by Lucy King
Catching the flicker of pleading in her eyes, he ignored the voice inside his head demanding to know what made him think he could help when he didn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body. Whatever was going on, Imogen clearly needed him to be attentive, so attentive he’d be.
After all, he reflected, belatedly gathering his scattered wits and switching to Besotted Lover mode, he’d planned on being extremely attentive to Imogen this evening and he’d envisaged having to put in a lot more groundwork. If circumstances expedited matters he’d be a fool not to take advantage of them.
Wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him, he smiled down into her eyes and murmured, ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t?’
He felt her relax. Saw the clouds drift from her eyes, the trouble gradually fade, and as heat and desire crept in to take its place all he could think about was how much fun getting Imogen to unravel in his arms was going to be.
‘I wasn’t sure.’
‘Such little faith.’
‘Forgive me?’
Right now, with her voice all soft and breathy and her body moulded to his, he thought he’d probably forgive her anything. Faintly disconcerted by the thought, Jack released his grip on her slightly and dragged his gaze from hers to cast a quick glance at the couple she was with. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, darling?’
Imogen blinked. ‘What? Oh. Yes. Of course. Jack, this is Max Llewellyn.’ Her smile faltered and it made Jack wonder if friends was quite the word. ‘And Connie Nicholson.’
‘Jack Taylor,’ he said, nodding briefly and shaking their hands in turn.
Something about Max made his hackles shoot up. Made him take an instant dislike to the man even though he couldn’t for the life of him work out why. Maybe it was the fact that he was altogether too smooth. His teeth were too white, his hair too perfectly coiffured, his nails too manicured.
‘Max and Connie are engaged,’ Imogen said with a tightness that confirmed his earlier suspicion that whatever the three of them were they weren’t friends.
‘Congratulations,’ said Jack.
‘Thanks,’ said Connie, her wide smile fading as she shot a quick glance at Imogen, whose own smile was now so brittle it looked as if it might be about to shatter.
An awkward kind of lull fell, during which no one apart from Jack looked at anyone else. As long seconds passed, the strained silence worsened and he sensed Imogen’s anxiety grow.
Deciding that, as fascinating as the dynamics of this group were, someone needed to do something to ease the situation, Jack was just about to lob in a polite but inane comment about the weather when Imogen pulled herself together and did the job for him.
‘Well, isn’t this nice?’ she said brightly.
‘Delightful,’ Jack murmured, thinking nice was not the word.
‘I must say,’ said Connie enthusiastically, clearly overcompensating for the palpable tension vibrating around their little group, ‘your events department has done an excellent job.’
He followed her gaze as it skipped around the tastefully lavish Valentine’s Day decorations that adorned both the lobby and, from what he could see through the giant half-open doors, the ballroom.
‘And so it should have with tickets costing four figures each.’ Imogen let out a laugh that sounded high and false, and, to his ears, verged on hysterical. ‘You see the rose petals?’ she said, waving a hand in the direction of the petal-strewn floor. ‘Damask. Flown in from Morocco, would you believe? All two hundred thousand of them. And the candles? Bought from the same people that supply Westminster Abbey. And let’s not forget the casino. I understand the croupiers have been specially brought in from Monte Carlo. You must try it later. There’s roulette, not of the Russian kind, luckily, ha-ha-ha.’
‘Are you a gambling man?’ Jack said, cutting into Imogen’s rapidly spiralling-out-of-control rambling, not because he was the slightest bit interested in Max’s gambling habits, but because he thought she might thank him later.
‘No.’ Max laughed and Jack inwardly winced. The man sounded like a horse neighing. ‘Far too risky. Modern art’s more my thing.’
Idiot. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. In fact, I recently picked something new up.’ He waited, evidently expecting to be asked all about it, and when no one did, went on, ‘Well, when I say I, I mean I instructed my man to buy it on my behalf, of course, haw-haw-haw. Very exclusive. Very exciting.’
