“Speaking of cheeks…” she waggled her eyebrows towards a muscular man wearing a G-string who had passed in front of them. They were both silent as they beheld the bottom on display.
She saw it first, the slight shaking of his chest and then the low rumbling sound that gave way to rich, deep laughter. Two young women in bikinis passing by glanced his way appreciatively.
Imogen felt the answering tug on her lips. Just like that, he was back in her heart. Well, she thought with pained exasperation, he had never left it, after all.
It was an overcast day. She had underestimated the weather and felt slightly chilled. He caught her rubbing the goose bumps on her arms unobtrusively.
“You’re cold,” he said in a way that made it a pronouncement. This was minutes later when he had stopped laughing and they had made small talk about Maggie’s latest archaeological dig, a book she was working on, and his dream of bringing polo tournaments back to Trennery Court. “And your lips are dry.”
She licked her lips in response a bit self-consciously. “I’m fine,” she denied, but he had already whipped out his mobile. A few minutes later one of the bodyguards materialized, looking out of place in his suit, and handed Julian a coat and a bottle of water. Imogen recognized him as the same bodyguard she had tasked to give him her message. She ducked her head to avoid being recognized.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed, shrugging on Julian’s gray sport coat. It smelled like him, that crisp cologne. “You’re like a mobile convenience store. What else have you got in your security team’s car?”
He opened the cap on the bottle and gave it to her. Imogen’s fingers accidentally touched his. She jerked back, hoping he hadn’t noticed her reaction.
“Oh, you know, just an extra can of fish food,” he said. “In case we run out of it for Clark.”
She sputtered and the water went down the wrong way. She coughed.
Julian immediately drew her into his arms and rubbed her back while her coughing subsided. “Sorry. I was joking, not trying to kill you.”
“I’m alright.” Imogen stepped out of his reach hastily. He frowned but didn’t remark on her skittishness. “I haven’t − haven’t thanked you properly for bringing me and Clark to your apartment.”
“I was glad to be of help,” he simply said. “Hungry?”
She wasn’t really, but she needed a distraction.
Julian chose a Mexican restaurant near the beach. He ordered in fluent Spanish and the pretty, dark-eyed waitress smiled at him gratefully.
“It was during Maggie’s telenovela phase,” he said, seeing her amazed expression.
“I remember.” Maggie had been crazy about those shows. She watched it, undubbed, so nothing was lost in the translation. There had been a lot of screaming, hair-pulling, and bitch-slapping.
“She insisted on talking to me only in Spanish. It came in handy when I backpacked in Spain.”
The press had called it The Lost Years. It was right after his university days. Julian appeared to have disappeared off the face of the earth, or at least the tabloid covers. Imogen had checked every so often. She had insider information that he had taken off to backpack around Europe “to find himself and all that crap” to quote Maggie, but it was just really to get away from the old duke after their fight over a “gold-digging bitch” Julian had gotten himself involved with.
He had been on the media’s radar, probably since he was still in diapers, as heir to one of the oldest titles in England. Unlike most of the present-day aristocrats, the Walkdens had increased their wealth over the years. Second and third sons and daughters who were not to inherit the entailed estates were married off to the rich merchant class. As a result, the Dukes of Blackmoore were well-connected and probably related to the movers and shakers of the economy. Plus, they also had a propensity to marry actresses and models, which greatly improved the lineage in the looks department. Case in point – the present, oblivious Duke eating his fish taco and subject to covert, admiring glances from the other diners.
“I can’t imagine you backpacking and doing away with your creature comforts,” she said before thinking.
He wiped his mouth with a napkin, leaned back against the seat, and quirked an eyebrow. “How did you imagine me then?”
Imogen walked straight into that one. Why was conversation with Julian always loaded? She fiddled with the shrimp on her plate. She was as taut as an overstretched guitar string. A breeze would make her twang.
