by Jessica Hart
‘What about when you were with Julia?’
He shrugged. ‘We’d eat out a lot, and yes, there would quite often be some kind of reception, but those events aren’t nearly as much fun as they’re cracked up to be.’
What had he and Julia done together? Tom tried to remember. Julia was into art, but galleries and openings bored him rigid. He had often used work as an excuse not to go with her. Perhaps Patrick had gone instead?
It was all obvious in hindsight, of course, but shouldn’t he have wondered how much he and Julia had in common before he’d asked her to marry him? He had thought that a similarly cool and careful approach to life would be enough. How wrong could you be?
He looked across the table at Imogen, whose own approach to life could by no stretch of the imagination be described as cool and careful, certainly not from what she’d been telling him.
‘I don’t think you’d enjoy my life that much,’ he told her. ‘It sounds as if you like the one you’ve got. You’ve got lots of friends, you seem to have a good time. You’ve got a job. Why give that up and leave your life behind to travel?’
‘Because I need to get away,’ said Imogen, her expression uncharacteristically serious.
Resting her arms on the table, she turned the glass pensively between her fingers. ‘I spent five years holding on to an impossible dream,’ she went on after a moment. ‘Five years wanting something I couldn’t have. I’ve finally accepted that it’s not going to happen, but I think I need a complete break to do something completely different before I can move on properly.’
‘Five years is a long time to want something-or was it someone?’
‘Someone.’ Imogen nodded.
Tom thought about what she had told him on the beach and searched his memory for a name. ‘Andrew?’
‘Andrew,’ she confirmed. ‘We were students together,’ she told Tom. ‘I fell in love with him the moment I laid eyes on him in Freshers’ Week and we were inseparable for three years.
‘I was so happy all that time,’ she remembered, her smile tinged with sadness. ‘It never occurred to me that it would end. I just assumed that, once we graduated, we’d get married and spend the rest of our lives together.’
‘So what happened?’ asked Tom.
‘Oh, nothing dramatic. Andrew just…grew out of me.’ Imogen managed a smile, but it was a painful one. ‘After all, we were very young when we met, just eighteen, and only twenty-one when we graduated. People kept asking me what I wanted to do, meaning that I should be thinking about a career, but all I wanted to do was be with Andrew. He was more ambitious. He wanted to be a journalist, and that’s what he did. He’s doing well, too. He’s just been made education correspondent on one of the national papers.’
‘And you didn’t blend with his décor any more, was that it?’
‘No, not really.’ It was second nature for Imogen to defend Andrew now. ‘Andrew realised that we wanted different things out of life. I was always happy to live in the moment, but he’s a planner and thinks about the future in a way I never did. I think he was feeling stifled too, although he didn’t put it like that.’
‘How did he put it?’
‘He said he thought we both needed a bit of space. We’d been living together for three years, after all, and neither of us had ever really spent any time on our own. He thought we should have a chance to meet other people before we settled down, and he was right. Twenty-one is much too young to tie yourself down for life-although I didn’t think so at the time, of course,’ she added with a wry smile.
Tom was trying to imagine Imogen as a student, and realised he could do it quite easily. She would have been exactly as she was now, he thought.
‘How did you react?’
‘With disbelief at first. Andrew wasn’t just my lover, he was my best friend. I couldn’t imagine life without him, and it had never occurred to me that he wouldn’t feel the same. Then I decided that he was right,’ said Imogen. ‘It would be best if we had some time apart. So we both went to London, and he got himself a flat and I moved in with Amanda for a while as I was absolutely sure he’d come back. I did a secretarial course, got myself a job and waited for Andrew to miss me.’
‘But he didn’t?’
‘No, he didn’t.’ Imogen sighed, remembering that time-the slow, sickening realisation that Andrew didn’t love her any more. ‘I know he’s very fond of me, and we’ve stayed friends, but he didn’t need me the way I needed him. I knew in my heart that it was over, but I kept hoping and hoping…’
Her mouth turned down at the memory of her own foolishness. ‘And then he met Sara, and it turned out that he needed her the way I needed him. They got married a couple of years ago, and they’re expecting their first baby in the summer.’
