The Couple Behind the Headlines

by Lucy King

  So how could she refuse? With a fresh wave of the shame that was never far away washing over her, she couldn’t. It would be churlish and immature and she hoped she was neither.

  With a sigh she gave in. ‘I’m heading west.’

  ‘Great. So am I.’

  ‘Then jump in,’ she said, scooting across the leather to the far side of the taxi.

  As Jack climbed in, slammed the door shut behind him and threw himself onto the seat beside her, Imogen felt faintly foolish. What was there to worry about? It was a taxi ride and a short one at that. There were at least a couple of feet between them and absolutely no need to breach the distance. It would be fine.

  And it was until the taxi pulled away with a sharp swerve. Caught unawares, Imogen let out a gasp of shock as she was flung sideways and thrown against him. Her head banged against his shoulder and her hand landed on his upper thigh, perilously close to his groin. She felt him jolt. Heard him inhale sharply. And felt herself go beetroot as she peeled herself off him, muttered an apology and twisted back and away.

  ‘That’s the second time that’s happened this evening,’ said Jack, slanting her a glance, a grin playing at his lips as he shifted and started undoing the buttons of his coat. ‘If it wasn’t for that parting shot of yours earlier, I might be tempted to think you’re finding it hard to resist me.’

  Seriously, could today get any worse? Imogen inwardly wailed as mortification joined all the other emotions crashing around inside her. ‘You’re the one who followed me and wanted to share my taxi,’ she muttered, and then because she was in such mental disarray added, ‘and, you know, that could be construed as stalking.’

  At that, Jack tensed. The hands busy at the buttons of his coat stilled. With her heart beating a fraction faster, she met his suddenly chilly gaze and noticed an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw.

  ‘Stalking … devouring …’ he said in a dangerously low voice. ‘You want to watch where you throw those accusations, Imogen.’ Drawing the lapels of his coat apart, he tugged at the knot of his tie. He pulled it off, rolled it up and put it in his pocket, then undid the top button of his shirt.

  Ignoring the fact that he might have a point, Imogen bristled and told herself that staring at the wedge of flesh now exposed at the base of his neck wasn’t going to achieve anything. ‘And you ought to know that I don’t use the term lightly. I had a stalker a few years ago and he ended up in jail.’ The memory of the man who for six long months had followed her, sent her horrible emails and repeatedly ignored the restraining order imposed on him flashed into her head and she shuddered.

  He shot her a quick glance and the odd look in his eye made her pulse leap. ‘A stalker?’

  ‘A stalker.’

  ‘I guess that would explain your elbow in my stomach.’

  ‘Would it?’ she replied sweetly. Whatever that look had been it had better not have been pity. ‘Maybe I just don’t like you.’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, you do. You might not want to, but you do.’ And then his expression turned serious. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’

  She frowned and decided that getting into a no-I-don’t-yes-you-do kind of tussle about whether she liked him or not, which she didn’t of course, wasn’t going to get her anywhere. ‘You didn’t. You startled me. There’s a difference.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘As a matter of interest, where are you going?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Now, now, darling,’ he said with a grin. ‘You’re not being very friendly.’

  ‘You’ve practically hijacked my taxi. I’m not feeling very friendly.’

  Although to be honest she wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling. Edgy, definitely. Skin-pricklingly aware of every inch of him as he sat back and ran his hands through his hair. All weirdly quivery, too.

  Those ‘darlings’ had her wondering what it would be like to have him say them and mean them. They had her imagining him saying them in a whole load of other scenarios, all of which involved her naked and in his arms.

  How on earth did he do it? she wondered dazedly. Yes, he was extraordinarily good-looking and his body was something else, but she’d met loads of handsome well-packaged men over the years and none of them had made her go fluttery and molten and teenagery like this.

  All she wanted to do was clamber onto his lap, yank up his shirt and get her hands on him. While planting her mouth on his and kissing him as if her life depended on it. In fact it was taking every ounce of self-control she possessed not to slide across the leather and do precisely that.

