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Imogen couldn’t move. At the feel of his hand, singeing her skin where it lay, the thudding of her heart turned to a hammering and her breathing shallowed, and to her horror there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Not when her feet seemed to be rooted to the floor and her body had turned to stone.
Every one of her senses, pretty much the only part of her that hadn’t been stunned into immobility, leapt to attention and zoomed in on Jack and what he was doing.
And what exactly was that? she wondered dazedly as she gazed up at him. The ghost of a smile played at his lips, lips that parted a fraction and dragged her attention down, robbing her of what little of her breath remained and flipping her stomach.
Oh, God, he wasn’t going to kiss her, was he? Not now. Not right here among all these people.
Not that an audience was her greatest concern. No, her greatest concern was what she’d do if he did.
But just as she was trying to work out what that was and panicking at the idea that she even had to think about it, just as her heart was about to stop and she thought she might be about to pass out, he angled his head and murmured right into her ear, ‘OK, if you’re tight for time, how about skipping dinner and moving straight on to dessert?’
For a moment there was a kind of vibrating silence while his words made their way to her brain. Long heavy seconds during which everything but the two of them and the electric field that they generated disappeared. Imogen was so wrapped up in not responding to his nearness, in not shivering as the warmth of his breath caressed her cheek, and so preoccupied with not closing the minute distance between them and winding her arms around his neck to kiss him that his proposition took quite a while to arrive.
Then it did, and she thought she must have misheard. Misunderstood or something, because surely he couldn’t be suggesting what she thought he was suggesting.
But when he drew back and she saw the glimmer of intent and desire in the depths of his eyes she realised she hadn’t misheard. Or misunderstood. And he was suggesting exactly what she’d thought he’d been suggesting.
‘That’s outrageous,’ she breathed, although whether this was directed at his audacity or at the sharp thrill that was spinning through her she wasn’t sure.
He took a step back and ran his gaze over her face, slowly and thoroughly as if committing every square millimetre to memory before letting it linger on her lips. Which, to her horror, automatically parted to emit a tiny dreamy gasp.
‘Is it?’ he murmured.
Barely able to breathe, she watched his smile become knowing and the gleam in his eyes turn to something that looked suspiciously like triumph and quite suddenly Imogen had had enough.
Of everything.
All the pain and frustration of the past few months wound together in one great knot in the pit of her stomach and began to pummel her from the inside out. So hard, so relentlessly that she nearly doubled up with the force of it.
Memories and thoughts and feelings cascaded into her head, each one tumbling over the other, fast and furious and unstoppable.
Of her own battered heart carelessly ripped from her chest and then stamped all over by two people she’d cared so much about.
Of poor Amanda weeping and wailing her way across Italy.
Of the cool arrogance of the man standing before her. Of the God-given right he thought he had to seduce people—women—into falling in with his plans. The idea that anyone, he of all people, had the nerve to guarantee great sex.
As the whole gamut of emotions swept through her with the force of a tidal wave, the urge to strike a blow for every woman worldwide who’d had her heart broken by a lothario like Jack surged up inside her.
It was overwhelming, overpowering. It overrode any sense of civility, of politeness, of reason, and obliterated the lingering heat and any trace of desire.
Dimly aware that she was out of control but unable to do anything about it, Imogen lifted her chin and said coldly, ‘If you’re hungry, I suggest you find some other poor victim to devour.’
And with that, she spun on her heel and marched off.
When it came to ways of occupying himself on a Tuesday night, Jack had options. Lots of options.
Last Tuesday he’d accompanied a sleek blonde to a classical concert in aid of medical research. The Tuesday before that he’d wined and dined a rumpled brunette at a newly opened restaurant so sought-after it already had a six-month waiting list. And the Tuesday before that he’d been discussing investment strategy with clients over cocktails in Geneva.
This Tuesday night, however, was apparently payback for all that fun.
It hadn’t started well. For one thing he loathed modern art. Absolutely loathed it. The pretension of the paintings and the people who waffled on about them invariably made him want to hit something hard. This allegedly exclusive one-night-only art exhibition in the West End of London was one of the worst he’d ever encountered and the only reason he’d come was to see his own unforgivably awful contribution sell.