“You had loads of servants in Trennery Court to do your bidding. I just can’t picture you washing your own clothes, cooking…”
“Who said I did?” It was the sly way he said it that inflamed her curiosity.
“Don’t tell me you brought your butler and cook with you!”
He shuddered with feigned horror. “Can you imagine the fastidious Donaldson tagging along with me to spend the night in flea-infested hostels?”
Imogen remembered the stern-looking but kind butler who assisted her and Maggie during their pretend tea parties. He actually took out the family silver and let them play with it under his supervision. “Donaldson must be ancient by now.”
“Don’t let him hear you. He may be getting on in years, but he has a very active social media account.”
Imogen burst out laughing at the incongruous picture this made. “Okay. So you didn’t bring Donaldson or Mrs. Johnson with you to do the laundry and the cooking…you had a girlfriend with you when you went backpacking?”
He shook his head. “A girlfriend would have slowed me down.”
“Oh, please! That’s so sexist!”
“It was rough at times. I didn’t want to be responsible for another person.”
“But you said you didn’t do the washing, and the cooking−” and then Imogen could very well imagine it. He would be tanned, and rangy, and there would be scruff on his jaw. He would walk into a hostel and it would be like the sun breaking out of the clouds, and female backpackers would be under his sexual spell, “−you had a girl in every hostel do it for you!”
“Tsk tsk! Is that how you think of me, Genie?’ His use of her diminutive made her glow like she was radioactive, warm now but in the long run toxic.
“I’m sure they were more than happy to do it for you in exchange for something.” She pushed down on her belated and misplaced jealousy.
“I find how your mind works very interesting.”
“Who did it then?’
“My bodyguards.”
“Your bodyguards?”
“Rather, my father’s hired security detail.” He grinned and took a swig of his cerveza. “I tried every trick in the book to lose them. They got so frustrated with me. That’s when I struck a deal with them. I told them I wouldn’t try to run away from them if they did my laundry and cooked for me.”
“Ever on the lookout for the next deal,” Imogen said rather admiringly. “No wonder you’re a successful capitalist.”
“They made my life easier, I made their job easier” He looked smug. “It was a fair trade.”
“Indeed.” Imogen tipped her cerveza bottle in a jaunty salute. She suddenly became aware she was enjoying their conversation. She didn’t know why that fact bothered her so much.
Chapter 8
Julian felt…buoyant. He hadn’t realized he had been carrying around this guilt over that debacle of a night years ago until he had apologized and Imogen had accepted it.
It was still there. The delightful and flirtatious bantering years ago that had echoed in Julian’s mind wasn’t his faulty memory. They still shared a strange, unexpected, and wonderful chemistry.
Their sexual compatibility was another matter. Julian’s memory of that encounter, the mindless pleasure he found in her, was so intertwined with the image of her blood on the couch that he just felt perverted whenever he felt stirrings of unwanted urges around her.
Julian still couldn’t get over the fact that he had missed her inexperience that time in his penthouse. He was so lost in the f
eel of her it hadn’t really registered on him until after the fact. He brushed off the useless ruminations, useless because he wouldn’t dare get involved with Imogen again.
And yet Julian enjoyed making her feel discomfited. It was his way of getting back at her for how she made him feel uncomfortable in his own skin. He had taken to spending more time in the office just so he didn’t have to be in the penthouse around her unsettling presence.
He liked how her brown eyes couldn’t hide the way she was feeling. She was a lot more relaxed but still nervous around him. She kept darting him glances when she thought he wasn’t looking.
Her dark brown hair, so dark sometimes it looked black, was tied back. Her smooth skin was bare and her cheeks now had some color. Without thinking about it, he whipped off her spectacles.
“Hey!” she protested.
She had big, innocent doe eyes. Her nose was pert and her lips were small and full. She had the wholesome, next-door-girl look that a lot of men found attractive. She was pretty, not his usual taste, but still…there was something about her. If she were a produce, Julian would label her organic – 100 percent chemical free.