  Even more confusing was how she could react to him like this when she knew who he was and what he was really like. It was perverse.

  But perhaps that was what chemistry was, she reflected, surreptitiously letting her eyes drift over him and almost scientifically noting her body’s inevitable response. A searing attraction that had no regard for logic or reason or circumstance.

  Well, that was fine, she told herself, sliding her gaze down over the powerful muscles of his thighs, remembering the feel of those muscles tensing beneath her hand and wishing she could just switch herself off. She might be as attracted to him as an iron filing to a magnet, but she was simply going to have to defy the laws of physics and resist. It was a question of control. That was all.

  ‘If you’re not feeling very friendly, why are you eyeing me up?’

  Jack’s voice jerked her out of her musings and Imogen felt her face blush a bright red. Thank goodness it was dark inside the taxi, she thought, and leaned forwards to lower the window a little. ‘No particular reason,’ she said and hoped she wouldn’t be struck down for the whopping lie. ‘I’m simply trying to work out what I’m—’ She stopped. Hmm. On reflection, ‘up against’, which was what she’d been about to say, didn’t seem all that prudent. ‘I’m simply trying to assess an adversary,’ she said instead.

  Jack’s eyebrows rose. ‘You see this as a battle?’

  Only an internal one, she thought darkly, pulling herself together and crossing her arms as if that might provide some kind of defence against his impact. And one she had to take control of. Now. Before the conversation headed down an avenue that led who knew where? ‘What do you want, Jack?’

  ‘What do you think I want?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said, lying for the second time in minutes.

  ‘I’d like an explanation.’

  ‘Oh? What for?’ As if she didn’t know.

  ‘All I did was ask you out for dinner.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, arching an eyebrow as she mentally revisited their conversation at the gallery. ‘It seemed to me like you were asking for a whole lot more than just dinner.’

  ‘Yes, well, it seemed to me that a whole lot more than just dinner was on offer.’

  Imogen let out a gasp and her jaw nearly hit the floor. For a second she just gaped at him, her mind reeling. ‘My God,’ she breathed, ‘you really are incredible.’

  ‘Now why doesn’t that sound like a compliment?’

  ‘Because it isn’t,’ she all but snapped, feeling her temper beginning to stir as much at her own hopelessness as his outrageousness, and banking it down.

  Jack shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘Imogen, Imogen, Imogen, what is your problem?’

  She wished he wouldn’t say her name like that. She’d never thought of it as a particularly sexy name, but on his lips it sounded like every wicked thought she’d ever had. ‘I don’t have a problem.’ Although actually, she did. Because the way she was actually enjoying this whole conversation was just plain odd. ‘Is it really so hard to believe that I just don’t want to have dinner—or anything else—with you?’

  He stared at her for a while, his expression utterly unfathomable, and then to her consternation a smile curved his mouth and his eyes took on a dangerous gleam. Achingly slowly, he began to run his gaze over her. Lingering on her face, then moving down, drifting over her
breasts, her waist, her hips and her legs, right down to her toes.

  Her body tingled, fizzed beneath the smouldering gaze, and the beat of something hot and achy thudded deep inside her. Helpless to do anything to stop him, Imogen watched him look, her heart pounding. As his gaze roamed back up her in the same languid way, flames of desire licked at her stomach and her bones melted. If it hadn’t been for the wool of her dress rubbing over her sensitised skin, she’d have thought he’d just stripped her naked and then set her on fire.

  ‘Frankly, yes,’ he murmured, and she bristled because the realisation that not even several layers of winter clothing could disguise the reaction of her body was frustrating in the extreme.

  ‘Well, believe it,’ she said sharply.

  He gave her a knowing smile. ‘You might not want dinner, but you definitely want me.’

  Imogen blinked as his words hit her brain and she yanked herself out of the rapidly unravelling sensual web he’d woven around her.