‘I’m sure,’ Jack muttered, fervently hoping that whatever Imogen’s relationship was with this pompous prat, it wasn’t close.
‘Cost me a bomb, naturally, but I always think you can never put a price on truly great art, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Connie, loyally picking up the conversational thread. ‘Apparently, it’s supposed to represent man’s fight against the injustice of capitalism, but personally I can’t see it. I just like the colours.’
Jack stilled as a horrible thought darted across his mind. No. It couldn’t be …
But with the way Imogen was tensing at his side, apparently it just possibly could. He glanced down at her to find out if she’d come to the same conclusion he had and at the same time she turned her head to look up at him.
Their eyes met. And locked. He saw a flash of amused horror sparkle in the brown depths. Felt a corresponding smile tug at his lips, and for one heady moment everything receded. The brightly coloured mass of people gathered around them … The low hum of conversation … The crackling and spitting of the fire … The gentle clink of glasses and the fizz of champagne … It all faded away until the only two things he was aware of were Imogen’s warm, soft and pliant body clamped to his side and the growing sense of need clawing at his gut.
‘Well, that’s always important,’ Jack murmured, his voice sounding strangely hoarse as desire began to hammer through him.
‘And I’m sure it’ll make a great investment,’ said Imogen, nodding gravely, her eyes still glued to his.
‘So they tell me,’ brayed Max from somewhere that sounded miles away.
And quite suddenly Jack had had quite enough of Max and Connie and this excruciating conversation. And quite enough of sharing Imogen with them. With anyone, for that matter.
His pulse was racing and his mouth was dry. He’d come here with one purpose in mind, and his hard, aching body was telling him to get on with it. He’d come to her aid. Now it was time she repaid the favour.
‘Darling,’ he murmured, heat whipping through him so fiercely his body pounded with the force of it, ‘I think we should circulate, don’t you?’
His hand tightened around her waist, bringing her in closer contact with his hard, aroused lower body and she blinked, her eyes darkening and her breath catching.
‘What?’ she breathed. ‘Oh, yes. You’re right. Absolutely right. Circulate. Good idea.’ She flashed Max and Connie a bright smile and raised her hand in a jaunty wave. ‘Well, we must be off. So lovely to see you both. Toodle pip.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
TOODLE pip? Toodle pip?
Oh, good Lord.
Still clamped to Jack’s side as he whisked her out of the lobby, around the corner and along a corridor, Imogen stifled a wince and wished she could go back and redo that conversation with the cool, collected poise she’d intended.
How could she have crumbled quite so hideously? How could she have forgotten every word of those pep talks? And how could she have behaved so recklessly?
As she sneaked a glance at Jack and the stern set of his face, her body buzzed with a mind-altering combination of adrenalin, desire and wariness. What must he be thinking?
When he’d first materialised, she’d thought she must have conjured him up. Because having exchanged a series of stilted ‘how are you?’s and ‘what have you been up to lately?’s with her bêtes noires, she’d been racking her brain for some way out of the desperately awkward situation she’d found herself in
and had come up with nothing that would allow her to extricate herself with any kind of dignity.
And then there he’d been, all dark and gorgeous and gazing down at her with that mesmerising look of concern on his face, and with barely a thought for the consequences, and because it had struck her that Jack outclassed Max in every way, she’d decided to use him. Quite shamelessly.
Not that he’d seemed to mind. After what must have been considerable initial surprise Jack had thrown himself into the role of besotted lover with admirable aplomb, and if she hadn’t known better she’d have been totally convinced.
Of course, unlike herself, he’d merely been putting on a performance, and it was little wonder he’d borne her off. After the way she’d been gabbling on about the decorations like an interior designer on acid, on top of everything she’d done on Tuesday night, he must think her completely nuts. In fact, he was probably removing her for her own safety.
