by Nina Milne
Her gaze ran over his magnificent body.
‘You like?’ he asked.
‘I want,’ she replied and, sitting up, she reached to pull him down onto the bed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
IMOGEN ADJUSTED HER sketchpad on the easel, dug her flip-flop-clad toes into the warm crunch of sand and tried to concentrate.
The lecturer was fully living up to his promise—Michael Mallory was brilliant, and in any other circumstances she would be riveted.
Chill out, Imo. So what if Joe hadn’t been there when she’d woken up that morning? It was no biggie that he hadn’t even left a note. They’d had a deal—she would paint and he would surf. So maybe the waves only worked at a certain time of day … he’d had to rush. Maybe he hadn’t been able to find a pen or paper. Maybe he’d written a note and a stray dog had crept into the yurt and eaten it. There were endless possibilities. There was no need for her tummy to be knotted with a sense of dread.
Instead she needed to enjoy the moment and anticipate later. After what they had shared last night—after falling asleep wrapped in each other’s arms, her head on his chest, his strong arm encasing her—there was no need for doom and gloom. Later they’d swap stories, have a meal, maybe a glass or two of wine and then … to bed.
And what happens after that, Imo?
Nothing. Nothing happens. Get a grip.
This was lust—pure and simple.
Only … was it more than that? Hadn’t they shared things on an emotional level? Could Joe tick the boxes on her list?
‘OK,’ Michael said. ‘Listen up, if you haven’t already.’
Imogen jumped and stared at the tall, lanky man who was suddenly standing right in front of her.
He stroked his beard and frowned down at her. ‘Yes, that means you. Here is your assignment. You have two hours and then report back here.’
Imogen glanced down at the piece of paper and then around her, realising that the rest of the class had already dispersed.
‘Sorry,’ she muttered.
‘Redeem yourself by producing a worthwhile exercise,’ he returned.
Determination seethed inside her. Joe had gone surfing reluctantly, this she knew, and he’d done it so that she could reap the benefits of this class. It was time to do exactly that.
‘I will.’
‘Good. I’ve assigned you a place—go there and come back with a land or seascape with a difference. It doesn’t have to be technically perfect—draw from your heart and dig deep into your soul.’
Picking up her sketchpad and pencils, she set off. Twenty minutes later she’d reached her destination. It was incredible—a tiny cove of rich golden sand at the foot of a cliff-face that swept the skyline.
As Imogen walked forward her mouth dropped open at the rock formations—arches and shapes that almost defied nature, rock pools galore. Other than herself, the place was completely deserted. It was if she’d gone through a portal and entered another world.
Ah!
That was how she would draw this scene—she would make it slightly alien, use the rock formations to indicate a time portal … subtly distort things … Her brain popped and fizzed with ideas.
Making her way to a handy clump of rocks, she opened her sketchpad and started to draw …
‘Imogen?’
A shadow fell over the sketchbook and she whipped her head up so fast she heard her neck crack.
‘Joe.’
‘Sorry to interrupt.’
His voice was cool and formal—the tone one you’d use with someone you’d just met and were thoroughly indifferent about. Not someone you’d tangled the sheets with just hours previously.
‘That’s fine. It’s probably good—I’d lost track of time.’
Feeling at a sudden disadvantage, she scrambled to her feet, clutched the sketchbook to her chest. The dreaded leaden feeling returned with a vengeance at the look in his brown eyes—cold with a hint of wariness. She took in his clothes—despite the blaze of the midday sun he wore a crisp white shirt and a lightweight jacket over chinos.
‘Didn’t pack your Hawaiian shorts?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘So when are you hitting the waves?’
‘That’s what I came to tell you.’ His voice was even, his features unreadable except for the tension in his jaw. ‘I’ll have to take a rain check—I have to leave. Now. I’ve changed my flight but you should stay here—finish the class, soak up some rays.’
