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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?’

Imogen swallowed. No way was she going to go into the frightening cocktail of emotion that had surged through her and obliterated every shred of common sense. Instead, she recalled the ‘skipping straight to dessert’ remark, and raised her eyebrows. ‘You have to ask?’

‘I wouldn’t if I didn’t.’

‘I don’t do dessert.’

‘Ever?’

‘For the time being.’

His mouth curved into a faint smile. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sweet enough.’

Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please.’

‘I thought not.’ He paused. Then frowned as the smile faded. ‘Nevertheless, that was quite an overreaction.’

Very probably. ‘For which I apologise. Again.’ She stopped, tilted her head as she waited for some kind of response. Which appeared to be a long time coming. ‘You could do the gentlemanly thing and accept it,’ she said archly.

‘What makes you think I’m a gentleman?’

Imogen shrugged and ignored the way her body hummed with anticipation at the idea of Jack being very ungentlemanly indeed. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said with as much indifference as she could muster, which wasn’t a lot. ‘As delightful as it’s been to have this little chat, I have somewhere to be. So if there’s nothing else, I’ll say goodnight.’

‘Nothing else?’ he murmured, fixing her with a hypnotising glance as the frown disappeared and his lips curved into that lethal smile. ‘Imogen, darling, we’ve barely begun.’

Imogen swallowed as she stared up at him, her heart suddenly thumping with something other than anticipation and her mouth going dry. ‘Well, I guess it’s possible we’ll bump into each other again.’ Although given that they hadn’t to date it didn’t seem likely. Which was something of a relief because she had the feeling that too much of Jack would be so dangerous to her health he ought to come with a government warning. ‘But for now, goodnight.’

Suddenly desperate to get away, she flashed him a quick smile, yanked on the handle and pulled the door open. She clambered in and turned to close the door behind her, but to her dismay saw that Jack had planted one hand on the edge and the other on the taxi, and was showing no signs of getting out of the way.

‘What?’ she muttered, catching the determined look in his eye, her pulse fluttering with nerves.

‘Would you mind if I joined you?’

Imogen started. He wanted to join her? In the close confines of the taxi? For how long? Oh, no. No way. That would be nuts. With the skittish way she was feeling, it would be inviting trouble, and she’d had more than enough of that already. ‘I doubt we’re going in the same direction.’

‘We will be,’ he countered, and she had the feeling he wasn’t talking about their respective geographical destinations.

‘I’m sure another taxi will come in a minute.’

‘It’s starting to rain and I don’t have an umbrella.’

At his woeful expression, cracks appeared in her resistance. Jack didn’t look like the sort of man to be bothered by a few drops of water, but deliberately leaving him standing there in the rain would be plain cruel and while she might have many failings cruelty wasn’t one of them. Besides, if she protested any longer it would look as if she had a problem with him. Which of course she did, but she didn’t want him to know that.

And as if those weren’t reasons enough, the glint in his eye was turning ruthless and his comment about winning at all costs crossed her mind. Jack clearly wanted an explanation for her behaviour earlier and he probably deserved one.

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?