, the sibilant hiss of rending fabric drowned out by their laboured breathing. She grasped his shirt, popping buttons, reached for the firm silky flesh beneath as he grappled with her bra, exposing her breasts.

  He pushed her back on the pillows, kneeled over her. Unlike that first night, when she’d hidden herself from his sight, she basked in the intoxicating rush of desire as her nipples swelled and hardened under his assessing gaze.

  He cupped the heavy orbs, rubbed his thumb over the engorged peaks.

  ‘Dammit, you’re even more beautiful than I remember.’

  The stunned words touched her somewhere deep inside, but the fanciful emotion was lost as he bent forward and captured a nipple with his teeth. A staggered moan escaped as fire blazed down to her core. Grasping his cheeks, she pushed into his mouth. The rasp of stubble against her soft palms as primal as the crude heat burning at her centre.

  She watched spellbound and desperate as he scrambled out of his own clothes. Kicking off his loafers, he wrestled out of the torn shirt, and dropped trousers and briefs in a crumpled heap to the floor.

  Where once she’d been afraid to look at him, this time she devoured the dark male beauty of his body. Tanned skin, muscled shoulders, a lean ridged abdomen and powerful flanks all vied for her attention. But then her gaze fixed on the long, thick erection, and the tantalising bead of moisture at its tip. Her breath clogged in her lungs as he climbed onto the bed, caging her in.

  Reaching, she closed her fingers around the hard, pulsing flesh. Vicious desire coiled as the magnificent erection leapt in response.

  He pulled out of her grasp, deft fingers probing beneath the lace of her panties and finding the slick furnace at her core. Sensation assaulted her as he toyed with the hard nub. She sobbed, hurtling towards that brutal edge, but he withdrew.

  Her eyes flew open, her senses straining. ‘Don’t stop!’ she cried.

  He laughed, the sound raw, and dragged off the thin swatch of lace, casting it over his shoulder. Leaning forward, he whispered against her ear. ‘I’m going to be deep inside you when you come.’

  She wanted to make a pithy comeback, but she could barely think let alone speak. All thoughts of caution, of consequences, were lost in the frantic hammer of her heartbeat as he grabbed a foil package from the bedside dresser and rolled on a condom.

  He stroked her thighs, held her hips wide. Staring into her eyes, he gripped her bottom and pressed within. She gasped, quivered, stretched unbearably as he eased in up to the hilt.

  He was a big man, and the fullness was as overwhelming and shocking now as it had been a decade ago. But this time she didn’t panic. She held on, angling her hips as the pleasure intensified, battering her senses as he paused, allowing her to adjust to the brutal penetration.

  She tensed, panting, her skin glowing with sweat as he began to move. She tried to hold back, to make it last, her body buffeted by rolling waves of ecstasy, but the rhythmic thrusts drove her towards orgasm at breakneck speed.

  ‘Stay with me, bella,’ he grunted, the molten chocolate of his eyes locking hot on her face.

  But the tight coil exploded in a blast of raw, delirious sensation.

  She screamed out her fulfilment as he shouted his own release, and collapsed with her into oblivion.

  ‘I’ve never come that fast in my life.’

  Issy stiffened at the muffled words next to her ear, the hazy afterglow shattering.

  He was still buried deep inside her. Still firm, still semi-erect. His large frame anchoring her to the mattress.

  She shoved his shoulder, tried to lower her legs—next to impossible with her thighs clasped tight around his hips. ‘Let me up. I need to leave.’ Now.

  He lifted himself off her, and she stifled the groan as her swollen flesh released him with difficulty.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he murmured.

  Was he joking?

  They’d just had sex! Make that wild monkey sex. And they didn’t even like each other. She closed her legs, curled away from him, the aching tenderness between her thighs a shameful reminder of the way they’d just ravaged each other.

  It wasn’t just wrong, it was insane. Forget ten years ago. This now classified as the biggest, most humiliating mistake of her life.

