The Couple Behind the Headlines

by Lucy King

  Jack grinned at the memory of the sexual gymnastics they’d practised, and headed to the bedroom. The whole night had switched between being intense, dark and explosive then light, teasing and fun. And he wanted more. A lot more.

  He paused mid-stride and frowned, his heart skipping a beat as alarm bells rang. More? Oka-a-ay. So that was new. It wasn’t that he chose to have one-night stands exactly. It was simply that that was how things generally turned out, which was fortunate as he liked variety.

  But there was no need to panic. Just because sex with Imogen had surpassed all his expectations—and he’d had a few—and just because it put pretty much every other sexual experience he’d ever had in the shade, it didn’t mean anything. It was the roller coaster of the build-up that had made it so explosive. That was all.

  Given that they’d put it off for so long wanting more was only natural, and, if he kept things strictly to sex, what was the problem with seeing her again? As far as he could work out there wasn’t one because he never did anything else. He certainly never combined sex with anything as messy as emotion. Quite apart from the fact that he didn’t do emotion, he never made—nor would make—the mistake of thinking that sex ever meant anything other than the mutual satisfaction of completely natural needs.

  So it—he—would be fine.

  Satisfied that he’d got things clear in his head, Jack switched his attention to the sound of running water coming from his bathroom.

  At the thought of Imogen in the shower hot and wet and covered with bubbles his body instantly hardened. He stripped off his jumper and jeans, then plucked a condom off the bedside table, tore open the packet and, gritting his teeth against the exquisite agony, sheathed himself.

  As desire whipped around inside him, he walked into the bathroom. Steam billowed around the marble surfaces and curled off the limestone-tiled walls, and a fine film of sweat coated his skin.

  The outline of Imogen’s body was just about visible through the foggy glass. She had her back to him and her arms were raised, her hands in her hair, and the intensity of what he wanted to do to her slammed into his head and made his heart thunder.

  Oh, he wanted more. Much more.

  Opening the door, Jack stepped in and flinched as needles of hot water pounded his skin. Blinking the water out of his eyes, and mindful of what had happened the last time he’d startled her—and how much more damage she could inflict this time—he lifted his hands and wrapped them round her wrists.

  Imogen froze then jumped. She let out a gasp and made a move to turn but he held her where she was and pulled her back against him. He felt her shiver. Heard her murmur, ‘I thought I warned you not to startle me.’

  ‘Why do you think I have my hands on your wrists?’

  ‘Restraint, Jack?’

  ‘Not my kind of thing.’

  ‘Then let me go.’ She squirmed against him, but not in an effort to get free, and it sent need shooting through him.

  ‘In a minute,’ he said. ‘I think I could be changing my mind.’

  He inched her forwards and pressed her hands up against the cool limestone tiles that lined the wall of the shower.

  ‘I thought that was supposed to be my prerogative,’ she said, her voice laced with such hoarse desperation that it did dangerous things to his self-control.

  ‘You can stop me any time you like,’ he muttered, thinking that nobility was all very well, but if she did stop him he might expire.

  So just in case she was tempted to think along those lines, he slowly slid his hands down her arms, then round to cup her breasts. Her head dropped back against his shoulder, and when his mouth came down on the pulse throbbing at the base of her neck, he felt her shudder.

  ‘Now why would I want to do a thing like that?’ she mumbled and arched her back to push her breasts harder into his hands.

  He brushed his thumbs over her nipples and closed his eyes against the warm water sluicing relentlessly over them, then trailed one hand lower, slowly stroking over her ribcage, the slight curve of her abdomen, down to the centre of her.

  She moaned low in her throat when he slid his fingers into her, and she ground her bottom into his pelvis. He heard her breathing shallow. Felt her shake. And unable to take the burning pressure growing inside him any longer, he backed up a little, bent her forwards, and, gripping her hips, drove into her.

  ‘So, any excitements while I was gone?’ asked Jack, quite a while later.