‘Why do you have to leave?’ Please tell me there’s an emergency. Nothing life-threatening but a genuine valid reason for you to go. ‘A work crisis? Do the twins need you?’
‘Is that what you want me to say?’
Hell, yeah. Right now Imogen wanted to dig a hole in the sun-scorched sand and bury her head deep, deep down. But she wouldn’t do that—that was what she’d done with Steve: refused to see the truth, painted an illusory fictitious relationship world.
‘I want you to say the truth.’
‘The truth is that after last night I think it’s best to cut this interlude short.’
Anger imploded in her: a molten core of volcanic rage. ‘Really? That’s what you think? Jeez, Joe. What happened to respect? To what you said last night about respecting me? Is this how you show it? Slinking off after sleeping with me? Wham-bam, thank you, ma’am?’
Joe flinched, his mouth set in a grim line.
‘That’s not how it was. It’s not how it is.’
‘Then tell me how it is.’
‘I don’t know, goddammit.’ He rammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. ‘I’m not sure what happens after a second one-night stand. It’s a situation I’ve managed to avoid for the past seven years.’
Freaking fabulous. What was she? The flu?
‘So this is your answer. Hell, Joe, I’m surprised you even bothered to come out here to tell me you were going. I’d have worked it out soon enough.’
‘I didn’t want to do that. I don’t want us to end badly.’
‘Then don’t go. Don’t run away.’
Joe’s guts twisted. Anger at himself pounded his temples. Imogen was hurt; he could see it in the way she hugged that sketchbook to her like some sort of magical shield.
Of course she’s hurting, dumb-arse. Your behaviour puts you up for the Schmuck of the Year award.
He should never have let this situation happen. Yet last night he hadn’t given Rule Two a thought. Not one. Everything had been obliterated by his need for Imogen—his need to possess her, hold her and savour every centimetre of her. To gaze at the stars and dream.
Madness.
Even looking at her now—so graceful, standing so tall, her eyes challenging—his hands were desperate to break free from his pockets and hold her. The simple sundress she wore exposed her sun-kissed shoulders and the curve of her toned bare arms. So beautiful his heart ached. The sooner he got on that plane the better. And it would be Rule Three all the way. ‘No Looking Back’.
‘I’m not running away. It’s more of a strategic retreat.’
Her lips didn’t so much as quiver, and he knew himself the words weren’t funny—even if there was an element of truth in them. He knew with a bone-deep certainty that he couldn’t spend another night with Imogen.
‘I’m leaving because it’s best for both of us. Things are getting complicated, and the best way forward now is to draw a line before they complicate further.’
‘I thought we were through with drawing lines?’
‘Not this one. We got carried away by chemistry again last night; that wasn’t meant to happen and I will not risk being driven by lust again.’
Her arms squeezed the sketchbook even tighter as her face leeched of colour and Joe knew she was thinking of her parents’ disastrous lust-driven relationship. Which was good—that was what he wanted: for Imogen to be on the same page as he was, in agreement that this had to stop here.
‘You want a relationship that isn’t based on lust. You
want a man who ticks all your boxes and I don’t tick any. So it’s way better to cut your losses right here and now and go and find him.’ His hand fisted in his pockets; the thought of Imogen with another man made him want to hit something—preferably the man. ‘It’s best for you.’
Just like that her shell-shocked face changed, and he knew he’d said the wrong thing as her mouth smacked open in outrage. Eyes narrowed, she stepped forward.
‘And what gives you the right to make that decision for me?’ Imogen asked. ‘I know what’s best for me—not you. All my life people have known what’s best for me. My mother, Steve, and now you. And you’ve known me all of a few weeks.’
The sarcastic cut of her voice slashed at him and flamed his own emotions to anger. ‘You said it yourself, Imogen. That it should only be one night.’
