The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) (9 page)

“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.

J
ulian 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 feel 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.

“
W
hat 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 still 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.

By the time he entered the penthouse suite, he was ready to collapse. He deposited his bag with his laptop on the console table by the foyer and found Imogen seated in the living room, shoulders stiff, waiting for him for quite awhile by the looks of it.

She stood up abruptly the minute she saw him.

With a flash of intuition
he knew why she had been waiting for him. His leg knocked against something in his haste to reach her and he landed on his arse on the floor.

“Julian!” he heard her gasp, and then her face was above his, concern furrowing her brow. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.”
He twisted and lifted his head to see what caused his mishap. His head sank back on the carpeted floor. “You’re leaving?”

She bit a corner of her lower lip, glancing at the overnight bag that gave him grief. “Yes. I’m going to Kansas. To my aunt.” Then she turned back to him and frowned. “Julian, you don’t look good.”

“I’m fine,” he repeated, getting to his feet unsteadily. She couldn’t leave. He hadn’t started his campaign yet. “You can stay here as long as you like.” He deposited himself on one of the couches.

“I’m not going to overstay my welcome.”

“You’re not going to overstay your welcome. Most of the time I’m not even here.” He gestured to the coffee table where the fish tank had center stage prominence. “What about Clark?” She looked guilty. “You can’t just abandon him!”

“I can’t take him with me on the Greyhound to Kansas. Mrs. Nero can take care of him, right?”

Not.“
Mrs. Nero doesn’t come in every day when I’m not in L.A.” He didn’t give her time to find a way out of her predicament. “I might have to fly out to Hong Kong next week...”

As expected, she appeared torn. She gnawed on her lip. This was like taking candy from a child, Julian almost felt guilty. Almost.

“I’ll reimburse your ticket,” he said, his eyes drawn to her mouth. And then he knew what would make her stay. “Look, can we have this discussion some other time? I’m feeling a bit tired.” He rose from the couch sluggishly. He thought about acting, but he was surprised when indeed he felt lethargic.

In a heartbeat, Imogen was at his side. “Let me help you to your room.”

“I’m perfectly fine−” he protested automatically, but the words died in his throat as she touched his neck with the back of her hand. He flinched at the unexpected contact.

“You’re hot!”

“Thank you. I’m glad you think so.” Her clean shampoo smell wafted to his nostrils and he wanted to take another sniff. Hell, but his throat felt scratchy.

She rolled her eyes. “This is so not the time to get a sense of humor!”

She shepherded him to his room where he sat on the edge of his bed. She just stood staring at him, her hands on her waist, as if she didn’t know what to do with him.

“What am I going to do with you?” she said.

They were already reading each other’s thoughts and Julian hadn’t even started the first step of his campaign, which was to let her know how well they would get on.

“I caught this bug from you.” Lay on the guilt. He shrugged off his coat. He noted with satisfaction that she took a few steps back.

The second part of his campaign was to push her physical awareness of him out in the open once more. He thought he’d have more time—but since she’d wanted to leave ASAP—he’d exploit his very timely illness to his advantage.

“You can’t prove it.”

“No shirking your duties.” He speared her with a level gaze.

“My duties?”

“Time to play nurse, Imogen,” he said, putting on the pressure.

I
mogen’s mouth opened
, but it was after several attempts before a word came out. “No!” she burst out. “I can’t-I mean-I don’t know how to–” she threw her hands in the air in frustration. She couldn’t risk being around Julian longer than she had to. “Mrs. Nero will take care of you.” And then she worried her bottom lip. Julian’s gaze fixed on it, so she stopped.

The missing Mrs. Nero since she didn’t come in today.

“I forgot to tell you. She called in sick,” a triumphant-sounding Julian announced. “You’re a regular typhoid Mary. I wonder how many you’ve infected.”

“Oh, bugger off.” She knew she sounded surly. Looking after Julian wasn’t the problem. Her problem was how much secret pleasure the chance to stay a few more days with him brought her.

He started shucking off his shoes carelessly and then stripped off his socks. Imogen was rooted to the spot, watching in fascination as he then started to undo his tie. His fingers quickly worked on the buttons of his white shirt. Her breathing grew shallow as glimpses of a taut, tanned chest grew more expansive.

“Where is your m-medicine kit?” she stammered. She had to get away and stop ogling him like he was doing a strip show.

He paused and looked up. He was down to the last button. “In the bathroom.”