Even after all this time it was an effort to keep her voice level.
Tom could see the strain around her eyes and he shifted uncomfortably. He hoped that she wasn’t going to cry.
But Imogen was already straightening her shoulders and smiling.
‘Do you know the worst thing?’ she confided. ‘It’s that Sara’s really nice. She makes Andrew happy, and I can see they’re perfect for each other. When they got engaged, I used to pray that Andrew would wake up and realise that I was the one he really loved after all, a bit like Julia did with Patrick. I feel awful now to realise I never gave a thought to what that would have been like for Sara.’
Tom shrugged. ‘I guess she would have got over it, the way you did. The way I’m going to have to get over it.’
‘I hope it doesn’t take you as long as it did me,’ said Imogen ruefully. ‘I’ve wasted years, convinced that my life was always going to be empty without Andrew. I’ve tried to meet someone else, but I always end up comparing any man I go out with to him. It took me until last year to really accept that he loves Sara and not me. Even if he stopped loving her for some reason, he still wouldn’t love me.
‘It’s never going to be the way it was before,’ she said. ‘Andrew moved on a long time ago, and now I need to do that too. I haven’t changed since I was a student. It’s like I’m stuck in a time warp, where everyone else has moved on and grown up and I’ve just been drifting, hoping something will change. And, of course, I’ve realised that the only way something’s going to change is if I make it change. If I change myself.’
They had lit the candles on the table, and in the flickering light Tom could see the generous curve of her mouth and the unconsciously upward tilt of her chin. He found himself thinking that it would be a pity if she changed too much.
Imogen sighed a little. ‘Anyway, you know what it’s like,’ she told him. ‘I never got as far as planning a wedding, but I understand how it feels when you love someone who decides they don’t love you.’
Swirling the dregs of wine in his glass, Tom thought about what she had told him. Imogen always seemed so bright and cheery. He had never guessed that there was a sadness behind her smile.
‘I don’t feel like that about Julia,’ he said abruptly. ‘Not the way you felt about Andrew.’
‘But you were going to marry her,’ said Imogen. ‘You must have loved her. You must still love her.’
‘Must I?’
Tom’s eyes were fixed on the swirling wine, but he was remembering Julia. ‘I desired her, sure, but not with the kind of reckless passion that makes other people lose their heads and, as much as that, I admired her. I still do, I guess. I like her quick wits and cool competence, and I respect everything she’s achieved. She worked hard and made a real success of her life. But love her?’
Lifting his eyes to Imogen’s face, he shook his head. ‘No,’ he answered his own question. ‘No, I didn’t.’
She looked appalled, as if he had kicked away one of the cornerstones of her world, and Tom felt a twinge of remorse, which was ridiculous. ‘What?’ he said harshly. ‘You don’t really believe that you have to be in love to get married, do you?’
‘But…did Julia know you felt like that
?’
‘Of course she did. We talked about it when we got engaged, and she said that she felt the same. That’s why I was so thrown when she made such a fuss about the wedding.’
Imogen was frowning in bafflement. ‘But why get married unless you did love each other? It seems pointless.’
‘You don’t think it’s possible to build a solid marriage based on mutual respect and admiration, and a healthy physical attraction?’
‘Maybe, but why would you want to?’ she countered. ‘I’ll only get married if I can find someone who makes me feel the way Andrew did. I want to marry someone I need and who needs me, someone who doesn’t think of marriage as a practical arrangement but about being with the one person who fills up all the bits that are missing, who believes that neither of us are complete somehow unless we’re together.’