  Imogen watched him move around the kitchen, switching on the kettle and rummaging around in a cupboard for the coffee grounds with impressive efficiency, and frowned as she contemplated his question.

  Any excitements other than the fact that at some point during the ten minutes he’d been out she’d clearly lost her mind? Because that surely was the only explanation for her complete inability to resist him.

  There she’d been, in that shower, determinedly not thinking about what Jack might be up to later and telling herself she’d be calling a taxi the instant he returned with her stole, when he’d materialised behind her.

  Seconds later she’d been lost. With the feel of his hard body enveloping her, his voice reaching right down inside her and winding round her nerves, and the erection hot and hard and pressing into her bottom, she’d folded like a pyramid of cards in a breath of wind.

  And now look where she was. Perched on a bar stool in his kitchen and leaning against the counter, wearing nothing but one of his shirts and her knickers, her stomach rumbling at the prospect of breakfast.

  Which so hadn’t been the plan.

  Wishing her resistance were stronger, Imogen stifled a sigh. ‘You had a phone call.’

  Jack glanced up from the cafetiere into which he was spooning coffee. ‘Who from?’

  ‘How should I know?’ she said, shrugging deliberately carelessly, then dragging her gaze from his and taking an avid interest in the granite surface of the breakfast bar. ‘They left a message, but I didn’t listen.’

  ‘How very admirable of you.’

  The amusement in his voice told her he didn’t believe her for a second, but that was fine because that was her stand and she was sticking to it. ‘It didn’t seem polite.’

  ‘Of course it didn’t,’ he murmured, brushing past her to press the red button flashing on the base of the telephone that sat in the corner of the kitchen.

  As Emily’s voice rang through the flat again, and all the scenarios she’d tried not to envisage came rushing back, Imogen forgot herself and winced. It sounded even worse the second time round, she thought, frowning and biting her lip.

  ‘Didn’t hear it, huh?’

  She jerked her gaze to Jack’s, and to her mortification the blush that she’d been battling back broke free and flooded into her face. ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ he said, coming back and pouring boiling water into the cafetiere, ‘because if I’d heard that message, I’d have jumped to some pretty spectacular conclusions.’

  Imogen swallowed and felt her cheeks burn even more fiercely. ‘I’m sure you would, what with your imagination.’

  Jack glanced at her and grinned. ‘I guess I’d be thinking threesomes. Foursomes even. Possibly an orgy or two.’

  ‘That would be that dirty mind of yours,’ she said primly, silently cursing her transparency. ‘My pure and innocent one would never have come up with anything so …’ She trailed off as she racked her brains for a word that wouldn’t inflame her already burning body any further.

  ‘Carnal?’

  ‘Complicated.’

  His hand stilled mid-plunge, and his eyes gleamed and darkened in a way that made her think he was remembering last night. ‘As I think we’ve established,’ he said softly, ‘there’s nothing pure and innocent about you.’

  ‘You’ve corrupted me.’

  ‘No more than you’ve corrupted me.’ He reached for a couple of cups and then took a jug from the fridge. ‘Milk?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘An
yway,’ he said, pouring coffee into the cups and adding milk to one, ‘I’m sure you’re not interested in the slightest but those conclusions—the ones you didn’t come to—would be wrong.’

  ‘Would they?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Why?’

  Jack pushed the cup across the counter towards her and grinned. ‘I’ve never been good at sharing. I’m far too selfish.’

  Imogen’s eyes widened. Selfish? Jack? No doubt he had flaws—who didn’t?—but after the attention he’d lavished on her last night, she didn’t think selfishness was one of them.

  ‘Something to do with being an only child I should think,’ he was saying, ‘but whatever the reason, more than one woman at a time has never appealed.’ He flashed her a lethally sexy smile. ‘And if there were two like you I doubt I’d survive.’

  ‘Then what are you doing tonight?’

  Oh, no, thought Imogen, immediately clamping her lips together although it was far too late. That had just blown her protestations of innocence to smithereens, hadn’t it? And what the hell had happened to her supposed lack of interest in what he got up to?