Imogen shied away from her reflection as she opened the mirrored hanging cabinet to look for some acetaminophen. She didn’t want to confirm she was as red as a beet. She filled a glass of water from the tap and went back inside just as Julian was climbing underneath the sheets. She caught a side view of his lean, fit torso and long, muscled leg. He had kept his underwear on. Thank goodness!

“Here,” she handed him the glass and tablet gingerly, careful not to touch him. “I need Dr. Martin’s number.”

He swallowed it without complaint. “No need. This is just your garden-variety flu,” he self-diagnosed in his typical assured fashion. The blanket loosely covered him from the waist down.

“It will ease my mind if he took a look at you.” She wanted to yank the covers up. His chest was distracting her. “Can I get you anything? Orange juice? Some soup?”
A shirt?

“I just need to sleep it off. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

But he wasn’t.

He tossed and turned and kicked off the sheets when his fever went up but shivered when his temperature came down again. He eyed her balefully when she gave him his pill and refused to eat some of the frozen soup she had reheated that Mrs. Nero had stocked in the freezer, telling her it tasted like sock washings. He gave her a bloodshot glare when she countered where he had tasted sock washings before. He grumbled that he didn’t need medication and ordered her to leave him in peace to sleep. He was a horrible patient. Imogen wanted to bop him on the head to add to his throbbing headache.

By late evening, despite the acetaminophen, his fever refused to go down so she was forced to go through his mobile contact list to get Dr. Martin’s number.

The young, good-looking doctor frowned when she opened the door to the penthouse suite. He looked as if he was trying to place her.

“Thank you for coming,” she greeted.

“Imogen!” His eyes crinkled in pleasure behind his spectacles. He was wearing a sports coat and jeans. The ear tips of a stethoscope peeked out of one of the coat pockets. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you immediately.”

“I’m sure I looked like a fright when I was sick. I wouldn’t have recognized myself either,” she said self-deprecatingly.

“No. I just wasn’t expecting you. And I was just running some figures in my head…” he trailed off. “I thought it was Mrs. Nero who had sent the SMS.”

Imogen remembered she hadn’t identified herself when she had texted the doctor. She had been interrupted by a loud thump from Julian’s bedroom and had gone to investigate, firing off the message in haste. Julian had accidentally knocked the books on his night table to the carpeted floor.

“Mrs. Nero’s sick, too.”

His brows lifted.

“I know. I know. I’m a regular typhoid Mary. That’s what Julian said.”

“He can’t prove you’re the one who infected him unless you both get a blood exam and a polymerase chain reaction done to specify the virus strain.” He turned sheepish, as if realizing how geeky he sounded.

“That’s exactly what I told Julian!” Imogen said brightly.

Lukas Martin appeared stunned. “You said that?”

“Er, it was a joke.”

There was awkward silence.

Lukas cleared his throat. “How’s the patient?”

“Stubborn, arrogant, and grumpy.”

“Oh, that’s his chronic condition.” He grinned. “I meant his fever.”

Imogen smiled back. “He’s still hot.”

“That’s weird,” Lukas Martin muttered. “He does absolutely nothing for me.”

Imogen burst out laughing. The doctor had a sense of humor, after all.

“
W
hat are you doing here
?” Julian grunted. Lukas’s examination had woken him up.

“Just inhale and exhale, Your Grace,” Lukas winked at Imogen as he moved his stethoscope over Julian’s broad, bare chest. He still refused to wear a shirt, much to Imogen’s distress. She had to clench her hands into fists every time she entered his room to stop herself from running them all over his smooth torso.

“How did the meeting with NeoCortex go?” Julian demanded, refusing to do as the doctor told him to.

Lukas ignored him and went about with his examination, unperturbed. He peered down Julian’s throat despite his protestations. Imogen had to admire Lukas Martin’s bedside manners.

“The good news is his throat and lungs are clear, so it’s just the flu.” Julian shot her a smug but irritated I-told-you-so glare. “You can just give him round-the-clock acetaminophen and plenty of fluids.”

“The bad news is,” Lukas paused, his countenance turning grim so that Imogen’s chest tightened, “he’s still surly and bad-tempered. I’m afraid that’s incurable.”

Imogen stifled her giggles while Lukas grinned at his own cleverness. Julian gave them both the evil eye, red-rimmed, though.

“But Dr. Martin, what do I do if his fever’s still up and his next dose of acetaminophen is not yet due?”

“Call me Lukas.”

Julian rolled his eyes.

“You can cool him down with a sponge bath.”

Imogen gulped. She glanced at Julian.

Her patient was wearing an evil grin.