by Lucy King
‘OK, great.’ Luke grinned and sat back, his mission clearly accomplished. ‘Because if you weren’t up for babysitting, I’m not sure what we’d have done.’
Which only went to prove how subtly Jack had been finessed. Not that he cared about that at this particular moment. The sudden contraction of his muscles had nothing to do with being skilfully finessed. Nor did the pounding of his head and the rocketing of his heart rate.
No. The cause of all that was the thought now ricocheting around his brain to the annihilation of everything else: what if it wasn’t the end of the story?
Jack went hot, then cold, and felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine as the idea stopped racing round his head and began to take root.
Wow, he thought, his stomach churning. If it wasn’t and he did in fact consider Imogen unfinished business, then that would certainly explain his unease and his restlessness over the past twelve hours. Was it a coincidence that he’d started feeling like this the minute he’d left her? He didn’t think so.
As realisation dawned all the thoughts his subconscious had been keeping at bay broke though the fragile barrier it had erected and rained down on him.
If he’d done the right thing by getting out of that damn taxi last night, why had it felt the exact opposite? Why had he marched down that street towards his flat feeling as if he had hundred-tonne weights attached to his ankles? Why had the broken dreams he’d had during the moments of sleep he had managed to snatch been filled with such erotic images? Why did his blood heat and desire race though him at the mere thought of her? And why couldn’t he get the memory of her sprawled against him as the taxi had pulled away, her mouth inches from his and her hand clamped to his thigh, out of his head?
Oh, yes, he thought grimly, that definitely sounded like unfinished business.
‘But I can’t help wondering why.’
‘Why what?’ said Jack, dazed by the intensity with which he ached to finish what he’d started with Imogen.
‘Why you aren’t seeing her again. I’ve heard she’s very pretty.’
Imogen was more than pretty. She was beautiful, contrary, fascinating and as sexy as hell, and there was no point in denying it. A wave of heat rocked through him and he shifted on the chair to ease the pressure building in his lower body. ‘She is.’
‘Then what’s wrong with her?’
Jack inwardly winced. ‘She’s just not my type,’ he muttered, thinking that Luke might be his best friend but there was no way he was about to confess how badly he’d crashed and burned.
‘Not your type? She has a pulse, doesn’t she?’
‘Ha-ha.’ Jack frowned and tried to ignore the sting of the seriously lame joke.
‘Sorry. I couldn’t resist.’
‘Well, try.’
Luke’s eyebrows shot up at the sharp tone of Jack’s voice, as well they might. Luke, who was one of the few people who knew Jack wasn’t as dissolute as he’d have everyone believe, often took the mickey. Usually it never bothered him, so why did it now?
Telling himself to get a grip, Jack shot his friend an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just knackered.’
‘No problem,’ said Luke with a quick smile of his own. ‘I shouldn’t have brought her up in the first place.’
Jack sighed and pushed his hands through his hair. ‘If you must know, I did ask her out. She turned me down.’
‘God, why?’
‘She disapproved of my reputation.’
‘I see.’ Luke nodded. Tilted his head and frowned. ‘Didn’t you set her straight?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I don’t get it. What happened?’
Jack resisted the urge to grind his teeth. That was a billion-dollar question, and the one he’d been avoiding ever since he’d made the decision to get out of that taxi, if he was being brutally honest.
The truth of it was that he’d got spooked. He’d known that Imogen was as attracted to him as he was to her. He’d seen and heard the evidence. Hell, he’d even told her she wanted him.
But had he taken advantage of it? No. Instead, he’d opted for the easy way out, dogged by the weird sensation that Imogen was somehow dangerous. That she could very easily pose some kind of threat to his peace of mind if he got involved with her.
Which was absurd, he thought, conjuring up the image of her sitting there eyes wide and darkening with heat as he leaned in close to set her straight. The woman was as much of a threat as a marshmallow, and his overreaction had been melodramatic to say the least.
But then why wouldn’t it have been? Over the course of a matter of hours he’d had to endure agony-inducing art, been struck by the severest case of lust he’d had in a long time, had had an invitation to dinner hurled back in his face, suffered a jab to the ribs and then been accused of being arrogant and cold.
With such a battering assault on his senses was it any wonder his equilibrium had been somewhat off?
But now, however, he could see that Imogen was just one in a long line of women who’d caught his eye. She was business he badly wanted to finish, that was all.
‘I was an idiot,’ said Jack, feeling the restlessness and tension ease from his body at the burgeoning notion of pursuing and capturing Imogen.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Track her down.’
And when he did he’d make her acknowledge the attraction that flared between them if it was the last thing he did. He’d employ every tactic he knew—and he knew plenty—and by the time he was through with her, she’d be begging him to take her in his arms and assuage the ache he’d stir up in her.
‘How?’
‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Jack said, telling himself that with the energy and focus suddenly spreading through him it wouldn’t present too much of a problem.
‘Need any help?’
Jack caught the trace of yearning in Luke’s voice and grinned. Years ago the two of them had been a lethal double act in their pursuit of women, but now he operated alone. ‘Thanks,’ he said and glanced over at the approaching waiter, ‘but I should be able to manage.’