Tom looked uncomprehending, and she tried to explain. ‘What’s the point of getting married unless you’ve found the person who makes your heart beat faster, who makes the sun seem brighter, who makes every moment sweeter just by existing? I want to go home at night and be with the one person who can make the rest of the world go away,’ she said, ‘the one person who, no matter how bad things are, can make it all right just by being there.’
‘But that’s exactly what I don’t want,’ said Tom, unimpressed. ‘I don’t want to need anyone else.’
‘You don’t want to fall in love?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Tom was very definite. ‘I’ve never felt what you felt for Andrew, and I’m glad. You’ve wasted five years of your life on him, Imogen. Five years! Think of all the things you could have been doing in those five years instead of yearning for the impossible. And knowing what it’s like to lose someone you’ve loved, you’re still prepared to risk all that again!’
He shook his head. ‘I’d rather have the kind of relationship I had with Julia,’ he said. ‘True, it ended in humiliation for me, and I can’t say I’m happy about it, but my pride is hurt more than my heart. It seems to me that when you fall in love, you lose your senses,’ he said. ‘You stop thinking clearly. You lose control.’
And that was something Tom Maddison never did.
‘Yes, it can make you feel powerless,’ Imogen had to admit, remembering how little she had been able to do to make Andrew change his mind. ‘You can’t make someone love you, that’s for sure. But it can also make you feel as if you can do anything, and that’s always going to be worth the risk.’
‘It’s not one I’ll be taking,’ said Tom flatly.
Imogen studied him, mystified. He was a powerful man, much stronger than anyone else she had ever met.
And yet he was afraid of love.
Or was he just afraid of admitting how much he had felt for Julia?
‘Well, I’m glad you’re OK,’ she said at last. ‘I thought you must be feeling desperate.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Tom. ‘My ego is massively bruised, but I’ve got three weeks to recover. I don’t think I’ll need to take to my bed.’
‘Talking of beds…’ Imogen hesitated. ‘I was thinking I should sleep on one of the couches, and give you the bed.’
‘Absolutely not. You’re to have the bed.’
‘But you’re much taller than me,’ she protested. ‘You’d be much more comfortable in the bed. There are plenty of places I can sleep.’
‘I’m not going to be comfortable, knowing that you’re stuck on one of those couches, am I?’
‘The same goes for me,’ she pointed out.
‘In that case, the only answer is for us to share the bed.’ Tom raised a brow. ‘Are you ready to be that good friends?’
No, she wasn’t, but it was alarming how ready she was to imagine what it would be like, disturbing how easily she could picture sleeping in the big, beautiful bed with Tom beside her. There would be plenty of room for both of them, but nothing to stop her rolling over in the night and finding herself lying against his lean, hard body.
Nothing to stop her snuggling into his back and sliding an arm over him.
And if she did that, what would Tom do? Would he turn over to face her? Would he pull her closer and explore the curves and contours of her body with those strong, sure hands? Would his lips nuzzle her throat before drifting downwards?
Imogen gulped and jammed the brakes on an imagination that was spinning dangerously out of control.
‘I think that really would be uncomfortable,’ she said with a nervous smile.
‘Quite.’ Tom’s voice was very dry and, when the cool grey eyes looked into hers, Imogen was suddenly convinced that he could see right into her mind.
Clumsily, she pushed back her chair, just in case he really had developed an uncanny ability to read her thoughts.
‘Well, I think I’ll go to bed.’ Was that really her voice? Since when had she taken to squeaking?
‘It’s been a long day,’ Tom agreed, getting to his feet as well.
Imogen stood there, not knowing what to do with her hands and not quite sure how to get out of the room. She wouldn’t think twice about hugging a friend goodnight.
Tom wasn’t an ordinary friend.
But unless she could treat him as one, their conversation tonight would have been a complete waste of time.
Don’t be so silly, Imogen scolded herself. They had laughed together. They had talked perfectly easily. Everything had been fine until she’d started thinking about the bed. That had been stupid. The last thing she wanted was to start feeling tense around him again.
