by Penny Henry
"Hell! Have you seen the time?" He strode to the CD player, ejected the disk and fumbled it back into its case.
Imogen had sat patiently watching the pantomime unfold. She was dumbstruck by Gable's rejection of her sexual advances. She was about to be thrown out!
"I’m really sorry, Imogen. I hate to be rude but you know what it’s like. I've got an early start. I need to look my best and Roger will—“
"Don't bother to explain," she snapped. "I can take a hint." She scrambled up from the couch. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your beauty sleep."
Gable walked over and grabbed her hands. He seemed to have regained his composure since Imogen’s sexual overtures. He gazed adoringly into her eyes. "Please, Imogen, I really am sorry about this. I'll make it up to you. I promise I will. I... I just don’t want to disappoint you”
It didn’t make a lot of sense. Then she considered that maybe he had his reasons. She softened her stiff pose and managed a smile. "Don’t think I won’t hold you to that, Gable Winter." she warned. She freed her hands and bent to pick up the tray of coffee remnants, turning her steps towards the kitchen. "Here, I'll give you a hand to clear up."
"You sure you're gonna be safe with that?"
"Ha, Ha," she threw back as she negotiated the short passage to the kitchen. She couldn't resist a peek inside the main bedroom as she passed the open door. It was pretty much what she expected. A large untidy bed jutted from one wall with the usual chest of drawers, bedside-cabinets complete with reading lamps and digital alarm clock and, surprise, a high-tech multi-gym. She couldn't help wonder if the fitness equipment was another of Gable's improvements to Roger's lifestyle. Probably Gable used the multi-gym more than his studious brother ever did. It would sure explain how Gable maintained his athletic build and impressive condition. No doubt there was a matching six-pack concealed beneath his shirt. That remained to be seen. She thought she saw a laptop lying on the bed but didn’t want to appear too nosy. She walked to the kitchen to deposit the tray next to the dishwasher. That was as much as Imogen was prepared to contribute towards Gable's tidying up process. She didn’t want to appear too domesticated.
She walked briskly to the lounge to find Gable waiting to escort her to the door. She was still a little disconcerted by what she considered a premature end to the evening - even if time had wound on to the wee small hours. She could trace the rupture in the relationship to her impulsive reaction to the impressive bulge in his jeans. There was something that he wasn't telling her. Could it be possible that Gable had suffered a similar heartbreak to her distant break-up with Karl? It would go a long way to explaining his sudden appearance at his brother's apartment and his reaction to her soft embrace. Imogen's imagination took over. Gable was a wounded animal. He had been sorely hurt. He had dragged his damaged heart to a place of refuge. And it would be a place where he could tend to his wounds and allow the pain to pass. Where would be safer than the secluded penthouse of his geeky twin brother? Perhaps Imogen would be the one to heal Gable's wounds and finally lay Karl Wainscott ghost to rest.
"I’m sorry to cut the night short," Gable apologized again. He took her into the lobby and held back the fire door, instantly dashing Imogen's romantic reverie. "You know how it is."
No, Imogen didn't know how it was. She managed to mute her reply to a civilized, "I understand, Gable."
Gable ushered her through the fire door. "I will make it up to you, Imogen, I promise."
His wide-eyed look carried a plea that Imogen didn’t understand. It was almost as if his plans had backfired and he needed time to rethink his strategy. He had had been shaken by Imogen's bold approach. Maybe next time he would be better prepared. Imogen had found his reaction hard to take. It didn’t go with the picture of a sophisticated jet-setting model.
"I'll look forward to it. I'm not used to being dumped."
Gable blushed furiously. "That is the last thing I would ever want you to think. Please don't think that, Imogen."
The words were uttered in such earnest that Imogen immediately felt guilty for baiting him. She attempted to lighten the mood. "Important shoot tomorrow then, is it?" It was the best she could come up with.
"It’s something like that." He was suddenly distant again and unwilling to reveal the details of his life.
Imogen decided there was nothing to be gained by prolonging the stilted conversation. “Goodnight, Gable." There was not going to be a farewell kiss. Gable was already closing the door. It was time for Imogen to admit defeat.
"Goodnight, Imogen. I'll be in touch."
Imogen fished her apartment key from her hip pocket and fumbled with the lock to her apartment. She turned over Gable's farewell words in her mind. How many times had that famous cliché been heard in the history of human relationships? She was not about to fall into the trap of waiting for a knock that never came. She could recognize a brush-off when she saw one. The man was infuriating. She walked through the darkened lounge and found the light switch to the kitchen passage by touch. She took a minute to check the coffee stain on the kitchen carpet and was pleasantly surprised to find that it had virtually disappeared. Between them they had done a good job. The random thought irritated her. She had been receiving confused signals all night. There was an undoubted chemistry between them and he had seemed sincere right until the time she had got physical. She was pretty sure he wasn't gay. So what was his problem? She wandered to her bedroom, spent a minute taking off her make-up and pulled her top over her head. She wasn’t about to put herself in the position of doing all the chasing. She was still an old fashioned girl at heart. She had sat on her bed to remove her jeans when she remembered her purse.