  ‘Absolutely nothing,’ she said caustically, the scent of sex suffocating her as she scooted over to the corner of the bed.

  She sat up, ready to make a swift getaway, but one strong arm banded round her waist and dragged her back against a solid male chest.

  Panic constricted around her throat. ‘I really have to leave.’

  ‘Settle down. Why are you in such a rush? You haven’t got what you came for yet.’

  ‘I…’ She stuttered to a halt, his words slicing through the panic and cutting straight to the shame. ‘I didn’t…’ She stopped, cleared her throat. The conversation they’d had before ripping each other’s clothes off replaying in her mind at top volume.

  She cringed. She hadn’t meant to tell him she’d have sex with him for money, but somehow the desire, the need, the resentment had got all tangled up. And she had. Sort of.

  Wild monkey sex had been bad enough, but adding in the money took things to a whole new level of sordid. ‘The money wasn’t the reason I…’ She paused. Tried again to explain the unexplainable. ‘I don’t expect you to pay…’

  His arm tightened. ‘I know that, Issy. After what almost happened at the club, sex was inevitable.’ He gave a rough chuckle. ‘And, frankly, I’m insulted. I don’t pay women for sex. Even you.’

  She blinked. Furious at the sting of tears. ‘Good, I’m glad you understand that,’ she said, trying to regain a little dignity while she was stark naked and blushing like a beetroot.

  She struggled. He held firm.

  ‘Will you let go?’ she demanded.

  ‘What’s the big hurry?’ he said, his reasonableness starting to irritate her. ‘Now we’ve got the sex out of the way, why shouldn’t we talk about the money?’

  Because I’d rather die on the spot.

  She swung round, astonished at his blasé attitude. Was it really that easy for him to dismiss what they had done? Chalk it up to inevitability and forget about it?

  She’d never had sex just to scratch an itch. Not until now anyway. She felt dreadful about it. Didn’t he feel even a little bit ashamed about their behaviour?

  Apparently not, from the easygoing look on his face.

  She gripped the sheet in her fist. ‘Yes, well, now we’ve got the sex out of the way…’ How could he reduce everything to the lowest common denominator like that? ‘I don’t want to discuss anything else.’ Because she, at least, had scruples. ‘I need to get dressed. I’m getting a chill.’

  Which was a blatant lie. She was the opposite of cold. The sun was blazing through the windows, and she could feel something that was still remarkably hard pressing against her bottom.

  His hands stroked her tummy through the thin linen sheet, sending a shiver through her that had nothing to do with being chilled either.

  ‘You can get dressed on one condition.’ His breath whispered past her ear. ‘That you don’t run off.’

  She nodded, so aroused again she would agree to tap dance naked to get out of his arms. Having to endure a conversation with him was by far the safer option, she decided as
she dashed out of the bed.

  To her consternation, he made no effort to get dressed himself, but simply relaxed back against the pillows, folded one arm behind his head and watched her. Ignoring him, she raced round the room in a crouch, with one arm banded across her breasts and the other covering what she could of her sex. Unfortunately she soon discovered that left her one crucial hand short to pick her bra and panties off the floor.

  ‘Issy, what exactly are you doing?’ Gio’s amused voice rumbled from the bed.

  She glanced round to find him staring at her, a puzzled smile on his face. ‘I’m trying to maintain a little modesty. If that’s okay with you,’ she snapped.

  Something he conspicuously lacked, she thought resentfully. With the sheet slung low on his hips, barely covering the distinctive bulge beneath, he looked as if he were auditioning for a banner ad in Playgirl.

  ‘Isn’t it a little late for that?’ he said casually.

  The blush burned as she concentrated on stepping into her knickers and fastening her bra behind her back one-handed.

  She glared at him, having finally completed the tricky manoeuvres. ‘Yes, I suppose it is. Thank you so much for pointing that out.’

  Why did men always have to state the bloody obvious?

