‘Jack Taylor.’ He held out his hand.

‘Imogen Christie,’ she said, taking it.

For a moment she was so startled by the feel of his hand wrapped around hers and the energy that suddenly spun through her that the name didn’t register. She was too busy marvelling at the way every nerve-ending she possessed tingled, the way her whole body was suddenly coming alive, and thinking about how much fun dinner was going to be.

But when it did, seconds later, her smile froze and her stomach disappeared. Her heart sank and the heat pounding through her turned to ice.

Jack Taylor? Not the Jack Taylor? Not the one she’d read about? Heard about … Been warned about …

How typical was that? She reluctantly pulled her hand out of his as disappointment washed through her.

According to the financial press the man was some kind of investment superstar. He made millions on a daily basis, backing ventures most people wouldn’t touch with a bargepole and taking risks considered to be either insane or genius, depending on one’s point of view. His funds were huge and his successes were global.

As, apparently, were his extra-curricular activities.

According to her friends, and the kind of press that favoured gossip over finance, Jack Taylor was legendary. He was gorgeous and charming. Smooth and charismatic, yet ice-cool and elusive. He was, by all accounts, a true heartbreaker.

About the Author

LUCY KING spent her formative years lost in the world of Mills & Boon® romance when she really ought to have been paying attention to her teachers. Up against sparkling heroines, gorgeous heroes and the magic of falling in love, trigonometry and absolute ablatives didn’t stand a chance.

But as she couldn’t live in a dream world for ever she eventually acquired a degree in languages and an eclectic collection of jobs. A stroll to the River Thames one Saturday morning led her to her very own hero. The minute she laid eyes on the hunky rower getting out of a boat, clad only in Lycra and carrying a three-metre oar as if it was a toothpick, she knew she’d met the man she was going to marry. Luckily the rower thought the same.

She will always be grateful to whatever it was that made her stop dithering and actually sit down to type Chapter One, because dreaming up her own sparkling heroines and gorgeous heroes is pretty much her idea of the perfect job.

Originally a Londoner, Lucy now lives in Spain, where she spends much of the time reading, failing to finish cryptic crosswords, and trying to convince herself that lying on the beach really is the best way to work.

Visit her at www.lucykingbooks.com

Recent titles by the same author:

SAY IT WITH DIAMONDS

THE CROWN AFFAIR

PROPOSITIONED BY THE BILLIONAIRE

BOUGHT: DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Couple

Behind the

Headlines

Lucy King

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For William

CHAPTER ONE

TWO hundred and fifty thousand pounds?

Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?

Imogen gaped at the catalogue, her jaw practically hitting the floor. It had to be a mistake. A typo or something. Because surely no one could be expected to fork out a quarter of a million pounds for that … that thing.

Bracing herself, she turned back, stared at the canvas hanging on the wall, and winced. ‘The Sting in Society’ was so eye-poppingly ugly it made every cell in her body shrivel in protest. So primitive it looked as if it had been executed by her five-year-old nephew in one of his tantrums. So absolutely hideous that not even the copious amounts of vintage champagne on offer could dent its impact.

And it was enormous. The artist, who’d splashed a blaze of clashing colours onto the canvas in a seemingly random fashion, clearly felt his creativity was too great to contain, which while undoubtedly satisfying some sort of artistic bent for himself, was excruciating for everyone else.

It would be one thing if ‘The Sting in Society’ were a one-off. That she could just about deal with while fulfilling her aim to take every advantage of the free-flowing champagne. But it wasn’t. The plain white walls of the gallery were littered with the things. Beneath unforgivably bright lights hung two dozen canvases, all splattered with the same great swathes of colours, all equally dreadful, and all going for the same mind-blowing sums of money.

Imogen grimaced. She was the first to admit that she was no expert on modern art, but in her opinion whatever its worth, the whole lot should be consigned to the Thames.

Not that anyone else appeared to think so, she thought, glancing around at the trendily dressed throng. Everywhere she looked, people milled about, tilting their heads and tapping index fingers against their mouths while spouting esoteric nonsense about allegory and metaphysics.

Swinging her gaze back to the piece she was standing in front of, Imogen stifled a shudder. It was madness, she mused, narrowing her eyes as she tried to work out its appeal and failed. Complete insanity.

Who in their right mind would pay that amount of money for such a horrendous thing anyway?

She mentally ran through a list of all the things a quarter of a million pounds could achieve. Only yesterday her department had had to allocate exactly that sum to one of the projects run by the Christie Trust, and the options were still fresh in her memory. Spending it on an eye-watering splatter of colours had not, strangely enough, been one of them.

But then what did she know about anything?

Imogen took a step back, bit her lip and frowned. Recent events had proved that her judgement sucked. Big time. So who was she to decide whether or not this stuff was any good? As bizarre as she might think it, little red dots were popping up next to the paintings like chicken pox, so the evidence appeared to be speaking for itself.