And even that hadn’t been going his way. While a number of the other exhibits had attracted buyers, his hadn’t, and it had started to occur to him that he might be forced to take the bloody thing back home with him.
With the evening plumbing depths he could never have anticipated, Jack had decided to write the whole episode off as a complete disaster and had been on the point of leaving when he’d spotted Imogen.
She’d been standing with her back to him in front of his six-foot-by-four-foot painting, gazing up at it, utterly still, her head tilted to one side. Something about her had caught his eye and held it. Made his muscles contract a little and his heart beat a fraction faster. And not just because she was the only person to display any interest in his painting.
Out of habit, he’d checked her out. He’d run his gaze over her, taking his time as he registered long, wavy, gold-streaked hair fanning out from beneath her black beret, generous curves moulded by a figure-hugging black knee-length coat, and the best pair of calves he’d ever seen encased in sheer silk and tapering down to sexy black high heels.
He’d felt a fierce stirring of attraction, his body tightening with awareness and his mouth going dry. His pulse had picked up and the blood rushing through his veins had heated.
And then, just as he’d been wondering why he was responding so strongly to a woman whose face he hadn’t even seen, just as he’d managed to dredge up some kind of self-control and get his heart rate and breathing back to normal, she’d turned to hold the catalogue up to the light, and he’d lost his breath all over again.
She was quite simply stunning. Light from the spotlight overhead had spilled over her face, illuminating high cheekbones, a straight nose and creamy skin. Her mouth was wide, her lips full and pink and extremely kissable.
It had struck him then that, despite her considerable assets, his response to her had been startlingly unusual in its intensity. He’d never lacked for female company—quite the opposite in fact—but the immediacy and the strength of it had been new. And actually not just new. He’d found it intriguing. Tantalising. Deliciously unsettling.
Which was why, thinking optimistically that despite its inauspicious start the evening had started to look up, he’d levered himself off the pillar he’d been leaning against and had gone in search of a couple of glasses of champagne.
Well, that had been a spectacular waste of time, Jack thought darkly, rooted to the spot as he stared at Imogen’s retreating figure, shock reverberating through him as he tried to work out what had happened.
Victim?
Victim?
Where the hell had that come from?
All he’d suggested was dinner and what on earth was wrong with that? Where had all that vitriol sprung from? Anyone would think he’d suggested slinging her over his shoulder and carting her off somewhere dark and private so he could have his wicked way with her. Which he hadn’t, quite.
He dragged in a breath, shoved a hand through his hair and scowled after her as the latter part of their conversation rattled around his brain.
Up until the point Imogen had gone all psycho on him, he’d thought things had been progressing marvellously. Even their initial collision, though unplanned, had worked to his advantage. His head might have gone momentarily blank at the feel of her body plastered up against his and at the scent of her winding through him, but he’d heard her breath catch.
He’d seen the flash of interest in her eyes. And felt the hammering of her heart against his chest.
And it had been all the encouragement he’d needed. He’d done what came as naturally as breathing, and flirted with her. And she’d flirted right back. She’d shot him sexy little smiles, let out breathy little sighs and he’d instinctively had the feeling that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Inviting her to dinner to see how the attraction—and the evening—might develop had seemed an entirely logical step forwards.
Jack rubbed his hand along his jaw and frowned as he remembered the moment his radar had picked up her unexpected switch in mood. He’d been holding her hand, recovering from the jolt of electricity that had shot through him the moment their palms had met and wondering whether he should be feeling disconcerted or delighted by the obvious chemistry.
He’d been vaguely asking himself whether the floor really was tilting and whether he ought to be concerned by the way the words ‘this one’ were flashing in his head in great neon letters when he’d felt her tense. She’d whipped her hand out of his as if his touch had suddenly scorched her, and he’d realised that something had changed. Dramatically.
To say he’d been wrong-footed was the understatement of the century. He’d always believed he had an uncanny ability to read women, but never in a million years would he have seen the chilly, supercilious air that she had adopted coming.
His jaw tightened as the disdainful expression on her face and the scorn in her voice when she refused his offer of dinner slammed into his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been rejected. People—women in particular—generally didn’t, and, ever since his mother had pretty much abandoned him at birth, rejection was something he’d taken great care to avoid. Which was why he only ever issued dinner invitations to women he was convinced would say yes.