  She turned away as he chuckled. Scouting around for her dress, she spotted it peeking out from under the bed. She whipped it off the floor and climbed into it, trying not to notice the torn seam caused by his eagerness to get the dress off her.

  She then spent several agonising seconds trying to fasten the zip, with her arm twisted behind her back like a circus contortionist.

  ‘Want some help with that?’ His deep voice rumbled with amusement.

  She huffed and gave in. The sooner she got dressed, the sooner she could get out of here.

  She perched on the edge of the bed and presented her back to him. But instead of fastening the zip he swept the heavy curtain of hair over her shoulder and ran the pad of his thumb down the length of her neck.

  ‘That’s not helping,’ she said, squeezing her thighs together as awareness ricocheted down her spine.

  He chuckled as he tugged up the zip. He rested a warm palm on her bare shoulder. ‘So how much money do you need?’

  The softly asked question had a blast of guilt and despair drowning out her embarrassment.

  The theatre!

  What was she going to do now? Gio had been her last hope. Admittedly it hadn’t been much of a hope, but she couldn’t even ask him for the sponsorship now—it would make her look like a total tart, and anyway he wouldn’t give it to her. Why should he?

  ‘None,’ she said, her mind reeling. How could she have been so reckless and irresponsible? ‘Really, it’ll be fine,’ she murmured, her bottom lip quivering alarmingly

  Don’t you dare fall to pieces. Not yet.

  She’d have to find another way. Somehow.

  But as she went to stand he held her wrist. ‘Why do I get the feeling you’re lying?’

  She looked down at the long, tanned fingers encircling her wrist. And suddenly felt like a puppy who had been given a good solid kick in the ribs.

  ‘I’m not lying,’ she said, alarmed by the quake in her voice. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  He gripped her chin, forced her eyes to his. ‘Issy, if you say everything’s fine again I’m going to get seriously annoyed.’ He pressed his thumb to her lip. ‘I was there when you broke your wrist. Remember? You were twelve, and in a lot of pain, and yet you refused to shed a single tear. You look a lot closer to tears now. So there has to be a reason.’

  She dipped her eyes to her lap, disturbed by the admiration in his voice—and the memory he’d evoked.

  She hadn’t cried that day, but she hadn’t been particularly brave. The pain had seemed minimal once the sixteen-year-old Gio had discovered her in the grounds. He’d carried her all the way back to the Hall in his arms, the experience fuelling her fantasies for months and making her forget about her sore wrist as soon as he’d plucked her off the ground.

  She brushed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. Gio’s brusque tenderness that day was not something she needed to be thinking about right now.

  ‘Maybe things aren’t completely fine,’ she said carefully. ‘But I’ll figure something out.’

  He lifted a knee and slung his arm over it—edging that flipping sheet further south.

  ‘That had better not mean more strip-a-grams,’ he said.

  ‘It wasn’t a strip-a-gram,’ she said, not appreciating the dictatorial tone. ‘It was a singing telegram. There’s a difference.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘What’s the money for? Are you in financial trouble?’

  ‘Not me,’ she murmured, her indignation forgotten. Strip-a-grams could well be the next step. ‘It’s the Crown and Feathers. The theatre pub I work for. I’m the general manager. I have been for the last four years. And we’re about to be shut down by the bank.’

  She stared at her hands, the enormity of the situation overwhelming her.

  ‘All the people who work there and everyone in the local community who’s helped us make the place a success will be devastated.’ She blew out an unsteady breath, the truth hitting her hard in the solar plexus. ‘And it’s all my fault.’

  She’d made a mess of everything. The fat lady was singing her heart out and, barring a miracle, there would be no shutting her up now.

  Gio stared at Issy’s pale shoulders rigid with tension, and at her slender hands clasped so tight in her lap she was probably about to dislocate a finger.

  And wanted to punch his fist through a wall.

  Why couldn’t she have wanted the money for herself?

