by Penny Henry
"Fortunately, I don't have to earn my keep at the moment. My brother is a very generous landlord."
"But you must do something. Don't tell me, let me guess." She pursed her lips and strolled to the shelves littered with pictures of the brothers. She picked a frame at random and lifted it clear of the shelf. She sauntered towards him, holding the photograph in front of her, Imogen smiled triumphantly. "You're a male model." She stood back with a winning smile on her face.
Gable's mouth curved in a grin. "Nothing gets by you, does it, Imogen?" His eyes locked with her brown gaze in faint amusement before watching her spin away to replace the photograph.
"So tell me," she began, turning back to renew the engagement with his eyes. "Where do you get most of your work - Europe or America?" She clasped her hands behind her back and strolled across the lounge. She was interested and didn’t want to lose her train of thought by looking directly into his face.
The CD came to an end and Gable walked across to remove the disc and return it to its case. He replaced it in the storage drawer before running his eyes across the neat alphabetical list of artists. He hadn't answered her question. Imogen studied the way his broad shoulders narrowed to slim hips and a tight rear as he crouched on muscular thighs to choose a disc. She couldn't recall ever seeing his face in any of the numerous magazines that passed through her hands. Then again, the vast majority of articles she read were music related. She simply didn't have the time to flick through the fashion pages. It was the tweenie magazines that tapped into the massive spending power of the eight-year-olds upwards that really interested the Company. With something over £3 billion a year passing through the tweenies’ hands it was Imogen's task to ensure that a sizeable chunk came the way of Sblig Records. It was a young market they worked hard to exploit.
The opening notes of Michael Bublé signaled Gable had made his choice and he turned back with a satisfied look. "Hey," he exclaimed. "I'm not much of a host, am I? What would you like to drink?" He rubbed his hands together and switched his eyes to the well-stocked bar.
Maybe music was one of his brother’s quirks. She thought that it might have been digital but it was a CD collection that was comprised of middle-of-the-road music. Not exactly the stuff she had imagined Gable would have chosen. Maybe that was all his brother had. Her gaze followed Gable to the bar. She realized that all the unopened bottles were arranged in order of height like a military parade. The glasses were sparkling and small metallic stickers still clung to the sides of the whisky tumblers. It looked as though Gable was introducing his brother to a whole new lifestyle.
She held up a hand in refusal. "Not for me, thank you, Gable. I'll be happy with a coffee. I have to work in the morning and alcohol goes straight to my head."
Gable arched a perfect eyebrow. "I'll try to forget you said that."
Imogen smiled ruefully and walked over to the sofa. "I'm sure you don't need any help in that department." She fitted her slender frame into a corner of the cushioned leather. "No doubt women are falling at your feet."
"You'd be surprised. It's not as glamorous a job as you might think. There's a lot of pressure to keep costs down these days. The directors have strict budgets to stick to which can mean an awful lot of tension on a shoot. It can mean long days in uncomfortable surroundings with a full team of technical people, make-up artists, photographers and caterers – the entire caboodle. And if conditions aren’t exactly right there can be a whole lot of bored people just waiting for something to happen. And as you know, time is money."
"My heart bleeds for you," said Imogen in response to Gable’s tale of sorrow. "But I know what you mean. Recording artists are not known for their reliability and studio time costs money. It's all about getting the right exposure to make a buck before the next new band hits the scene. They get younger all the time. Their management invests a lot of money in grooming a new band and they want a return on their investment. I can understand that, but Sblig Records puts a huge amount of money into promoting young bands and if we get it wrong it’s a massive waste of resources."
"I'll just bet it is." He was looking down on her, his lean hips bent to one side and his features set in a study of masculine concentration. "But you do have your bankers, don't you? There are acts that have been at the top for years, aren’t there? Take Karl Wainscott for instance."
She looked up sharply. His features were a picture of innocence. Had he deliberately brought Karl Wainscott into the conversation or was Karl simply a name he had brought to mind? Karl was getting a lot of publicity lately. Gable's handsome features betrayed nothing. "They can be just as difficult as the young ones," said Imogen flatly.