CHAPTER SIX
TONIGHT was going to be grim, thought Imogen for the billionth time that Friday. Utterly grim, and if she hadn’t been the only person available to represent her family at tonight’s Valentine’s Day Ball, she’d have stayed at home, curled up with a good book and a glass of wine.
For one thing she was exhausted. Not because she’d been putting in sixteen-hour days at work or anything. Her lowly nine-to-five job in the funding department at the Christie Trust—which she’d only been given because of who she was—wasn’t, unfortunately, hugely demanding.
And not because she’d been out until the early hours, either, as in an effort to avoid Max and Connie she’d largely shunned the social scene ever since they’d got together.
No. The cause of her restless nights was Jack.
To her intense, teeth-grinding frustration, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head. The minute she closed her eyes at night, there he was, frazzling her brain with his voice, his eyes, his scent and the feel of his hand on her mouth.
As if disturbing her dreams wasn’t bad enough, he had an annoying tendency to invade her thoughts during the day, too. Often at the most inconvenient times. Like yesterday when she’d been in the supermarket contemplating what to buy for supper. She’d been lurking in the frozen food aisle and eyeing up the pizzas when, completely apropos of nothing, the image of him in the back of the taxi had flown into her head.
However, in her now hyperactive imagination, Jack hadn’t got out. In her mind’s eye the driver had magically disappeared and Jack had stayed put. With a smouldering smile, he’d pulled her towards him and kissed her until her stomach disappeared and she forgot her name. And then he’d done all manner of indescribably delicious things to her with his hands that had had her temperature rocketing and her knees turning to jelly right there by the frozen peas.
I
f it hadn’t been for the shop assistant asking if she was all right and bringing her crashing back down to earth, she’d have found herself hopping into the freezer to cool off.
It really had to stop because she’d come to the unwelcome and disturbing conclusion that she was developing a seriously unhealthy obsession with Jack.
Why else would she have got hold of Amanda Hobbs’ details in Italy the morning after the art exhibition and called her to wheedle out the truth?
Why else had she spent hours fantasising about him when she’d managed to convince herself that she’d never be seeing him again?
Why else had she had to unplug her laptop and stuff it in a cupboard at home if not to stop herself from doing a Google search on him relentlessly?
And why else had she endlessly tortured herself with the acknowledgement that her wanting him wasn’t the only thing he’d been right about?
Imogen sighed and nibbled on her lip as once again her thoughts helplessly barrelled off in that direction. Jack had been right about everything else he’d pointed out too. She had misjudged him. Even in her frazzled state she’d managed to work that out. Her reputation was hugely exaggerated—if not completely inaccurate—so why wouldn’t his be, too? Frankly some of the stuff she’d heard had been so outlandish she’d thought at the time that it had to be fabricated.
Not that that made him a saint, of course, but if Jack really was a louche layabout he wouldn’t be heading up one of the most successful investment companies in the country, would he? And yes, he might have had more than his fair share of women, but a man who looked like that, had a voice like that and such charismatic magnetism would.
And that meant that perhaps she’d made a mistake in rejecting his offer of dinner quite so out of hand.
The taxi she’d called to take her to the five-star hotel overlooking Hyde Park hurtled round a corner as if on two wheels and Imogen, too lost in thought to grab onto the handle in time, crashed into the side. Which didn’t hurt, but did bring her careering back to her senses.
God, she was doing it again, she thought, rubbing her shoulder and then checking her hair. Obsessing over Jack when there was absolutely no point. Even if she had reached the realisation that he was nothing like Max and might quite like the idea of joining his bevy of conquests, it was far too late.
Besides, Jack Taylor was way out of her league in every respect, and she hadn’t exactly put herself across in the best of lights that evening.
Imogen closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples as she fought a rising blush and tried to calm down. Not that there was much hope of that when her stomach was churning, her head was pounding and her nerves were wound so tight she thought they might be about to snap.
Because her sense of impending doom about this evening wasn’t entirely down to exhaustion. Or her frustration at her inability to wipe Jack from her brain.
As if either of those factors weren’t enough to tempt her to tell the taxi driver to take her back home and dive under her duvet, she also had to deal with the fact that tonight it was almost inevitable she’d come face to face with Max and Connie. She’d seen their names on the guest list, and in a crowd of a hundred there’d be little place to hide. And she wouldn’t be able to avoid the whispers and sidelong glances that were bound to be cast her way, either.
Sensing the taxi coming to a halt, Imogen opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Never mind, she told herself, getting out and stiffening her spine. All she had to do was keep her cool and remain poised, and everything would be fine.
Adjusting her stole and rubbing her teeth to remove any errant lipstick, she opened the door and, with a grace that years of practice had bestowed on her, got out. She flashed a blinding smile at a loitering photographer and then made her way up the wide stone steps and through the huge glass doors.