‘Then something changed,’ she flashed back, before exhaling a sigh. ‘Last night did happen and I refuse to regret it. Or at least I didn’t regret it until now. You know what, Joe? You don’t really respect me. Because if you did you would have asked me what I think, how I feel, what I want, what I think is best for me. I accept that you need to go, but it’s because it’s best for you. Don’t kid yourself or try to kid me you’re doing it for me.’
He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Imogen was right. Yet … ‘Imogen, I do truly believe this is best for you, but if I’d asked you before I booked that flight what would you have said?’
For a second her gaze dipped away from him, and then she jutted her chin out and met his eyes. ‘I’d have suggested we stay here until tomorrow, as planned. I draw, you surf, we have another night. Tomorrow we go home and go our separate ways.’
It sounded so reasonable, so tempting, so…. terrifying.
‘And what if that slid into one more night? One more week …?’
‘Would that be so bad?’
Her voice was small and tight, and Joe hated himself even as he knew what his answer had to be. Everything was sliding out of control, complications abounded, and he needed to get both himself and Imogen out of the line of fire.
‘Yes, it would. You’re looking for a man who wants a relationship, a white picket fence, a family. I’m not that man. I do not tick the boxes.’
‘How do you know you couldn’t?’
The very thought made his head reel with images of his parents, presenting their perfect married image to the world, supposedly living out their happy-ever-after behind the picket fence. They’d had it all—love, a family, a successful business.
Yet the whole time it had been nothing but a façade.
Joe remembered piecing together the reality of his father’s affairs—so many of them with employees and clients. Remembered finding the paperwork showing that his mother was filing for divorce. The family company had been a hotbed of scandal and corruption: funds embezzled, nothing as it was supposed to be, business relationships and personal relationships all a quagmire to be waded through.
The realisation had dawned that everything he’d grown up with had been an illusion. And then it had turned out everything he’d believed he and Leila had was nothing more than another mirage. His whole life had been askew and off-kilter, viewed through the wrong perspective.
He would never put himself in that position again. This thing—whatever it was with Imogen—was meant to fit his rules; Imogen had agreed, goddammit.
‘There is no way I can ever tick your boxes. It is not going to happen. Not now, not ever. I do not want complications in my life. You do not want a relationship based on lust.’
‘Is that all you think we have?’
‘Yes.’
‘You really believe that, Joe?
‘I—’
‘And do you really believe that having a family and growing old together is just one big complication? Are you really such a coward that you’ll always run away from any chance of getting close?’
‘Yes, yes and yes again.’ Better a coward, than a fool, enmeshed in an emotional quagmire it would be nigh on impossible to break free from.
Imogen shook her head. ‘Then you’d best go. Have a safe flight home.’
‘Enjoy the art class.’
It was a monumentally stupid comment, but he was having difficulty unsticking his feet from the sand. Having difficulty doing the thing he needed to do.
‘I hope this doesn’t make you drop out of it.’
‘Don’t worry, Joe. Your conscience can rest. I keep my promises. See you around.’
The bitter taste of cowardice and confusion coated his tastebuds as she swivelled and started to walk away from him.
Without so much as a glance back.
He needed to do the same.
It was the only way forward.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Three days later
‘HOW ARE YOU feeling, hun? Ready to go in there ands freeze his balls?’
Imogen managed a smile at Mel’s words, truly appreciating her best friend’s attempts to cheer her up. Mel had been a rock—had plied her with tea and wine and chocolate and tissues as needed, listened to her rant and pretended not to notice when she cried.
Though who knew why she’d shed a single tear for a man who had made it more than plain that he wanted nothing more to do with her? Humiliation still burned inside her that she hadn’t just let him go and feigned indifference. Honestly—she might as well stencil ‘Doormat—Use Me’ on her forehead.
Yet there had been a moment on that sun-kissed Algarve beach when the grim, haunted expression on Joe’s face had twisted her heart—made her want to help with whatever inner demons tormented him.
Hah! More fool her. Inner demons, her foot—Joe had just been terrified that she would go emotional on him. Become a complication to his footloose and fancy-free existence.