Gable didn't appear to notice her sudden reserve. "It is understandable, I suppose. They are healthy young people suddenly thrust into the limelight with a lot of cash and surrounded by people telling them how wonderful they are. Is instant okay?"
"Sorry? Oh, the coffee. Sure, instant will be fine."
She watched him stride to the short passage that led to the other rooms in the apartment. Nice ass, she thought absentmindedly. On reflection she had decided that Karl's name was likely to have cropped up in all innocence. Karl was a big star and Gable had plucked a name out of the air. She thought about the similarity of the billion-dollar industries they were both involved with. She was often involved with the adolescent problems of Sblig’s young artists, and they were probably identical to those presented by temperamental models. Though she had to admit, so far Gable appeared unlikely to fall into that category.
Before Imogen's analytical brain could pursue her train of thought, Gable returned with a tray of coffee. She reached across to pull a polished table into a position at the centre of the sofa for Gable to deposit the tray. She inspected its load of patterned mugs filled with black coffee plus spoons, sugar, cream and an unwrapped packet of Highland shortbread. Imogen suffered a knee-jerk reaction. Highland shortbread was her favorite biscuit. Was it just another coincidence? Her head filled with scrambled images of stalkers and burglars. She was being ridiculous. Gable would have seen the soaked packet when she had dropped the tray in her kitchen. And she was sure her preference for the crumbly biscuit had been mentioned at least once in the interview. He wouldn't have had time to go and buy a packet.
"Shortbread?" offered Gable as he tore the pack open. There was no innuendo to her weakness for that particular brand. She was worrying over nothing.
"Mmm, yes please. They’re my favorite.” She accepted the packet and took three. Everybody liked shortbread.
"What about cream and sugar?"
"Cream, one sugar please." She thought no more about it.
Gable took the other end of the couch, sticking his long legs out in front of him. They relaxed to the music and drank their coffee. Imogen took a biscuit each time the packet was offered without a twinge of guilt. It was her one luxury. And it had become even more so since she had denied herself the pleasure of any real company. Though she did think that she might just be about to re-evaluate her set of rules. It was rare that she had relaxed so easily in the company of a man she had only just met. She was entirely comfortable in the apartment. Maybe it was the knowledge that his brother was her neighbor. Gable wouldn’t plan on upsetting the other tenants in the building. Or could it be that she subconsciously recognized him from his modeling work. Whatever the reason, Imogen felt the glow inside her skin that warned of her defenses being lowered. Her flesh was beginning to tingle with the awareness of virile male company. She glanced at Gable sipping his coffee and staring into the middle distance - no doubt lost in some exotic location.
"A penny for them."
"Wha— Uh, sorry, what did you say?"
"A penny for your thoughts."
Gable turned to gaze at her inquisitive face. "I was just thinking." His sapphire eyes dropped to her neck before briefly falling to the swell of her bosom at the vee of her top. Imogen felt the tremors kick in. Her stomach was fluttering and her heart was racing to match the
sudden acceleration of her blood. She breathed in and unconsciously lifted her breasts to his eyes. Gable blew out a low appreciative breath and suddenly realized where he was. His cheeks colored and he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his forefinger. "Would you like another biscuit?”
“No thank you. I think I’ve had quite enough.” She wriggled her bottom into the corner. "I suppose you were thinking of a Caribbean beach surrounded by beautiful girls?" She settled back to look as beguiling as she could in her jeans and top.
Gable fixed her with a penetrating gaze, leaning back into his own corner with one arm stretched along the back of the couch. "I could not wish to be in the company of a more enchanting and beautiful woman." He said it in velvet tones that set a little spider scrambling up Imogen's spine.
"In my dreams," said Imogen lightly. She laughed in a vain attempt to dismiss the unfamiliar feeling she was experiencing.
"No, seriously, you must have been approached to model at some point in your career?"
"Oh, yeah, sure I have. But that kind of modeling I can do without." She winked broadly and was sure she detected a rosy blush at his neck as he dismissed her innuendo with a shake of his head.
"I mean it." He looked at her with an intense gaze. "You are a beautiful woman. I would say in the classic Greek style. And we know how photogenic you are."
