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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.
