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No, not a touch.

Olivia was suddenly struck with an image of him touching her skin; of him reaching across that desk and stroking her cheek. The sensation wouldn’t ease the desperation pricking at her pores to be touched, but would likely make her eager for more.

He’s not going to touch you. He’s a duke, and a gorgeous one at that. He likely has legions of women throwing themselves at his feet—he doesn’t want one who has to ration cheese.

She was an investigator, and good at what she did. And when Effinghell had pulled his funding, she’d tried to find out what she could about the man…and failed. He wasn’t necessarily reclusive; he’d made a name for himself as a bit of a reformer with his passionate calls to action to his colleagues in the House. Her own paper had reprinted a few of his more convincing arguments.

But no one knew about him as a man. He never appeared in public, never spoke in front of his fellow Lords. He was a mystery.

A very attractive mystery.

Well, yes. No one had mentioned that part.

The Duke had dark hair, kept trimmed short, and a beard to match. His eyes were an intriguing pale gray; even from across the table she could see them spark with intelligence. He was well-built—no, that was putting it too mildly.

His shoulders were the kind of shoulders she wanted to touch. To caress. She imagined he’d be tall, but with him sitting at that desk, it was easy to fantasize about stepping behind him and running her palms across his back, then around to his shoulders and across his chest. The position would allow her to press her breasts to his back, and to touch that spot beneath his chin where his oh-so-very-proper tie hid his throat. Was that a scar she saw peeking out?

She wanted to touch him. Feel him. Feel—

You are getting rather more distracted than called for. Remember the mission?

Right. Humble herself—humiliate herself, if necessary—to get the Duke to reinstate his funding for her paper.

Right.

Right.

The reminder was enough to get her to stop ogling his shoulders. Olivia dropped her gaze to her reticule. The reports from her bookkeeper!

Yes, she’d brought along the reports. Perhaps she’d be able to prove how badly his removing his investment had hurt her—hurt the paper!

Fumbling for the tie, she managed to get the reticule open and pulled out the folded paper. Brandishing it triumphantly—“Here!”—she sprang to her feet. “These will show you what I mean.”

As she leaned over his desk to plop the papers in front of him, he raised a brow. Not in surprise, but in question. She tapped the folded papers.

“I need investors, Your Grace. I need you.”

His other brow joined the first, and now it was most definitely surprise.

“Look,” Olivia pleaded, pushing the reports toward him. “I know you agree with what The Daily Movement is trying to do, and I really need your backing. I’ll promise you anything—I’ll do anything.”

And as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she realized how desperate she’d sounded. Anything?

His expression slowly turned from surprise to speculation.

Oh, God.

Had she thought him handsome before? When he was all cool and composed?

When his lids lowered like that, and his lips curled—was that amusement?—her lady bits went all gooey.

Gooey? You’re supposed to be a journalist. Perhaps you could come up with a better description?

Well, she could, but she didn’t write that sort of story, although she’d heard there was a market for that sort of thing…

All she knew was that the Duke of Effinghell’s knowing smile was enough to make her knees weak and her thighs clench.

When she dragged her gaze back up to meet his, his eyes twinkled with what she supposed was continued speculation. His lips parted and he mouthed, “Anything.”