  There it was again, she thought, giving herself a mental slap. The rock-solid conviction of a man who thought he knew everything about everything. Including her. And, quite suddenly, instead of wanting to scoot across the leather and snuggle up to him, she wanted to smack him across the head.

  ‘In your dreams,’ she said, jutting her chin up to add strength to her words. But all that did was jerk his gaze down to her mouth, which instantly tingled.

  ‘You know I could prove you wrong, don’t you?’ he murmured.

  ‘You could try,’ she said, arching a challenging eyebrow. She did not want to know what his mouth would feel like on hers. Definitely not. She’d focus on the button beneath that wedge of chest instead. ‘But I wouldn’t fancy your chances of success.’

  ‘I would.’

  Barely able to believe his cheek, Imogen snapped her eyes to his face, all thoughts of focusing on his shirt button vanishing. It was the smile playing at his lips that did it. A knowing, confident smile that acted like a match tossed onto the smouldering embers of her indignation.

  Forget that he was probably right. This wasn’t about rightness. This was about him and those like him. Anger suddenly raced along her veins and her head went fuzzy with the intensity of everything she’d thought she’d packaged away but evidently hadn’t.

  But then, just as she was about to lean over, jab him in the chest as she told him exactly what she thought of him, something made her pause. Made her ask herself what losing her temper would get her. She’d already exhibited more emotional volatility in the last six hours than she had in her entire life, and a further display would simply reinforce the impression, on both herself and Jack, that she was seriously unstable. And recent events aside, she wasn’t. Much.

  Losing her temper now, getting all hot and fiery while he sat there as cool as an ice sculpture, would merely give Jack more ground. She’d be far better off staying calm and collected and in some sort of control.

  Closing her eyes, Imogen inhaled deeply and went to her happy place where the sun warmed her skin and Martinis flowed.

  How hard could it be?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NOW what was she doing?

  Jack frowned as he stared at Imogen, who was sitting with her head bent, pinching the bridge of her nose and muttering to herself.

  She really was peculiar. Intriguingly peculiar, but peculiar nonetheless. He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone so mercurial, who smouldered and sizzled one minute and bristled and bridled the next. No wonder he found himself caving in to the compulsion to needle her; her mood swings were enough to drive a man to drink.

  Was she meditating? Or mentally preparing herself for battle?

  Whatever it was, maybe he ought to cut his losses and leave her to it, because intentions were all very well, but forgetting about the frantic urge to run his hands over her curves when she was sitting a couple of feet away was proving harder than he’d anticipated. Especially now that, thanks to the taxi driver’s desire to get going, he knew what she felt like.

  But when she eventually opened her eyes and gave him a serene smile his senses tumbled into such chaos that any idea he’d had of cutting and leaving completely vanished.

  ‘You really want to know what my problem is?’ she said silkily.

  ‘I do,’ he said, vaguely wondering why he was so keen to know when every instinct was telling him it wasn’t going to be good.

  ‘Well, this is exactly it.’

  ‘Exactly what?’

  She gave him another beguiling smile and his stomach clenched. ‘There’s so much I barely know where to start.’

  ‘You could always try the beginning.’

  ‘You’re right. I could.’ She nodded and he had the unsettling feeling he’d just handed her a knife with which to eviscerate him. ‘OK, well, for a start you have a seriously over-inflated ego.’

  An over-inflated ego? Jack felt his eyebrows shoot up. Of all the accusations she could have hurled at him that was the most inapplicable. ‘What makes you think I have an over-inflated ego?’

  ‘Outside the realm of this evening’s conversation, you mean?’

  Now why did that sound as if she knew something he didn’t? Jack tilted his head as he regarded her, and racked his brains. ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not.’ If they had, he’d definitely have remembered. And come to think of it— ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, just lucky I guess.’