Until now.
But what the hell had gone wrong?
OK, so he probably shouldn’t have made that comment about dessert, but he’d been so disconcerted by her change in attitude, and, if he was being honest, disappointed, that winding her up as much as she’d wound him up had proved irresistible.
Which meant that when she’d accused him of being outrageous, she might have had a point. But he’d never anticipated that she’d react in quite such a melodramatic way. Why should he? He’d seen the flicker of desire in her eyes and he’d heard her shallow breathing. For a split second he’d thought that perhaps he’d got away with it after all. That mutual attraction might have come to outweigh her indignation.
And that made her rejection, her parting shot, all the more devastatingly brutal.
Jack glowered after her. So much for thinking the evening had been looking up. He’d just crashed and burned spectacularly and he didn’t like it. Any of it.
Ignoring the smattering of interested glances being cast in his direction, he let the anger and frustration that had been simmering inside him surge through his veins.
How dared she assume he had victims? How dared she assume he devoured anyone? How dared she make him feel he’d been harassing her?
And what exactly was so off-putting about him anyway? He’d never had any complaints before. He’d never had anything but sighs of appreciation and requests for repeat performances.
So what was her problem? And frankly why was he bothering to try and work it out? Imogen clearly had it in for him and he wasn’t a masochist. The best thing he could do would be to forget the last half an hour and get the hell out of here.
The rational part of his brain told him to chalk this evening up to experience, that, apart from everything else he’d had to endure, no woman was worth the hassle. Especially not one as shallow as Imogen Christie.
He knew who she was. The minute he’d heard her name he’d recognised it. It would have been hard not to, given the number of times it had appeared in the press. Imogen Christie was nothing more than a vacuous socialite. The kind of pointless woman who did nothing but flit from party to party and hit the headlines with her antics. The kind of pointless woman his mother was.
So what if during their brief conversation she’d made him laugh? So what if she’d made his body respond so intensely that all he could think about was how much he wanted to wrap her round him and keep her there for hours? She was the sort of woman he despised, the sort he’d spent most of his adult life avoiding, and if he ever bothered to look back on this evening he’d be grateful he’d had such a lucky escape.
That was what the sane, logical part of his brain was telling him.
However, another louder, more insistent part of his brain, the part that housed a deeply ingrained, deeply hidden craving for approval, and the part that would, if he let it, wonder what was wrong with him, demanded to know why she’d said what she had and why she’d changed her mind.
Not because he wanted to change it back. No. Now he was finally listening to that warning voice inside his head, he had no intention of pursuing her. He just wanted to know what she thought gave her the right to be so rude, and what exactly it was that she had against him.
There was no way he was allowing someone like Imogen Christie to just waltz off with the last word and no explanation, he thought grimly, watching her push through the door and disappear into the night. No way.
So forget the gold-streaked hair that made him want to tangle his hands in its silky softness. Forget the eyes of such a deep brown that looking into them was like falling into a vat of molten chocolate. Forget the curves that his hands itched to caress. He really didn’t need the distraction.
What he needed were answers, and he’d get them, whether she liked it or not.
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT an idiot, Imogen told herself for the hundredth time as she stood on the street and shivered in the chilly February breeze.
What on earth had possessed her to say that? Why, oh, why hadn’t she just smiled serenely, told Jack she had a boyfriend or something and left it there?
Whatever had happened to her decision to stay cool and collected at all times? To do absolutely nothing that might attract the attention of the press? It was a good thing she hadn’t given in to temptation and flung that glass of champagne all over him. That really would have been the pits.
Maybe the whole Connie/Max engagement thing had affected her more than she’d thought, because the way everything inside her had merged into one hot seething tangle of emotion and then swooped up, seizing control of her brain and her senses, had been weird.
How could she have been so rude? she asked herself yet again, stamping her feet in an effort to inject a degree of heat into her body and scouring the shadowy, empty street for a taxi. Jack might be everything she detested in a man—well, aside from his considerable physical attributes, of course—but that was no excuse. She was never rude.
Imogen winced with shame as her words flew back into her head. What had she been thinking? OK, so she’d barely been thinking at all, let alone rationally, but that was no excuse, either.