If she ran back up the stairs he would still be awake. She tugged the top back over her head and dashed from her bedroom. Where had she put her key? She found it on the hall table and pulled the door behind her as she headed for the penthouse. She arrived breathless at the inner door to Gable's apartment and even above her heavy breathing thought she could hear the faint rush of the shower. The fantasy of Gable in a towel added urgency to her sharp knock on the dividing door. He would guess that it was Imogen and that she had forgotten something. She waited half a minute before she knocked again. She pressed her ear to the door and listened for the sound of approaching footsteps. The hollow sound of an empty apartment greeted her. There was no longer the sound of water running and she supposed it could have been her imagination. This time she held her breath as she listened. Either she was totally mistaken about the shower or Gable was ignoring her. She stepped away from the door and considered knocking again. Then she decided against it. If Gable wasn't man enough to come to the door she was not about to make a bigger fool of herself by waiting outside. She turned away and retraced the steps to her apartment. It was possible that Gable slept like a log. There was also the chance that he had popped out for a minute. But why would Gable leave his apartment at this time of night? She reached her apartment deliberately not thinking of the alternative explanations. She realized how tired she was and shrugged out of her clothes in seconds. Her bed had never seemed so inviting. She was mentally drained and unable to rationalize anymore. Imogen’s final waking minute was spent in wondering where Gable's brother had been all night. He kept odd hours for a bookworm.
Her first thought the following morning was that the alarm had been wrongly set. She had just closed her eyes. She focused on the bright digits through bleary eyes and hit the pause button. That gave her eight minutes to work out where she was, mull over her plans for the day and think about last night. It took Imogen fifteen seconds to gain her bearings and go over her schedule for the day. That left seven minutes and forty-five seconds to think about Gable. She closed her eyes and continued the dream that the alarm had interrupted. Her sleep had been dominated by striking blue eyes that took centre stage in her mind. Gable was an enigma that she had yet to unravel. The man he had shown her was in contradiction to the response she’d got from her basic urge to touch him. He ha
d the physical appearance of being what he said he was. His broad chest and muscular shoulders were the epitome of the male physique. Her sleepy thoughts strayed to the imagined feel of Gable's strong arms encircling her yielding body. She was sinking into her fantasy when the eight minutes expired. This time the alarm could not be ignored.
She rolled from her bed and walked to the bathroom, testing the water before she stepped under the shower spray. A quick inspection of her hand confirmed Gable's assessment that there would be no lasting damage. His prompt action and gentle ministrations had ensured that there was barely a mark on her satin-like skin. She was fully awake by the time she had briskly toweled herself and wrapped her tingling body in the folds of her robe. The absence of the coffee jug in the kitchen prompted her to fill the kettle and put it on to boil. She would nip out during the day to buy a new jug and replenish her depleted coffee. Imogen was into her daily routine. She popped in a couple of slices of bread to toast and wandered through to the lounge to tidy up before the kettle boiled and the toast was browned. She carried her tea and buttered toast to the bedroom to continue the morning pattern. Her long black tresses were blow-dried and her breakfast neatly consumed before Imogen applied her make-up and chosen an outfit. She was in the office all day. The light grey business suit worn with a mint green top would have to do. She hadn’t had time to pick something out last night. She added a delicate gold bracelet and her work watch before carrying her empty dishes to the kitchen and racking them in the dishwasher. The work she had done the previous evening was already packed and waiting on the table in the lounge. At precisely eight o'clock Imogen was ready to leave, stepping through her apartment door according to schedule.
The indicator light showed the elevator at the penthouse level. Imogen steeled herself, took a deep breath and pressed the call button. She released her captured breath in a controlled sigh of relief. Fate had spared her an early reunion with Gable. Standing nervously on one leg in a corner of the elevator was a disheveled Roger. Someone had fixed the light and he was battling to control the array of files and cases spilling from his arms and supporting the awkward load on a raised knee. Imogen suppressed a giggle. It was difficult not to feel sympathy for his predicament. He was a tall man - as tall as his brother, but it was manner in which he presented himself that shrank him in her eyes. His brown cord trousers were creased and shiny at the knees. The checked jacket with half turned up collar had seen better days, and his tie was twisted halfway round his throat. Roger looked a man in desperate need of a good woman. The raincoat draped over his arm was giving him trouble and the whole precarious load looked to be in imminent danger of collapse.
"Good morning, Roger." Imogen greeted him cautiously; fearful that a wrong word could be the well-intended yell that started the avalanche.
Roger blushed at the sound of her voice and looked quickly in her direction and back again to the task in hand. "G… Good morning." His thick glasses were perched on the bridge of a perfectly straight nose and pale blue eyes flickered beneath a mop of sandy hair.
He didn't go so far as to speak her name. Though, Imogen presumed that Gable would have mentioned his encounter with their nearest neighbor. The presence of his brother in the penthouse looked to have upset Roger's routine. Their paths rarely crossed in the morning. Then she remembered that Roger had not come home while she had been in the apartment. It had been well after midnight when she’d left. He had apparently been employed in the mysterious world of book finders until the early hours of the morning. He had barely had time for a wink of sleep.