  Jack grinned triumphantly and pounced as she’d known he would the second the words had left her mouth. ‘Aha! I knew it.’

  Inwardly fuming at the piteous nature of her will power, Imogen scowled. ‘Has anyone ever told you you can be unbelievably smug at times?’

  Jack’s eyebrows rose. ‘Smug?’ he said. ‘Well, let me see …’ He frowned and tapped his fingers against his mouth as he pretended to consider. ‘I’ve been called arrogant, presumptuous, cold, callous and emotionally bankrupt, but smug?’ He paused and glanced up at the ceiling as if racking his brains, then gave his head a quick shake. ‘Nope, that’s one I haven’t heard before.’

  As the memory of the insults she’d thrown at him flew into her head Imogen felt her blush turn to one of shame. How had she ever thought him all that? He was turning out to be so different from what she’d initially imagined. So much more. Yes, he was gorgeous and sexy, but he was also funny, thoughtful and surprisingly gallant.

  She blinked and put a stop to her analysis of his considerable attributes because thinking of Jack as anything other than the guarantor of great sex was pointless on a dozen different levels.

  ‘So?’ she asked, sitting up and resolutely hauling herself back on the conversation.

  ‘I’m babysitting.’

  Babysitting?

  Imogen’s jaw dropped as she stared at him and she nearly fell off the stool. It was a good thing she’d just put her cup down otherwise there’d be shards of porcelain and coffee all over the floor. ‘Babysitting?’ she echoed.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Totally.’ He paused, then tilted his head as he gauged her reaction. ‘You know,’ he added mildly, ‘your astonishment isn’t exactly flattering.’

  Imogen pulled herself together and flashed him a quick smile. ‘Sorry, but I’m finding it a little difficult to get my head round the idea.’ Then she frowned as a disturbing thought crossed her mind. ‘Whose baby is it?’

  ‘Not mine, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ she said with a speed that she suspected rather weakened that denial.

  ‘Yes, it was,’ he said, switching the oven on. ‘But don’t worry. I’m not that irresponsible. The baby belongs to that friend of mine, Luke, and Emily, his wife. Daisy’s my god-daughter and Anna is Emily’s sister.’

  ‘Who happens to know you sleep without anything on?’

  Jack grinned. ‘Her notion of a joke, I imagine.’

  ‘She sounds hilarious.’

  ‘She has her moments.’

  ‘So how old is she?’ Imogen asked, still trying to come to terms with the fact that Jack had a god-daughter who he was babysitting tonight.

  ‘No idea. Late thirties, early forties, maybe.’

  ‘Ha-ha. Very funny. I meant Daisy.’

  ‘She’s three.’

  ‘Do you have much experience of babysitting three-year-old girls?’

  ‘None at all. This is my first time.’

  Oh, dear. If the trauma she’d suffered as a result of running through all those possible explanations for Emily’s phone call hadn’t been so fresh in her mind, she’d have given him her sympathies. But it was, so instead she settled for what she hoped was an enigmatic smile. ‘Then in that case, good luck.’

  ‘Will I need it?’

  All of a sudden he looked worried and Imogen grinned and resisted the temptation to reach out and pat his hand. ‘I’m sure it’ll be a walk in the park.’

  Jack nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. I mean, she’s three. How hard can it be?’

  If Daisy was anything like her niece, Jack was in for one hell of a weekend. The poor guy really had no idea what was about to hit him. And on top of such little sleep …

  Nevertheless, at the thought of a man like Jack giving up his weekend, his Saturday night, to spend time with a little girl, something in the region of her chest melted and she let out a gentle sigh.

  ‘What?’ he asked, frowning at her.

  ‘Who’d have thought?’ she said dreamily.

  ‘Who’d have thought what?’

  ‘You’re a softie.’

  Jack tensed and scowled. ‘No, I’m not. This is a one-off favour for friends who were desperate. That’s it. So don’t tell anyone, because just think what it would do to my reputation if it got out.’