Not that there was anything she could do about it now. She couldn’t rewind time and she could hardly go back and apologise, could she? An apology—even assuming he’d be willing to listen—would lead to conversation and undoubtedly a request for an explanation, and she really didn’t want to go into the reason for her temporary mental meltdown.
No. All she could do was hope that Jack had written her off as bonkers, slope off home, open a bottle of wine and forget all about the entire excruciating afternoon.
If her brother and his family had been around she’d have invited herself over for supper and let herself be plied with wine and sympathy, clambered all over by her niece and nephew, and maybe let herself not feel quite so lonely and messed up for a while. But unfortunately they were skiing in the Alps.
And yes, there were a couple of parties that she’d been invited to, but having to dodge the inevitable loaded questions about the newly betrothed couple didn’t appeal in the slightest.
The worst thing was that with the defection of Connie she no longer had the sort of girlfriend she could call up and drown her sorrows with. Not for the first time, Imogen asked herself how it was possible to feel so alone in a vast city like London, where she knew loads of people and there was always something going on.
Pushing that thought aside before she became even more maudlin, she hauled her spirits up. Home—a cosy mews house in Chelsea—wasn’t such a bad option, she thought dryly, spying the yellow light of a cruising taxi and throwing her arm up to hail it. It had always been something of a haven, a place to shut herself away from the occasional unpleasantness of life. A scathing newspaper report, a deliberately awful paparazzi photo, a lousy boyfriend … She’d licked her wounds there many times, and would probably do so many times in the future.
Tonight she’d run a bath, pour herself a glass of wine, light a few candles and relax. She might even allow herself to contemplate the press-free and purposeful life she’d have in the States if her application to study there was accepted.
She watched the taxi execute a U-turn and pull up at the pavement where she was standing, and chewed on her lip as a flicker of optimism flared into life inside her.
Yes, that was what she’d do, she thought, leaning forwards to give the taxi driver her address and then reaching for the door handle. She’d package everything that had happened this afternoon and stuff it in the cupboard called Denial, and wallow in that blissful daydream. And then she’d—
‘Just a minute.’
At the sound of the deep, dry voice behind her and the sudden scorching heat of the hand covering hers, Imogen jumped, and then, as her back brushed against him, froze. Her heart leapt into her throat. Pure terror shot through her and as her head went fuzzy she automatically jerked her elbow back. Up and hard.
She heard a growl of surprise, of pain, and with adrenalin whipping through her veins she snapped round. Instinctively, braced herself.
And crashed back to reality as she clapped eyes on the man who’d sneaked up on her.
Oh, dear.
As all the adrenalin and energy drained away, Imogen bit her lip and grimaced. Jack was almost doubled up, one hand planted on the window of the taxi, the other clutching his stomach as he gasped for breath.
‘What on earth did you do that for?’ he said when he was finally able to speak.
‘It was an automatic reaction. You startled me. Sorry.’
‘Remind me never to do that again,’ he muttered and, with a wince, straightened. Which brought him almost as close as he’d been when he’d crept up on her in the first place.
A shiver that this time had nothing to do with the cold or fear or adrenalin scuttled down Imogen’s spine, and she sighed. So much for hoping that Jack might decide to write her off and forget what she said. It was stupid of her to think he would. To think that anyone would. ‘Did you want something?’ she said, blinking with what she hoped looked like innocence.
‘You walked off in the middle of our conversation,’ said Jack, rubbing his ribs and glowering at her. ‘That wasn’t very polite.’
‘As far as I was concerned,’ she said, lifting her chin and giving him a cool smile, while determinedly ignoring the stab of guilt that she might have hurt him, ‘it was over.’
‘I’m sure you think so,’ he said, clearly disagreeing.
Actually, maybe it was no bad thing he’d followed her, because now would be an excellent time to apologise. She could clean the slate, clear her conscience and draw a line under their brief but surprisingly turbulent acquaintance. And then she could nip into the taxi and disappear into the night and put an end to what had been a day she hoped never to repeat.
‘OK, look,’ she said, making herself keep eye contact, while groping behind her for the door handle. ‘I apologise for the whole victim-devouring-comment thing. It was uncalled for. I’m sorry.’
He frowned. ‘What prompted it?’