  ‘Ouch,’ he said, muttering and rubbing his chest. ‘Tell me, what precisely do you have against me? Or do you have it in for men in general?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said with a dazzling smile. ‘At the moment, just you.’

  ‘I’m flattered.’ He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘So?’

  Imogen arched an eyebrow. ‘Greatsexguaranteed?’

  ‘What?’ His jaw dropped and his pulse spiked. ‘Are you offering?’

  Her eyes flashed for a second and relief spun through him because all that cool detachment had been faintly disconcerting. ‘No, of course I’m not offering,’ she said witheringly. ‘I’m referring to the eBay incident.’

  Ah, that. Four years ago he’d prodded Luke into getting over the death of his first wife by entering into a bidding war over the woman who eventually became his second. Interesting how, of all the things Imogen could have started with, she’d chosen to focus on the user name he’d chosen in a moment of flippancy. Almost Freudian. ‘Oh, yes, I remember.’

  She sniffed. ‘An over-stated claim if ever I heard one.’

  Jack grinned, fascinated despite himself. ‘What makes you so sure?’

  He’d never received any criticism of his performance in bed and Imogen was just too easy to wind up. Steam was whooshing out of her ears and she was rolling her eyes.

  But that didn’t stop the blush creeping into her cheeks. Nor did it stop his gaze dipping to her mouth, where the tip of her tongue darted out to sweep along her lower lip.

  His body contracted with a sudden powerful wave of desire. The air inside the taxi thickened and vibrated with an almost tangible tension and a series of X-rated images slammed into his head. Of Imogen panting and writhing as he moved on top of her, with her, buried deep inside her. Having sex. Great sex.

  His head went fuzzy, his mouth went dry and his pulse thundered. The urge to haul her into his arms and set about making the fantasy a reality took him completely by surprise and he had to curl his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching for her.

  ‘Which only goes to prove my next point.’

  As the cool tone of her voice filtered into his head, Jack blinked and willed his pulse to slow down.

  Point? What point? He could barely remember his own name, let alone think about any point. He was rock hard and aching. He’d never felt such an overwhelming need to possess, such a primitive urge to claim. And it scared the living daylights out of him.

  Telling himself not to be absurd, that physical attraction—even when it involved s
omeone who had it in for him—was nothing to worry about, he cleared his throat. He ran his hands through his hair. Went to adjust the knot of his tie before remembering that he’d already removed it.

  ‘Which is?’ he said, eventually folding his arms across his chest and hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

  ‘I’ve heard that you’re arrogant and presumptuous.’

  What?

  Jack frowned as Imogen paused and raised her eyebrows, evidently waiting for some kind of response. What was she expecting him to do? Apologise? Deny it? Or confirm she was right?

  ‘Oh, please don’t hold back on my account,’ he said dryly, having no intention of doing any of that and deciding to see what else she threw at him before responding.

  She smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. ‘I wasn’t going to.’

  ‘Then do continue.’

  ‘I’ve also heard that you’re callous, cold and emotionally bankrupt.’

  Jack kept a neutral expression fixed to his face but behind it he was reeling. Forget knife in the singular. Imogen was attacking him with an entire kitchen drawer full of the things, and to his surprise her accusations stung.

  Being called arrogant and presumptuous he could just about deal with. There might even have been a smidgeon of truth in the charges, although he’d have preferred ‘confident’ and ‘spotting an opportunity and taking it’.

  But callous, cold and emotionally bankrupt? That was going too far. He wasn’t either callous or cold. And so what if he kept his emotions to himself? Not everyone liked flaunting them left, right and centre.

  ‘I didn’t realise dinner called for much emotional depth,’ he said, his voice not betraying a hint of what he was thinking.

  ‘I doubt anything you do calls for much emotional depth,’ she said with faint amusement that did nothing to soften what sounded rather like an insult.

  And where had she got this stuff from anyway? ‘You don’t even know me.’

  ‘I know men like you.’