Gable was obviously referring to the flattering pictures in the magazine he had picked up in her apartment. She didn't remember mentioning her Greek heritage but she supposed the Mediterranean influence was pretty clear for anyone to see. Imogen scolded herself. What was she all of a sudden - a detective? Here she was alone with the most gorgeous man she had met in ages and she was looking for faults.
Chapter Four
Gable looked concerned. "I haven't upset you, have I?"
"Why would you think that? I'm just a little mystified, that’s all. I mean, we hardly know each other and I feel so… so comfortable with you." She raised her arm to join his on the back of the sofa and stretched her fingers to within an inch of his casual pose. He appeared to stiffen at the proximity of their hands and Imogen immediately bent her elbow to pull back her arm to a safer distance. Maybe it had been her little speech that had disturbed him. She had no knowledge of his circumstances. She could be treading on someone's toes.
"Comfortable? Is that a bad thing?"
"Not at all." She grinned mischievously. "Not as long as a woman can still expect a little danger and excitement from her man. Then comfortable is good. No woman wants to ride a roller coaster all her life."
"Like Karl Wainscott?"
Imogen was stunned. Just how much did Gable know about her life? And what business was it of his? She jerked her arm from the top of the sofa and sat bolt upright. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She turned angry eyes on his strained features. "You barely know me. What gives you the right to comment on my relationships? No matter how long ago they were."
Gable reacted like a frightened lamb. He opened his blue eyes wide, gathered his legs in front of him and pulled his arm from the top of the couch to clasp his hands nervously in his lap. "Imogen, I'm so, so sorry if I offended you. I don't know what I was thinking of. I read it somewhere. I apologize unreservedly. Please forgive me."
She looked into his eyes and immediately thought of a naughty boy caught handing in someone else's homework. She pinched her lips together feeling like a stern headmistress and considered his apology. She didn't have to think for very long. Gable had been caught in the act and begged for forgiveness. A random thought struck her as she strung out her judgment. Gable couldn't be jealous, could he? It seemed a fanciful notion. They had only known each other for a short space of time. Stranger things had happened. If Gable was experiencing anything like the same level of attraction as she was herself, then it was an unexpected result. She shook her head to bring herself down to earth. She was getting ahead of the game. She would have them walking down the aisle next. She softened her expression and passed sentence. "Okay, you're forgiven this time, but… "
"But what?"
"If we are going to be friends then we need some ground rules."
Gable pulled a smile at her emphasis on the word friends. "Just name them."
"Good. I like that.” She pulled back her shoulders and looked into his eyes. "We're not kids. We each have a past. You don't delve into mine and I won't drag up yours. That's all I ask, agreed?"
She extended a hand which Gable accepted, folded in strong fingers and held as he spoke. "Agreed.” He grinned boyishly. “I think I got off lightly."
"Not so lightly." Imogen frowned. "Another coffee would be nice." Then the smile she added put the incident firmly behind them.
Gable released Imogen's hand and scrambled to his feet. "Your wish is my command. Anything you ask is yours." It seemed his confidence had emerged undamaged
Imogen lifted her eyebrows before allowing her eyes to travel down from his delighted face to linger on his broad chest and continue down to his slim waist and well-filled jeans. Her eyes returned to his burning face. "I just might keep you to that.”
Gable took his punishment, picking up the tray and hurriedly leaving. He was apparently suffering a temporary loss of speech. Imogen lay back on the couch and laughed out loud. It was a joyful laugh that was spontaneous and infectious. Gable joined in from the kitchen. They were friends again. Imogen realized with amazement that they had just had their first tiff.
"Change the music please, Imogen. Don't worry about the woman downstairs, she's as deaf as a post!"
Imogen grinned and lifted herself from the sofa to change the CD. She picked out an Adele album and made sure to slip the Michael Bublé CD back in its proper place. Gable returned carrying coffee and fresh supplies of shortcake as Imogen cuddled up on the sofa. Gable spread himself at his end of the cushions as they settled down to talk.
"Tell me about your modeling career, Gable." She snuggled into a corner with her coffee gripped in two hands and her feet folded under her thighs.
