LITMIR.BIZ

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do a tastefully suggestive rendition of ‘Life Is a Cabaret’, flash a modest amount of T and A and walk away with a nice healthy sum to add to the Crown and Feathers’s survival kitty, plus the possibility of some serious word-of-mouth business. After all, this was one of the most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs in the world, boasting princes, dukes and lords of the realm, not to mention Europe’s richest and most powerful businessmen among its membership.

      Really, it should be a doddle. She’d made it quite clear to her booker what a singing telegram did—and did not—entail. And Roderick Carstairs and his mates couldn’t possibly be as tough an audience to crack as the twenty-two five-year-olds tripping on a sugar rush she’d sung ‘Happy Birthday’ to last week.

      Or so she hoped.

      But as Issy eased the heavy oak panelled door to the East Wing Common Room open, and heard the barrage of male hoots and guffaws coming from inside, that hope died a quick and painful death.

      From the sound of it, her audience were primed and ready for her—and not nearly as old and fossilised as she’d assumed. The corset squeezed her ribcage as she stayed rooted in the doorway, shielded from view.

      Putting on ‘a decent show’ didn’t seem such a doddle any more.

      She was staring blankly at the rows of bookcases lining the wall, mustering the courage to walk into the lions’ den, when she caught a movement on the balcony opposite. Silhouetted by the dusky evening light, a tall figure strode into view, talking into his mobile phone. It was impossible to make out his features, but déjà vu had the hair on the back of Issy’s neck standing to attention. Momentarily transfixed by the stranger’s broad-shouldered build, and the forceful, predatory way he moved in the small space, Issy shivered, thinking of a tiger prowling a cage.

      She jumped at the disembodied chorus of rowdy masculine cheers and dragged her gaze away.

       Focus, Issy, focus.

      She straightened her spine and took a step forward, but then her eyes darted to the balcony again. The stranger had stopped moving. Was he watching her?

      She thought of the tiger again. And then memory blindsided her.

      ‘Gio,’ she whispered, as her breath clogged in her lungs and the corset constricted like a vice around her torso.

      She gasped in a breath as heat seared up the back of her neck and made her scalp burn.

       Ignore him.

      She pulled her gaze away, mortified that the mere thought of Giovanni Hamilton still made all her erogenous zones do the happy dance and her heart squeeze painfully in her chest.

       Don’t be ridiculous.

      That guy could not be Gio. She couldn’t possibly be that unlucky. To come face to face with the biggest disaster of her life when she was about to waltz into another. Clearly stress was making her hallucinate.

      Issy pushed her shoulders back and took as deep a breath as the corset’s stays would allow.

       Enough with the nervous breakdown, already. It’s showtime.

      Striding into the main body of the room, she launched into the sultry opening bars of Liza Minnelli’s signature song. Only to come to a stumbling halt, her stomach lurching back into Big Ben mode, as she rounded the door and got an eyeful of Rodders and his mates. The mob of young, debauched and completely pie-eyed Hooray Henries lunged to their feet, jeers and wolf whistles echoing off the antique furnishings as the room erupted.

      Issy’s throat constricted in horror as she imagined Little Red Riding Hood being fed to a pack of sexstarved, booze-sodden wolves while singing a show tune in her underwear.

      Suddenly a firing squad looked remarkably appealing.

       Go ahead and shoot me now, fellas.

       What in God’s name was Issy Helligan doing working as a stripper?

      Gio Hamilton stood in the shadows of the balcony, stunned into silence, his gaze fixed on the young woman who strutted into the room with the confidence of a courtesan. Her full figure moved in time with her long, leggy strides. Sequins glittered on an outfit that would make a hooker blush.

      ‘Gio?’ The heavily accented voice of his partnership manager crackled down the phone from Florence.

      ‘Si, Gio.’ He pressed the phone to his ear and tried to get his mind to engage. ‘I’ll get back to you about the Venice project,’ he said, slipping into English. ‘You know how the Italian authorities love red tape—it’s probably just a formality. Ciao.’ He disconnected the call—and stared.

      That couldn’t be the sweet, impulsive and impossibly naïve girl he’d grown up with. Could it?

      ******

      But then he noticed the pale freckled skin on her shoulder blades and he knew. Heat pulsed in his groin as he recalled Issy the last time he’d seen her—that same pale skin flushed pink by their recent lovemaking and those wild auburn curls cascading over bare shoulders.

      The smoky, seductive notes of an old theatre song, barely audible above the hoots and jeers, yanked Gio out of the past and brought him slap-bang up to date. Issy’s rich, velvety voice sent shivers rippling up his spine and arousal flared—before the song was drowned out by the chant of ‘Get it off!’ from Carstairs and his crowd.

      Gio’s contempt for the arrogant toff and his cronies turned to disgust as Issy’s singing stopped and she froze. Suddenly she wasn’t the inexperienced young temptress who’d seduced him one hot summer night, but the awkward girl who had trailed after him throughout his teenage years, her bright blue eyes glowing with adoration.

      He stuffed his phone into his back pocket, anger and arousal and something else he didn’t want to acknowledge coiling in his gut.

      Then Carstairs lunged. Gio’s fingers clenched into fists as the younger man grabbed Issy around the waist. Her head twisted to avoid the boozy kiss.

       To hell with that.

      The primitive urge to protect came from nowhere.

      ‘Get your filthy hands off her, Carstairs.’

      The shout echoed as eleven pairs of eyes turned his way.

      Issy yelped as he strode towards her, those exotic turquoise eyes going wide with astonishment and then blank with shock.

      Carstairs raised his head, his ruddy face glazed with champagne and confusion. ‘Who the…?’

      Gio slammed an upper-cut straight into the idiot’s jaw. Pain ricocheted up his arm.

      ‘Ow! Dammit,’ he breathed, cradling his throbbing knuckles as he watched Carstairs crumple onto the carpet.

      Hearing Issy’s sharp gasp, he looked round to see her eyes roll back. He caught her as she flopped, and scooped her into his arms. Carrying her against his chest, he tuned out the shouts and taunts coming from Carstairs’s friends. Not one of them was sober enough—or had enough gumption—to cause him a problem.

      ‘Kick this piece of rubbish out of here when he comes to,’ Gio said to the elderly attendant who had scurried in from his post in the billiards room next door.

      The old guy bobbed his head. ‘Yes, Your Grace. Will the lady be all right?’

      ‘She’ll be fine. Once you’ve dealt with Carstairs, have some ice water and brandy sent to my suite.’

      He drew a deep breath as he strolled down the corridor towards the lifts, caught the rose scent of Issy’s shampoo and realised it wasn’t only his knuckles throbbing.

      He gave the attendant a stiff nod as he walked into the lift, with Issy still out cold in his arms. She stirred slightly and he got his first good look at her face in the fluorescent light.

      He could

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