"Would you like a hand?"
"No… no… No thank you. I… I'm fine."
The shock of her harmless offer seemed to throw Roger into disarray. His balance collapsed, sending his cases clattering to the floor and papers flying everywhere.
"Oops," Imogen blurted out before raising a hand to smother her inappropriate amusement. Roger shot her a damning look over the top of his glasses and their eyes locked for an instant. Imogen felt her stomach flip. The pale blue eyes that returned her gaze stirred the inner woman to an appreciative awakening. His eyes were crystal clear and filled with warmth that Imogen did not expect to find behind the thick lenses. They were unlike Gable’s piercing blue eyes. They were the compelling eyes of the woman in the photograph. Roger jerked his head round and crouched to gather up his files and folders. All that Imogen could recognize was indecipherable columns of figures and calculations that looked at odds with what she expected from a bookworm.
"Is there anything I can do help?" she offered as an apology for disturbing Roger's concentration. She imagined he regarded it unfortunate to have chosen this particular day to vary his routine. They usually managed to avoid each other in the morning. His car was long gone by the time she normally walked into the underground car park. Occasionally their schedules would clash in the evening and they would exchange an awkward smile. Her original cheery 'hellos' had appeared to embarrass him and she now contained herself to a smile. In fact, she had never clearly seen his face. He was more often than not concealed behind armfuls of paperwork and his black-framed glasses.
"No… no… please. I can manage." This time he did not look up but busied himself shuffling his paperwork into a semblance of order.
The elevator bumped to a gentle halt and the doors slid open. Imogen swallowed her guilt. She had offered, but her help was obviously not wanted.
"I'll leave you to it then." She stepped carefully over some stray sheets of closely-typed paper and neatly exited the elevator. "Bye."
"Good… Goodbye," muttered Roger to the floor.
Imogen walked into the car park, listening to the doors hiss shut and send Roger on an unexpected return trip to another floor. She winced at the unfortunate start to his day and strode to her car. She had settled into the silver automobile, started the engine and had reached the automatic barrier to the private car park before she caught Roger emerging from the elevator in her rear-view mirror. Have a nice day, she thought, before coaxing the engine into a surge that would carry her into the morning traffic. The time was eight-ten exactly and Imogen was on schedule.
At eight thirty-five Imogen nosed the motor into the car park behind Sblig Records. By eight-forty she was striding through the outer office. Music videos were already playing in the polished chrome and leather surrounds of the reception area and a tee-shirt wearing receptionist beamed a welcome.
Imogen returned her smile and carried on through to the general office. She strode by Connie's desk on the way to her private office.
"Good morning, Connie,"
"Good morning, Imogen. There's someone—" Connie almost managed a warning as she lifted her eyes from the stack of mail she was sorting.
Too late. Imogen had stepped into her office, shrugged off her jacket and was reaching to hang it from the peg before she sensed the burning eyes on her well-rounded curves.
"Good morning, Imogen." John Lomax's oily voice seeped into Imogen's ears and caused an imperceptible shudder to travel the length of her spine.
Chapter Five
Lomax had been seated in the swivel armchair in front of Imogen's desk and silently spun to observe her stretching to hang her coat, the inevitable cigarette dangling from his yellowed fingers. At least he’d had the good grace not to light it. "Hello, John. Make yourself at home, why don't you." Her greeting was sarcastic and enforced by the look of contempt that blazed from her eyes.
"I knew you wouldn't mind
"Actually, I do," she snapped, stalking round her desk acutely conscious of the way her tight sleeveless top accentuated her bosom. She would feel less exposed behind the barrier of her desk. "I like a few minutes to myself before I start my appointments. Didn't you get my e-mail?" She eyed the gaunt tour manager coldly, studying his nervous features. The unlighted cigarette was twirling in his fingers.
"Don't be like that, Imogen, we go back a long way" he whined. "And yes, I did get your e-mail. It's all under control." He grinned cockily, his
ferret-like eyes sneaking from the smooth skin of her bare arms to dwell on the swell of her breasts. "You and me are old friends," he grated out. It was a time-worn reference to the mammoth drinking sessions they had both been a part of in her wilder days.
"Not that old, John. Time has moved on since those days. I've moved on. What do you want?" She was never comfortable in John's company. He played on a bygone era, dredging up memories she would sooner forget. He conveniently forgot his own ignoble fall from the spotlight and the public humiliation of his drug shame. John relied on the protection of his special relationship with Rose. One of these days John was going to overstep the mark and Imogen would be waiting. As it was he was hanging onto his job by the good grace of Rose's pity rather than by any residual emotion from their long dead affair.
"I just thought I'd drop by to say hello. Karl and the band have a radio interview this morning. They flew down from Manchester last night and I'm on my way to pick them up from the hotel. You haven't forgotten they're in town this week, have you?"
Imogen hadn't forgotten, but she would admit to having pushed the unpalatable fact to the back of her mind. She knew she had to face Karl sooner or later. But it presented a perfect opportunity to berate the slimy Lomax. "You mean you left them on their own all night?"