So she put on a bright smile and went round the table towards him.
‘Goodnight, Tom,’ she said, opening her arms.
It was obvious that he wasn’t expecting her to hug him. Taken by surprise, he stood rigidly as she pressed her cheek against his, and it was a moment before his arms closed awkwardly around her.
Anyone would think he had never hugged a woman before.
As Imogen stepped back, Tom found his voice at last. ‘Goodnight,’ he said gruffly.
‘Well…’ Her smile almost faltered but she pinned it back into place. ‘See you in the morning, then.’ She turned for the bedroom. ‘Sleep well.’
Oh, yes, sure he’d sleep well! Easy for Imogen to say, thought Tom as he tried to make himself comfortable on the long sofa. She didn’t have to lie in the dark, remembering the feel of her body pressed against him, the feel of her arms around him.
He had been shockingly aware of her softness, of the smoothness of her cheek. The smell of her shampoo and the clean, fresh scent of her skin had struck him like a blow, and when he had recovered enough to respond to her gesture, his hand had rested on the small of her back, and he had felt the soft cotton of her dress shift and slip over her body.
Tom’s mouth dried at the memory, and he turned restlessly on the cushions. He should be thinking about Julia. This should have been his wedding night, after all.
He tried to recall the sick churn of rage and humiliation when he had to tell those people Imogen hadn’t managed to warn that the wedding was off. He had loathed seeing the sympathy in their eyes, hated knowing that they saw him now as the one who had lost, the one who couldn’t make it work, the one they could all feel sorry for. But now, listening to the shrill of the insects in the tropical night and the distant boom of the ocean on the reef, none of it seemed to matter quite so much.
Tom was glad that he hadn’t loved Julia the way Imogen had thought he should. If he had, he would be lying here in the dark, longing for her, raging against Patrick, who had strolled in at the last minute and thrown all his careful plans into confusion.
Instead of which, he was remembering how Imogen had looked before she grabbed that towel. He was thinking about Imogen alone in that big bed, and wondering what it would be like to lose himself in that lush, lovely body.
Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing.
Imogen…Who would have thought she could look like that? So warm, so soft, so disturbingly, unexpectedly desirable?
Tom punched th
e cushion beneath his head a few times and tried lying down again. The friends thing had seemed a good idea at the time, but he had a nasty feeling it wasn’t going to be that easy in practice.
Especially not if she was going to keep hugging him like that.
Imogen was his PA, for God’s sake, he reminded himself savagely. He had barely noticed her before, and now was not the time to start. He didn’t want to spend the next three weeks not thinking about her skin, about the curve of her breasts, the silky tumble of her hair, the way her blue eyes reflected the sunshine…
The cushion took another pummelling.
Friends, that was all she had suggested. A friend wouldn’t be thinking about that glorious body. A friend wouldn’t be fantasising about unzipping that dress, letting it fall in a pool to the floor so that he could explore every inch of that warm, creamy skin.
A friend would remember that she was still more than half in love with her college sweetheart. He would know that she had been hurt and that the last thing she needed was her boss lusting after her body.
No, friends were just…friendly. Friendly was all he could be.
Imogen woke slowly. For a long while she just lay there without thinking, simply savouring the comfort of the bed and the delicious awareness of sunlight striping across her eyelids.
When she opened her eyes at last, the first thing she saw was a huge wooden ceiling fan, turning lazily in the turgid air. At the window, wooden blinds let in bright slivers of light and, as her ears became attuned, she could hear a bird squawking somewhere and the indistinct murmur of the ocean.
In spite of the fan, it was already hot and Imogen stretched luxuriously, filled with a sense of well-being. It wasn’t every day you woke up in paradise.
What was she doing in paradise?
Imogen sat bolt upright as she remembered, and she grabbed her watch from the bedside table. It was almost ten o’clock.
Throwing back the sheet, she wrapped a sarong around her and padded into the living area.