But where were they going? she wondered as alarm began to trickle through the adrenalin, the desire and the wariness. Wanting to give her time to collect herself in private was one thing, but he’d better not be planning to stash her in a cupboard or something. She had a speech to give.
Just as she was toying with the idea of wrenching herself from the tight embrace of his arm and legging it, Jack drew to a halt at the far end of the corridor. He set her against the wall and, shoving his hands in his pockets, took a step back. His deep blue gaze fixed on hers, pinned her there and in the silence that ensued all she could hear was the rapid thump of her heart.
Dimly aware that the guests were far away and that the corridor was dusky and completely deserted, she realised that they were completely alone and Jack wasn’t nearly as relaxed as she’d imagined. And her heart beat even faster.
‘So, darling,’ he said, leaning in a fraction and apparently stealing all her oxygen, ‘what exactly was that all about?’
At the low seductive tone of his voice and the glitter in his eyes, her mouth went dry. Resisting the urge to run her tongue along her lips, Imogen swallowed. ‘Would you believe me if I said I behaved like that with every man I’m pleased to see?’
‘No.’
‘I didn’t think so.’ She sighed and bit her lip as shame, which had been an embarrassingly long time coming, struck her square in the chest. ‘I’m sorry.’
Despite the tension in him one corner of his mouth hitched up. ‘Don’t be. I actually found the whole thing hugely entertaining.’
Imogen blinked in surprise and not a little pique. Entertaining? That was not what she’d been expecting. ‘I’m delighted you enjoyed the show,’ she said tartly.
Jack raised an eyebrow and grinned, then twisted round to lean one shoulder against the wall, far too close for her peace of mind. ‘You don’t really behave like that with every man you’re pleased to see, do you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good.’
‘I was just a little—ah—jumpy.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
She ignored that and sought refuge in manners. ‘Anyway, thank you for coming to my rescue.’
‘It was my pleasure. I’m glad I was able to help out. Why the jumpiness?’
Imogen tried come up with a suitable explanation but it was tough when she only had a variety of unsuitable ones to choose from.
She could attribute her nerves to the awkwardness that had hit her when she’d first laid eyes on Max and Connie. But that had disappeared the minute she’d seen Jack. From then on her jumpiness had been firstly down to the feel of his body against hers and the corresponding desire that had swept through her and wiped out every scrap of self-possession she had, and then the sense of connection she’d had when their eyes had met over the realisation that Max could well have bought Jack’s painting.
But as she had no intention of giving him the pleasure of knowing how jumpy he made her, she was going to have to explain about Max and Connie. Which wouldn’t exactly put her in a good light, but then given the nature of their acquaintance to date she doubted she could sink any lower in his estimation.
‘If you must know,’ she said, straightening her spine against the wall and ignoring the twinge she felt at the notion of sinking lower in his estimation, ‘I used to go out with Max.’
She turned her head in time to see Jack’s eyebrows shoot up and a flicker of something flare in the depths of his eyes. ‘I see.’
Hmm. Intriguing. What had that been? Disappointment? Anger? Jealousy? Imogen’s heart fluttered for a second and then she told herself not to be so absurd, because why would he be any of those things?
When he didn’t say anything else, she shifted round to face him and folded her arms across her chest. ‘What?’ she asked, jutting her chin up partly in response to the frown creasing his forehead and partly because she was annoyed with herself for actually wanting him to be jealous.
‘I must say I’m surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, for one thing, he has abysmal taste in art.’
At the memory of how dazed she’d felt when her gaze had locked with his and they’d just stared at each other while coming to the same conclusion her heart gave a little lurch. ‘Did he really buy your painting, do you think?’ she said.
Jack shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t propped against the wall. ‘I had a phone call from the gallery the morning after the show, and apparently someone bought it, so it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility.’
A tiny smile tugged at her lips. ‘Oh, dear, poor Max.’
From the way Jack grunted, she guessed he didn’t share the sentiment.
‘So what’s the other thing?’ she asked.