This was an important night for the trust, she reminded herself, holding her head high as she shrugged off the stole and handed it to the waiting attendant. Stashing the ticket she received in return in her clutch bag and giving the attendant a beaming smile of thanks, she walked across the black-and-white-chequered marble floor towards the handful of people who’d already arrived. The annual Valentine’s Day Ball raised thousands, if not millions, for good causes, and she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise that.
She’d given herself a string of hearty pep talks and gone over how she’d behave and what she’d say a thousand times. Should she happen to bump into either Max or Connie, or heaven forbid the two of them together, she’d resist the urge to claw their eyes out and instead would be charming, witty and chatty. The life and soul of the party, in fact. She’d show everyone that she couldn’t care less about what they’d done, or how much they’d hurt her, because she was over it.
‘Imogen?’
At the sound of the familiar female voice behind her, Imogen froze. Her heart thumped and her blood roared in her ears before shooting to her feet. As if in slow motion, she turned.
And there they were. Max and Connie. Standing right in front of her, arms linked, clinging to each other like limpets and grinning like maniacs. Connie’s hand was wrapped around Max’s arm and the whopping diamond on the third finger of her left hand sparkled as if on fire.
Feeling as if someone had walloped her in the solar plexus and then sucked all the air from around her, Imogen looked from Connie to Max and back again. And to her horror, her vision blurred, her throat closed over and her head went completely and utterly blank.
Aha, thought Jack with a surge of satisfaction as he scanned the lobby of the hotel and spotted Imogen. There she was. Over there by the fireplace. Standing next to a tall, dark-haired man and a short blonde woman.
Excellent.
It seemed that his mother, for once in her shallow, flaky life, had actually come up with the goods.
Calling her to make discreet enquiries about when and where he might find Imogen had been something of a last resort. However, despite assuring Luke he’d manage perfectly well alone, tracking Imogen down had proved trickier than he’d thought.
After lunch he’d gone back to the office, his mind trawling through the options and discarding each one almost as soon as it entered his head. Chasing around London on the off chance of bumping into her he’d deemed inefficient and unlikely to result in success. Obtaining her contact details and sending her an email or giving her a call would give her the chance to ignore him. And if he’d pitched up on her doorstep, her stalking accusation might actually have held some merit.
Which had left him with no alternative but to try his mother. He’d figured that no one knew the London social scene better—with her penchant for partying ‘til dawn with men younger than he was, she’d had enough practice—and if anyone knew where Imogen was going to be it was her.
Not that he’d needed to be subtle when making his enquiries, he thought, adjusting his bow tie as he weaved his way towards Imogen. His mother was so self-absorbed she’d never spare the time to wonder why her son would be asking about the whereabouts of a girl.
Of course, there wasn’t anything particularly newsworthy about the fact that he had. His wanting to track Imogen down wasn’t a big deal. So what if he’d never cared in the past about who knew who he was dating? And so what if he’d previously sought a girl’s contact details from friends and acquaintances without a care for the gossip doing so might generate?
With the possibility of Imogen’s resistance being a large obstacle in his intention to make a conquest of her, this operation required delicacy. Subtlety. A different approach.
And one that required his full focus, he reminded himself, keeping her in his line of sight. Focus that mustn’t be derailed at any cost. Especially not by the spectacular way she looked.
As he got closer he could see that she was wearing a strapless black full-length dress that clung everywhere and had a split up to the top of her thigh. Her hair was swept up and looked like spun gold. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ear lobes.
&
nbsp; A weaker man would have been dazzled. A weaker man would have cast aside any tactics he might have had, fallen to his knees at her feet and begged her for a smile. Luckily for him and his life-long adherence to strategy, Jack had self-control and strength in spades and didn’t possess one iota of weakness.
Although actually, he thought, narrowing his eyes as something about the tense set of her shoulders snagged his attention, Imogen wasn’t looking quite as radiant as she should be. In fact, she was looking rather pale. Somewhat stunned. And increasingly as if she was going to pass out.
He quickened his pace, concern rushing through him at the realisation that something was badly wrong.
‘Imogen?’ he said, coming to a halt a foot from her and steeling himself against the effect she’d have on him if he let her. ‘Are you all right?’
For a moment she simply stared at him, her eyes huge and troubled, and he had the strangest feeling that she was looking straight through him. But then, just when he was beginning to get really worried by her pallor, she blinked. Pulled her shoulders back, gave herself a quick shake and then shot him a stunning smile.
‘Jack, darling,’ she purred, and to his astonishment reached up, wrapped a hand around his neck and planted a kiss at the corner of his mouth. ‘You made it.’
At the brush of her lips so soft and full and so tantalisingly close to his own and at the touch of her hand on his neck, Jack felt as if he’d been electrocuted. Her breast was squashed up against his arm, her body was warm and soft against his, and her scent was intoxicating. She shot every one of his senses to pieces and blew his strategy to smithereens, and he wanted nothing more than to haul her into the shadows and tug that mouth to his properly. So he could explore it with his, thoroughly and at length.
She drew back, her eyes dark and now sparkling, and Jack ruthlessly stamped out the urge. Strength and self-control, he reminded himself. Strength and self-control. Because right now he wasn’t here to show her how pointless denying the chemistry they shared was. He was here to help.