The Couple Behind the Headlines (7 page)

Which he knew was true because relationships and cohabitation didn’t feature in his game plan. Never had done and never would, even if he wanted them to. Which he didn’t.

Jack watched Imogen blink as her brain processed the information, and he felt her mouth move. Without taking his eyes off hers for a second he leaned a fraction closer. ‘That’s right,’ he said silkily. ‘Whatever Amanda is doing in Italy, it isn’t getting over me. OK?’

She tilted her head a little, stared at him for what felt like ages, then nodded.

‘And while we’re at it,’ he murmured, thinking he might as well set her straight on a few other things, too, seeing as he had her here, ‘my reputation, unlike my ego,
is
over-inflated.’

That was evidently one fact too many to digest, Jack
thought, watching as Imogen’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t believe me?’ he said, tutting in mock disappointment.

She narrowed her eyes then shook her head.

‘I see,’ Jack said, nodding and frowning as if in deep thought. ‘I’ve heard that you’re shallow and vacuous. Nothing more than a party girl who leads an utterly pointless life.’ She tensed and narrowed her eyes even further. ‘I guess that’s all true, too.’

At the fiery dagger-shooting glare she gave him, he added with feigned ignorance, ‘You mean it isn’t?’

She shook her head again.

‘I see. So why would things be different for me?’

He waited while she thought it over. And when she shrugged, he leaned forwards a fraction and murmured, ‘Perhaps I’m not as bad as you’d like me to be.’

He felt a shudder run through her. Saw her eyes darken, thought he felt her mouth open, and lust burst through him.

Visions of what might happen if they were both as bad as could be bombarded his head, and again he wanted to slide his hand down her neck round to her nape and pull her head towards him. He wanted to slam his mouth down on hers and wrap her in his arms and assuage this desire that itched inside him.

Which would be the worst idea on the planet.

Quite why, Jack couldn’t fathom. If his reputation was largely fabricated, there was every chance hers was too. Despite what he’d heard, Imogen certainly didn’t come across as shallow and vacuous. She came across as spiky, fearless and utterly intriguing.

So if her reputation
was
as fabricated as his, there wasn’t anything stopping him from suggesting dinner again. Nothing to stop him persuading her to acknowledge the attraction that sizzled between them and nothing to stop them pursuing it.

Nothing, that was, apart from the weird warning flag that was waving frantically in his brain. The one that had taken
up residence the minute the words ‘
this
one’ had popped into his head when he’d first shaken her hand and was now insisting on being noticed. The one that had his blood chilling and his stomach clutching with something that felt suspiciously like panic.

Not that he ever suffered from panic, of course. No. On reflection, that odd sensation was undoubtedly hunger. But still …

Jack cleared his throat and drew back a little. It would probably be an idea to bring this whole evening to a close. He’d found out what Imogen’s problem was, and had rectified it. He’d done what he’d set out to do and there was no need to stick around. In fact, he should get out. Now. While the taxi was stationary at the lights.

‘OK,’ he said with a firmness designed to convince himself as much as her. ‘Is that it? Are we done with the accusations?’

She nodded.

‘Sure?’

She nodded again.

‘Then I’ll say goodnight.’

And before he could change his mind, he whipped his hand from her mouth, opened the door and leapt out.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HAT
Jack had got out of the taxi when he had was a good thing, Imogen told herself, pummelling her pillow into shape a few hours later, then flinging herself back and staring up at the ceiling. Definitely a good thing.

Because if he hadn’t …

As the scene in the taxi slammed into her head all over again, she shivered beneath the thick duvet and threw her arms over her head in frustration. What might have happened if he hadn’t was precisely what she’d been trying
not
to think about all evening. And failing miserably.

Not that that was any surprise. She could still feel the imprint of his hand clamped over her mouth. Her lips still tingled. Her skin still burned. She could still remember how dizzy with desire she’d been at the intoxicating nearness of him. Desire that had been whipping through her long before he’d leaned forwards and touched her, and still was.

The moment she’d got home, she’d decided she might as well try to get on with the things she’d planned. She’d poured herself a glass of wine and run herself a bath, but neither had had the intended effect. The wine had tasted like acid in her mouth and the bath had merely heightened the buzzing in her body to such a degree that not even the bubbles could disguise the effects of the lingering traces of desire.

And as for daydreaming about life in the States, well, that
had been utterly pointless. Every time she told herself to concentrate on what might happen if she was really lucky and they accepted her, she’d found herself fantasising about Jack instead.

It hadn’t helped that her brain kept rehashing the latter part of their encounter, starting with the minute she’d brought up the whole
greatsexguaranteed
thing. Of all the places she could have begun … Imogen let out a soft wail and threw one arm across her eyes. Who knew what he must have made of
that
?

Naturally, once she’d mentioned it, it was all she’d been able to think about. Great sex. With Jack. Guaranteed. Even when she’d been calling him arrogant and cold and callous she’d been going so hot and tingly that she’d wanted nothing more than to hurl herself onto his lap and ravish him.

Once he’d covered her mouth she’d tried to concentrate on all those questions, all those very valid points of his, but his voice had been so soft and so low that she’d felt hypnotised and she rather thought she couldn’t have said a word even if his hand hadn’t been in the way.

In fact, the only things that had stopped her tearing his fingers away and launching herself at him right there and then had been the presence of the taxi driver and her distaste of exhibitionism.

Imogen sighed again and gave up, because there was little point in denying it. She wanted him and had done from the moment they’d met. He’d certainly been right about
that
.