He arched one dark eyebrow. ‘What other thing?’
‘You said “for one thing”, which would imply there’s another.’
‘He’s a jerk.’
Imogen frowned, faintly put out that Jack had deduced in five minutes what it had taken her the last two months to figure out. ‘Well, yes, but he was my jerk. Now he’s Connie’s jerk and that hurts.’
‘Why? I’d have thought you’d be glad to be rid of him.’
‘Oh, I am. Now.’ She bit her lip. ‘But I wasn’t for a long time.’
‘What happened?’
Imogen sighed and decided that she had nothing to lose by telling him. ‘We went out together for about a year. I thought everything was going fabulously, until one weekend a couple of months ago when I got home from staying with my parents and found a note, telling me he was leaving me to shack up with Connie.’
His jaw tightened. ‘Like I said, he’s a jerk. And she’s not much better.’
‘She was my best friend. My best friend. How could she?’ Imogen frowned and shook her head at her own naiveté. ‘I thought I knew her inside out. We grew up together. Started at the same school on the same day. Hung out all the time in the holidays. That sort of thing. It’s the ultimate betrayal.’
‘It sounds like you’re more upset at the loss of a friend than a boyfriend.’
Imogen snapped her gaze up to find him looking at her thoughtfully. Maybe he had a point. Connie’s betrayal had cut far deeper than Max’s. ‘I’m upset full stop,’ she muttered, slightly thrown by the realisation.
Although actually she wasn’t all that upset, was she? At least not about the disgustingly happy couple. Not any more.
Now that she thought about it, over the last couple of days she’d been so caught up with thoughts of Jack and the way he made her feel that Max and Connie and their forthcoming nuptials had barely crossed her mind.
She cast her memory back to the traumatic afternoon she’d discovered they’d got engaged, and to her bewilderment she felt nothing. Not a pang, not a twinge, not an ache. Which was as unnerving as it was a relief.
‘Or at least I was,’ she added, thinking that since Jack had come to her rescue so splendidly and as it no longer appeared to hurt perhaps she owed him the rest as well. ‘The afternoon we met at the gallery when I was
a little, ah …’ She paused as she searched for any word that wouldn’t make her sound demented.
‘Unhinged?’
‘Vulnerable,’ she corrected, flashing a glare at him, ‘I’d just found out they’d got engaged.’
‘I see.’
‘And it kind of threw me.’
‘Well, that explains a lot,’ he said with a satisfied nod.
‘Don’t look so pleased with yourself,’ she said archly. ‘You didn’t exactly help.’
‘Oh?’
‘You reminded me of Max.’
Jack’s eyebrows shot up and then he scowled. ‘I’m nothing like Max.’
He looked so affronted she couldn’t hold back a smile. ‘Well, I realise that now, but I didn’t know that at the time, did I? All I could see then was that you were both good-looking, charming with a fine line in banter, and heartbreaking players.’
Jack flinched. ‘You jumped to an awful lot of conclusions.’
‘And you didn’t?’ she countered as she thought of the character flaws he’d flung at her.
He frowned. Tilted his head as he stared at her with such an intense expression on his face her stomach squeezed. ‘You’re right. I did. I’m sorry.’
Mollified, Imogen gazed up at him until something that had been niggling away at her ever since he’d pitched up at her side struck her again. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she said. ‘I don’t remember seeing your name on the original guest list.’
‘It wasn’t. My ticket was a last-minute thing.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to see you.’
His eyes darkened and the glint appeared. As the air seemed to thicken around them Imogen gulped, her heart rate rocketing.
‘What for?’ she said a little huskily. ‘You must think I’m insane.’
He pushed himself off the wall and turned so that he was standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off him. ‘I don’t think you’re anything of the sort.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’ He tilted his head and gave her a smile that frazzled her senses. ‘Would you like to know what I do think?’
She’d love to. ‘I’d be fascinated,’ she said evenly, trying not to sound too desperate.