  She could imagine; he’d have even more women flocking to him than he did at the moment. Ignoring the jealousy that darted through her at the idea, Imogen took a sip of coffee and regarded him over the rim of the cup. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’

  ‘What? My reputation?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Not in the slightest,’ he said, evidently happier to be on different ground if the way his scowl cleared and his mouth curved into a grin was anything to go by. ‘Why would it when I’ve gone to such great lengths to cultivate it?’

  Imogen’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You actively encourage it?’

  Why on earth would he want to do that? Was he nuts? From what she’d heard his reputation wasn’t one to be particularly proud of, so why, when he had so much more going for him, would he want people to think otherwise?

  The only answer she could come up with was that maybe he used it as some kind of shield, a defence mechanism of sorts. But that would imply he needed protection and what would he need protecting against? It didn’t make any sense.

  However, there was little point in asking because it didn’t look as if she was going to get an answer. Not now, with the way his smile was vanishing and a frown was furrowing his brow. In fact, she had the feeling he hadn’t meant to let that slip, which only made it all the more intriguing.

  ‘You know,’ said Jack, moving round the breakfast bar to stand in front of her, his eyes glittering with such intent that Imogen’s heart began to hammer and all the questions that she’d wanted to ask evaporated, ‘I don’t have to leave for another couple of hours.’

  ‘A couple of hours?’ she breathed as he nudged her knees apart, then lifted her onto the counter.

  ‘At least.’ He eased her back and slipped his hands beneath her shirt. ‘So maybe you’d like to help me find a way to fill the time.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  BY the time the following evening came around Imogen, having spent the weekend drifting around in something of a deliciously achy daze, had come to a number of conclusions.

  First, as she’d relived Friday night, it had occurred to her how short-changed she’d been by boyfriends over the years. She hadn’t exactly had loads of sex, but she’d had enough to realise that with hindsight she should have been a lot more assertive in the bedroom. And a lot pickier in her choice of the men who’d occasionally occupied it.

  Secondly, she’d decided that now she’d experienced the mind-blowing
variety with Jack she wanted more of it. Not the ‘for ever’ kind of more, of course, but certainly the ‘take it one day at a time’ kind of more, because as a way of banishing the loneliness that had been swamping her for so long it was unbeatable.

  Unable to resist any longer, and becoming increasingly frustrated that she couldn’t seem to stop mooning over Friday night, she’d hauled her laptop out of the cupboard, fired it up and had settled down to find out as much about Jack as possible.

  As she’d suspected there was a lot to go through, but after hours of poring over the links she’d discovered, among many other things, that, thirdly, their short-term goals might actually be compatible.

  From what she’d gleaned Jack wasn’t big on relationships, and, given that she would hopefully be on her way to the States in the autumn, neither was she. But she would definitely be up for a string of dates or a brief fling or anything else he might be able to offer. It would be thrilling and exciting, and exactly what she needed before she embarked on the next stage of her life.

  The only fly in the ointment was the fourth conclusion she’d come to. That wanting a fling with Jack was all very well, but as he’d shown no signs of intending to see her again, things didn’t look hugely promising on that front.

  After they’d filled the couple of hours he had free yesterday most satisfactorily, Jack had dropped her home. He’d given her a searing kiss, rather perfunctorily muttered he’d be in touch, and then sped off.

  Which did leave her in a bit of a quandary, because how could she engage in a fling with him if he didn’t in fact ever call?

  Still pondering the problem that had been occupying her mind all day, Imogen climbed out of the bath, dried herself off, then pulled on her favourite leggings and top. She’d figure something out, she thought firmly, padding into the sitting room. She had a medley of eighties’ music blaring out of her iPod and a roaring fire in the grate. She had a chicken roasting in the oven and a glass of wine waiting for her on the coffee table, and a whole relaxing Sunday evening in which to come up with a way to firstly get in touch with him and secondly persuade him to agree to a fling.