Not that it mattered one way or the other any more, she thought, scowling up at the ceiling. There she’d been, going all soft and swoony, coming to the realisation that struggling to control the desire racing through her body was like trying to paddle against the current, and wondering if giving in would really be so bad, and he’d been planning his escape.

Which with hindsight was completely understandable. Her behaviour, rattled by the effect he had on her and the events
of the afternoon, had been unbelievably deranged and if she’d been in his position she’d have done exactly the same.

Imogen screwed her eyes tight shut and pulled the duvet over her head as if that might somehow obliterate the memories and the images because all in all the whole evening had been mortifying and she’d give anything to be able to forget every ghastly second.

The only reason she wasn’t going to give in to the temptation to barricade herself in her bedroom for the next ten years was the knowledge that she had no need to lay eyes on him ever again.

Something was wrong, thought Jack the next day, running a finger around the inside of his collar, and shifting on his chair as he tried to concentrate on the menu.

Very wrong.

Maybe he was coming down with something. A cold. The flu. Pneumonia perhaps. Whatever.
Something
had to account for the achiness and the restlessness that had invaded his body some time during the night.

Usually he had no problem sleeping. Usually he crashed out the minute his head hit the pillow and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. But last night he’d slept terribly. He’d tossed and turned, then prowled and paced around his bedroom until he’d finally given up and gone to the office.

However, given that he’d been in since six, he’d achieved remarkably little. All morning he’d been feeling on edge. He’d growled at his secretary, when he never normally growled, barked unfairly at one of his traders, and had made some stupidly rash investment decisions.

Eventually, unable to stand the four walls of his office and the tension any longer, and realising he could do some serious damage to his funds—and his team—if he stuck around when he was in this perplexing mood, he’d called Luke and dragged him out for lunch.

‘So what’s up?’

At the sound of Luke’s voice, Jack jerked himself out of his dark thoughts and glanced up to find his friend staring at him with avid curiosity.

‘Nothing’s up,’ he said. ‘What makes you think anything’s up?’

‘Well, the fact that you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve been saying for the past five minutes is a bit of a clue.’

God, had it been that long? ‘Sorry,’ Jack muttered and frowned.

What was going on? He never felt like this. Never lost track of conversations. On the contrary, his ability to stay focused at all times was legendary. It was what had made him millions. And he never normally had such trouble ordering off a menu, either.

Hmm. Maybe he ought to grovel to his secretary and ask her very kindly to make an appointment with the doctor, because he couldn’t go on like this. He’d drive himself demented and his business into the ground. ‘I was miles away.’

‘Clearly,’ Luke said. ‘Visiting anywhere interesting?’

Feeling distinctly uneasy at the glint in Luke’s eyes, Jack pulled himself together. He had no intention of discussing his symptoms. He’d sound nuts. Besides, it was probably nothing. Everyone had a bad night once in a while, didn’t they? He was just suffering from lack of sleep and overwork. That was all. And he’d have the steak.

‘Nowhere at all,’ he said, snapping the menu shut and fixing the easy life’s-a-breeze smile that he’d mastered from an early age to his face. ‘So what were you saying?’

‘Just checking you’re still on for Saturday.’

Ah. At the thought of Saturday and Daisy, Jack’s smile turned genuine. In a moment of recklessness he’d offered to babysit his god-daughter while Luke and Emily went to a wedding in Cornwall.

What he thought he’d been doing he had no idea. He had
zero experience of looking after three-year-old girls and had no desire to do so on any kind of a regular basis. But Luke’s parents were out of the country, and Emily’s sister was busy, and when, with a slightly desperate note to her voice, Emily had told him that she didn’t trust anyone else but him, he hadn’t been able to resist.

Personally, Jack thought her trust in him was highly misplaced, but, although he’d never admit it, he’d do pretty much anything for Luke and Emily, and sacrificing a Saturday night for his gorgeous god-daughter wasn’t exactly a hardship. ‘Of course I’m still on for Saturday.’

‘Because if you had other plans,’ said Luke conversationally, ‘I’m sure we could work something out.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘OK.’ Luke grinned and turned his attention to his own menu. ‘But if you change your mind all you have to do is let us know.’

‘Thanks, but I won’t.’

‘Just offering you a get-out clause if you need one.’

Jack fought the urge to grind his teeth. What the hell was this? He didn’t need a get-out clause. He might have his faults, but backing out of an arrangement—especially one that concerned the only two people in the world whose loyalty and friendship he could count on—wasn’t one of them.

And Luke knew that, which meant that this conversation had some sort of agenda.

‘If there’s a point you’re trying to make, Luke,’ said Jack, sitting back and bracing himself, ‘why don’t you come out and make it?’

‘Fine.’ Luke grinned and looked up. ‘I was just thinking that if you wanted to take a certain Imogen Christie out on Saturday night instead of babysitting Daisy, all you have to do is say. I’m sure we can make other arrangements.’

Jack went still, any semblance of relaxed ease evaporating. ‘What makes you think I’d want to take Imogen Christie out on Saturday night?’

‘Only that this morning Emily had a call from a friend of hers who spotted the two of you at an art exhibition last night. Chatting and then getting into a taxi and looking extremely cosy.’

Cosy?
Cosy? Cosy
was the last thing it had been. This friend had clearly missed the ‘victim devouring’ comment. ‘I see.’

‘Apparently she was after all the gory details.’