“You weren’t wearing these the last time I saw you.” Too late. Julian realized he walked himself into a minefield.
“I had my contacts on.” She snatched back the spectacles from him and jammed them back on resolutely. “That last time.” Her cheeks became pink.
He liked it that she could still blush, that around him she was a little gawky. He refrained from saying that she looked absolutely adorable with or without her glasses on. Julian shouldn’t, couldn’t, and wouldn’t flirt with Imogen.
Why the hell not? His inner voice demanded. He was a free agent. She was unattached.
What was stopping him from taking up where they had left off years ago?
His conscience.
His instincts told him Imogen wasn’t the kind of woman who engaged in casual affairs. Their night together was an aberration. She had said it herself – it was the alcohol that made her do it. Julian felt that pang of guilt again for not having detected her inexperience. Christ. What if she had been saving herself for the man she was going to marry?
Julian frowned. The thought of Imogen married to another man…his gut clenched. Before he could examine his violent reaction, Imogen excused herself to go the ladies’ room. His mobile pinged.
It was a message from Valerie, the President and CEO of Luxe Dating, a discreet matchmaking service catering to an elite, moneyed clientele in London.
VALERIE: I have found the perfect date for you, Your Grace. Beautiful, polished, ambitious, well-connected. Just let me know when you are available so I can set the time and date.
Julian grimaced. The qualities that she enumerated repelled him more than attracted him. Julian did not answer immediately, mentally rifling through his meetings for when he could squeeze in a date. Before he could compose a reply, Imogen came back and resumed her seat across him.
Julian studied her quietly then had that flash of intuition, a light bulb moment.
“I changed the paintings in the living room,” he said out of the blue.
She nodded matter-of-factly to indicate she had indeed noticed. “What happened to the portraits?”
“It’s in a warehouse. I was thinking of selling them,” he said, the farthest thing from the truth. “They’ll fetch a huge sum.” His grip was tight around the cerveza bottle.
“Sell them?” she said incredulously. “You’d no sooner sell those paintings than put Trennery Court on the market,” she scoffed, then she look chagrined. “Sorry. My mouth ran off with me. I was being presumptious.”
His hand relaxed on the bottle. “You’re right. Those portraits are indeed in a warehouse, but they’re waiting to be shipped back to Trennery Court.”
“I don’t understand why you had to bring them to Los Angeles in the first place.” Her tone clearly indicated he had more money than sense.
“I didn’t bring them. I found them.”
She frowned. “Where?”
“Some on the black market. Others from private buyers.”
“They were stolen?” she gasped.
“They were sold,” he said flatly. “By my stepmother.”
“Olga?’” Her big, brown eyes reflected shocked. “But why?”
“For money, what else?” Julian countered. “When my father had his stroke, she started her garage sale here in the States. It took her some time to make a sale in the underground market. She managed to dispose of thirty paintings. It would have been more if my father hadn’t died.”
He knew she almost wanted to say thank God but had bitten her lip just in time. “She shouldn’t have. It’s such a shame. She sold history, a legacy.”
Her words sent a chill up his spine. Hearing her articulate it aloud only confirmed what Julian had felt deep in his gut all along. Why he had chosen to divulge that distasteful business with Olga and the paintings. She was not some airhead woman more interested in fancy homes, latest designer clothes, or burning her husband’s money. She knew what mattered, that surrounded by history she would be a custodian. Like Julian was. It was a test and Imogen had passed it.
The buzzing of his phone intruded.
“Please,” she said disarmingly, “go ahead.” She motioned towards his mobile. “I know it’s important.”
“This will take only a few seconds,” he apologized. “Business matters.”
Imogen only nodded.
It was Valerie, inquiring if he had received her SMS.
He typed: “Change of plans. An opportunity came up. I’ve decided to pursue another avenue. I will be in touch if it doesn’t work out.”