"Are you sure you want to hear about it? It can be pretty boring stuff."
"Well, leave out all the boring stuff and go straight to the juicy bits."
"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. Let me see… Where do I start?"
Gable grinned to himself as he remembered an incident at a Milan fashion show that would make Imogen smile. He continued with Paris and New York, finishing with London and a tale of a double booking that had Imogen crying with laughter. When she had dried her cheeks he chose a couple of anecdotes of his life on fashion shoots around the globe. Imogen alternated between laughter and tears as she listened to stories of bandits and thieves. Then he told her tales of hysterical models and the breakdown of a famous director faced with the obstacle of a Russian interpreter that couldn't speak a word of English. Gable told his stories in a deadpan manner that dramatized the unexpected endings. He painted a vivid picture of the hardships encountered in achieving the perfect shot against the odds.
They had crept closer as the evening stretched into morning and tiredness had seeped into their limbs. Neither of them wanted to be the one to break the magic that cloaked their intimate conversation. But finally the words dried up. They leant back against the sofa and listened to a Best Love Songs in the Word compilation album that Gable had put on.
Imogen turned her sleepy eyes towards him. "You ought to write a book, Gable. If you could write your stories down as well as you tell them, I guarantee you'd have a best seller on your hands."
Gable laughed awkwardly. "I'm not much of a writer. "Telling a good tale is one thing but putting it down on paper without losing the impact is something else. It's not for me."
"I can put you in touch with someone who could ghost write it for you. You don't believe that pop stars write their own autobiographies, do you? Some of them can hardly string a coherent sentence together, let alone write a book. Just say the word and I'll set it up."
Gable rolled his head against the top of the
couch to raise one eyebrow at his stunning companion. Imogen’s eyes were shining and there was a glow to her cheeks that radiated enthusiasm. She was suddenly very much awake. She was siting on crossed legs in the centre of the cushions like a ground squirrel inspecting the skies. He gave her the benefit of a lazy smile. "No, really, Imogen. It's not something I'd ever consider. You know - names, places and the heat of the moment. I wouldn't want the backlash. I’d never work again."
"You could change the names to protect the guilty."
"Absolutely, definitely not. It’s out of the question."
Imogen sensed that Gable would not be swayed. "Okay, just as you say. But the offer stands if you change your mind." She was not about to pursue the subject and be accused of raking up the past when it had been her idea to ignore their previous lives.
"Thanks, Imogen. I’ll keep it in mind." He leant back his head with his long legs thrust out in front of him and a contented smile on his face.
"I've really enjoyed this evening," murmured Imogen. "You've been the perfect host."
Gable rested with his eyes closed and Imogen impulsively leaned across, catching a wave of warmth and masculine fragrance. She pressed a light kiss to his mouth and ran the tip of her tongue across his lips. He stayed motionless and Imogen pushed her luck. She dropped her hand to his groin and gently squeezed the not inconsiderable pouch of manhood in his jeans. His breathing slowed. She pulled down his zip and used her other hand to coax the thickening roll of flesh into the palm. She wrapped her fingers round his growing penis as Gable’s erection lifted itself like a dragon waking from sleep. She pumped him lightly until he stood pink and proud then dropped her head to the crimson helmet. Gable’s body was stiff as a board. He hadn’t moved or made a sound. Imogen flicked out her tongue to run it over the top before opening her mouth and engulfing the crown. She moved on him slowly, dropping over the ridge and taking a little of the shaft into her mouth before lifting her mouth in a sucking pull. Gable shifted uneasily. He gave an awkward cough. Imogen felt a surge of irritation. She twisted her head. Gable’s reaction wasn’t quite the one she’d hoped for. It couldn’t have been worse if she’d poked him with a cattle prod. His eyes held the alarm of a frightened calf. He looked decidedly uncomfortable with Imogen’s actions. She sat back as he struggled to his feet, turning his back towards her as he folded himself back inside his jeans. His breathing had become fast and shallow. Imogen worried that he was about to have a panic attack. She sat there saying nothing as he calmed himself down and looked at his watch. He twisted towards her with a look of horror on his face.