Well, she’d show him. Joe had called a meeting at Langley with Peter and Harry, and Peter had asked her to minute it.
Pride straightened her spine. ‘I am ready to go in and be arctically professional.’
Mel grinned at her. ‘That’s my girl. Well, you look the part.’
‘Thanks to you! This dress is perfect.’
Imogen smoothed the skirt of the sculpted jersey dress with satisfaction. The demure yet tantalising rounded half-zip neckline, the way the Italian fabric clung to her body, dipped to just above the knee, made her feel professional from the sleek chignon atop her head to her perfectly pedicured pale pink toenails that peeped from a pair of killer heels.
‘Show me “The Look”.’
Hand on hip, Imogen focused on projecting icy disdain.
‘Brilliant!’ Mel clapped her hands together. ‘Trust me, bits of him will shrivel! Go get ‘em, Imo.’
Easier said than done. By the time she’d trekked the tube journey to work the thought of seeing Joe was filling her with a swirl of conflicted emotions. Come on, Imo. It was imperative that she crush any lingering stupid hopes, push down the insane lurch of anticipation.
As she approached the boardroom her heart pounded against her ribcage so loudly she’d probably deafen Joe rather than freeze him. Bracing herself, she pushed the boardroom door open and entered. Channelled every bit of her inner ice princess.
The Langley brothers sat on one side of the mahogany table facing Joe, who had his hands flat on the table edge, his gaze directed on Peter.
‘You have got to be joking!’ Peter Langley leapt to his feet, looking about to vault the table and throttle Joe.
‘Peter. Sit down.’ Harry half rose and grabbed Peter’s arm.
Imogen cleared her throat. ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said.
‘You aren’t.’ Harry attempted a smile. ‘We started early. Peter and I just want to know which way the land lies. Come in, Imogen. We’d better minute this.’
‘Sure.’ Within seconds she’d seated herself at the table, notepad in hand, as foreboding prickled her neck. Something bad was clearly going down.
Yet even her apprehension couldn’t prevent her brain from absor
bing Joe’s appearance. The immaculate charcoal-grey suit with a hint of pinstripe, the bright white shirt, dark blue tie. Professional from the spikes of his hair to the tips of his no doubt shined-up leather shoes. His face was neutral—no trace of any emotion whatsoever. It should be impossible to believe that this man had turned her life upside down, only—dammit—it wasn’t. Her whole being was on alert, and it was taking every ounce of willpower to keep herself from staring.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
Peter waved a hand. ‘Go ahead, Joe. Explain your decision.’
‘Langley is doing well, but progress has to be sustained and more. Ivan Moreton has come forward with a very lucrative buy-out offer.’
‘Ivan Moreton?’ Disbelief vied with horror.
‘Yes.’ The syllable gave nothing away. ‘The deal he is offering is more than fair. In order to avoid the buy-out Langley needs to meet the criteria set out here over the next two months.’ He pushed a bound report across the table. ‘Again, I’ll go through it for the record.’
As Imogen listened to the points, anger began to simmer. Glancing across at Peter and Harry, she could sense their worry and her tummy twisted in sympathy.
Head back down, she minuted the discussion until the three men had finished. Waited as Joe rose to his feet and shook hands first with Peter and then with Harry.
‘You’ve got my number—any questions, just call. Otherwise I’ll be back in two months to review the situation. I’ll see you then.’
Hurt threaded through her building rage—Joe’s glance had barely even skimmed over her, his brown eyes indifferent. Had he really managed to edit her out of his memory banks that easily—just another one-night stand to join the ranks? Just an anonymous employee in a company he was grinding in his corporate mill?
Well, hell, she was a lot more than that—and she would not just stand aside and let him do this. Forget freezing him—instead her palms itched with the desire to grab him by the lapels of that tailored suit and shake him until his teeth rattled. Her hands clenched into fists, all thoughts of professional cool forgotten