  Of course she didn’t. Issy didn’t work that way. She’d always had too much integrity for her own good.

  Now he didn’t just feel responsible, he felt the unfamiliar prickle of guilt.

  He shouldn’t have goaded her. Made the money an issue.

  But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. The minute he’d spotted her waiting by the empty pool the desire he’d been trying and failing to handle for well over a week had surged back to life like a wild beast.

  And he’d instantly resented it. And her.

  She’d told him she detested him. Why did he still want her so much?

  Suggesting she come up to his bedroom had been a ploy to humiliate her. He’d been sure she would refuse. But she hadn’t. And her forthright acceptance had made him feel like a jerk.

  Then she’d asked him for money. And resentment had turned to anger.

  He’d seen the unconscious flare of desire in her eyes and decided to exploit it. She wasn’t here for his money, and he could prove it.

  The sex had been incredible. Better even than the first time. Explosive. Exhilarating. A force of nature neither of them could control.

  And she’d enjoyed it as much as he had. So he’d been well and truly vindicated.

  But her financial problems had ruined the nice buzz of triumph and spectacular sex, stabbing at his conscience in a way he didn’t like.

  ‘Exactly how much of a hole is your theatre in?’ he asked.

  ‘The interest on our loan is thirty thousand. And we’ve got less than two weeks to raise it.’

  Her damp lashes made her turquoise eyes look even bigger than usual. And his conscience took another hit.

  ‘Is that all?’ he prompted.

  She shook her head, looked back at her lap. ‘We’d need over a hundred to be safe for the rest of the year.’ She gave a jerky shrug, as if a huge weight were balanced on her shoulders. ‘We’ve been trying to find sponsors for months now,’ she continued. ‘The two grants we got last year have been withdrawn. The pub revenue was hit by the smoking ban, and…’ She trailed off, sighed. ‘It was a stupid idea to come to you. Why should you care about some bankrupt theatre?’ She brushed a single tear away. ‘But I was desperate.’

  He covered her clasped hands with one of his, surprised by the u
rge to comfort. ‘Issy, stop crying.’ He’d always hated to see her cry. ‘The money’s yours. All of it. It’s not a problem.’

  Her head lifted and she stared at him as if he’d just sprouted an extra head. ‘Don’t be silly. You can’t do that. Why would you?’

  He shrugged. ‘Why wouldn’t I? It’s a good cause.’ But even as he said it he knew that wasn’t the reason he wanted to give her the money.

  He’d never really forgiven himself for the way he’d stormed out on her all those years ago.

  He didn’t regret the decision to walk away. Issy had been young, romantic and impossibly sweet. She’d had a crush on him for years and didn’t have a clue what he was really like. But he’d been much harder on her than he needed to be.

  He’d accused her of keeping her virginity a secret. But he’d realised in hindsight that had been a stupid misunderstanding. She’d been too innocent to know they were talking at cross-purposes. But at the time he’d felt trapped and wary—and furious with himself for not withdrawing the instant he knew he was her first—and he’d taken it out on her.

  Then she’d told him she loved him, and for one fleeting second he’d actually wanted it to be true—making him realise how much he had let his argument with the Duke get to him—and he’d taken that out on her too.

  He wasn’t about to explain himself now. Or ever. It was too late to apologise. But giving her the money would be a good way to make amends.

  But as he looked into those luminous blue eyes the blood pounded back into his groin. And he realised he had a bigger problem to handle than any lingering sense of guilt.

  Why hadn’t the mind-blowing orgasm been enough?

  ‘But you can’t give me a hundred grand.’ She pulled her hand out of his. ‘That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘Do you want to save your theatre or not?’ he replied impatiently. He wanted the money out of the way, so he could deal with the more pressing problem of how to re-establish control over his libido.

  ‘Yes—yes, I do. But…’ She trailed off.

  ‘Then why are you trying to talk me out of this?’

  ‘Because it’s a hundred thousand pounds!’