Julian convinced himself it was relief that he felt. That he had found a suitable candidate so soon, so close to home. After he had fired off his reply, he pocketed his mobile and turned to Imogen, ignoring this sense of disquiet, that feeling he couldn’t quite shake off – that with Imogen, it was not only his freedom as a single man that was at stake, in danger, but something far more precious.
He dismissed the idea as fanciful. No woman was ever going to take more from him than he was ready to give.
Chapter 9
“What do you think, Julian?”
It took a few seconds for him to realize that the five people seated around the conference table were waiting for his answer. “I think it’s a great idea.” Whatever the hell it was.
Four of them frowned. He was fucked. The only one who didn’t was Lukas Martin.
“I think what His Grace is trying to say is that it’s a great idea you don’t want to just remain an angel investor in NeoCortex when its huge potential for growth is backed by research and trends in the biotech market.”
Julian shot Lukas a grateful look. The young doctor smiled benignly. On top of his sudden, throbbing headache, his personal life kept intruding on his concentration.
This morning’s tabloids had proclaimed that Lolita Andalus was having a baby boy, and that as Gray’s alleged son, the child would be second in line to the dukedom. Julian wanted to get to the bottom of it, but Gray refused to answer his calls.
Not that it would change anything for Julian. It only made his desire to produce an heir, a son born legitimately, whom he could raise to learn and appreciate his heritage, more urgent. And to do that, he needed to get married
Julian didn’t believe in marriage. If you “loved” each other, you didn’t need a piece of paper to stay together to make it legal. There was a time he thought he did, but he had been a romantic idiot back then, and one thing he wasn’t now was foolish and naïve.
However, not subscribing to the institution and actually needing to get shackled in holy matrimony was a delightful irony. And Julian appreciated irony in most situations. He had to or else he would still be ranting and raving against his fate, one that had been sealed when he still had a lisp from a loose front tooth and his erstwhile betrothed was still in diapers.
In the end, he was stil
l going to do what the past Dukes of Blackmoore had done before him, for duty or rarely for love, it didn’t matter. He had to marry and produce a brat. Made sure the family tree bore fruit. Expanded the gene pool. There was no getting around it, not unless he was willing to let the title and Trennery Court go to his irresponsible brother. And if any unfortunate accident were to happen to Gray since the fool was reckless to the extreme (Julian refused to acknowledge that he was just as reckless despite engaging in extreme sports just a few years ago), then everything would pass on to his drugged-out cousin, Nigel.
Unfortunately he had waited too long and his intended bride had now gotten herself engaged to another, forsaking her own title and fortune. He wished Lexie well, but the cynic in him wondered how long the marriage would last.
Luckily, yesterday’s “date” showed him that the ideal candidate was closer to home. Imogen was young, malleable, and attracted to him. He already knew her family and she had even spent time in Trennery Court, appreciating its long history. She would do very nicely.
The figures on the huge screen in front of him began to waver, and Julian closed his eyes briefly to bring them into focus. He surreptitiously loosened his tie a bit. By the end of the meeting, his eyes were hot and his headache had worsened.
“You don’t look too good, Julian,” Lukas said with some concern after the board meeting had wrapped up.
“Nothing that a run can’t cure,” he dismissed.
The young doctor wasn’t convinced. ”Well, give me a call in case you feel worse.”
“And have you bill me outrageously?” he scoffed, referring to the experimental bio chair, the one that shrank and expanded with changes in temperature that Lukas demanded he purchase for the waiting area in the office in exchange for his house call to Imogen.
Lukas grinned. “She did get well, didn’t she?”
Smug bugger.
When they reached the lobby, Lukas bade him goodbye and jogged off to the back entrance where his bamboo bicycle was parked. Julian’s BMW swung by the lobby and he sank gratefully onto the leather covered seats. The traffic and Jenkin’s driving didn’t help.
The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) Page 9