Which only hammered home the painful realisation that her judgement was indeed still in bits.

Not that that was any surprise.

Only two months had passed since Connie, her once-upon-a-time partner-in-crime and best-friend-since-school had run off with Max, Imogen’s then boyfriend, and, although the pain had ebbed to a dull ache instead of the agony it had once been, it still hurt.

More so this evening, thought Imogen morosely, her already battered spirits taking a nosedive. The last time she’d been to a private view, Connie had been with her. They’d laughed and talked loudly and pompously about light and depth and perspective, ransacked the canapés and then hit the latest club.

Tonight, however, she was alone, and Connie, the sneaky snake-in-the-grass, was in all likelihood at home, snuggling up to Max on the sofa and hatching wedding plans.

Imogen’s heart twanged. She’d told herself to get over it a million times and she reckoned she was making good progress, but from time to time—usually when she was least expecting it—the whole sorry affair swooped down and smacked her around the head.

Like this afternoon.

Like now.

The backs of her eyes prickled but she blinked the sting away and yanked her shoulders back. What did she care what Connie was up to? So what if the friendship they’d had, the one that had started at kindergarten and had continued for the past twenty-five years, had disintegrated in the ten seconds it had taken to read Max’s note? And so what if her ex-boyfriend and her ex-best friend were getting married?

She didn’t give a toss, did she?

No. She’d had plenty of time to reflect on the betrayal, and with hindsight she’d come to realise that actually they’d done her a favour. Because who needed friends who could do something like that to you?

And as for Max, well, yes, he was undeniably gorgeous—all dark floppy hair, twinkling eyes and oodles of charm—but he was a complete waste of space and she was well shot of him.

If the press had levelled the same waste-of-space accusation at her—which they had, frequently and not entirely unfairly—that was fine because she had plans to reverse that and to prove to herself and her critics that she did have something to offer the world.

Max, on the other hand, seemed happy to spend the rest of his life perfecting his air of insouciant ennui. So if Connie wanted to spend the rest of her life massaging that ego, she was welcome to it.

Imogen shook her head at her own naïve foolishness. Far from being the perfect couple she’d always assumed she and Max had been, they were, she now knew, chalk and cheese. The really astounding thing about their relationship was not how it had ended, but how it had limped along for so long in the first place.

Truly, the mind boggled, she thought, casting another glance at the monstrosity calling itself ‘The Sting in Society’. And she was through with it all. Bored, rich playboys, fickle best friends and staggeringly pretentious so-called art.

She’d got what she’d come for. Two glasses of ice-cold bone-dry champagne had done an excellent job of obliterating the shock and torment of learning of the engagement. Her body was buzzing and her mind was numb, and she had better things to do than waste any more time in front of this kind of rubbish.

Determinedly banishing the blues and reminding herself that she was far luckier than most, that she had no business wallowing in misery and that she ought to focus on what she did have rather than what she didn’t, Imogen gritted her teeth and spun on her heel.

And crashed into something hard and unyielding.

Something that let out a soft ‘oof’ and flung its arms around her for balance.

For a second it felt as if the world had stopped. She stood there, stunned, crushed up against whoever it was she’d cannoned into, the breath whooshing from her lungs and her head spinning with shock.

Then the shock receded and her surroundings settled and other things filtered into her brain. Like the fact that he was male. Tall. Broad. Solid. Warm. And strong. His arms were like bands of steel around her back and she could feel the restrained power in the hardness that was wrapped around her. Plus he smelled amazing.

Imogen couldn’t remember the last time she’d found herself in such close proximity to a man like that—if ever—and to her horror her body automatically began to respond. Her stomach quivered. Her heart lurched and her temperature rocketed. For one crazy split second she wanted to press herself closer. Wanted to snuggle up to him and feel those arms wrap themselves tighter around her. Enveloping her. Protecting her.

Which was nuts. Completely nuts.

Imogen blinked as sanity put in an appearance and nudged aside the fancifulness. She could stop that right now. She’d been through the emotional wringer recently and the last thing she needed was to fall head first into the arms of another man. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

And what on earth made her think she needed protecting anyway? She was perfectly capable of doing that herself. Heaven knew she’d had enough practice.

Summoning up every ounce of self-control she possessed, Imogen gulped in a breath and forced herself not to react to the intoxicating waft of soap and sandalwood that shot up her nose.

‘Oh, sorry,’ she muttered, jerking back and looking up to see who it was that was having such an odd effect on her.

And nearly swooned all over again.

All thoughts of Connie and Max and self-protection vanished as she found herself staring up into the most gorgeous eyes she’d ever seen.

To begin with he had the kind of thick, dark eyelashes she’d give her designer wardrobe for. Then there were the fine lines that fanned out from their corners and suggested he laughed a lot.

Swallowing back the lump in her throat at the reminder of how little she laughed at the moment, Imogen focused on the colour of his irises instead. That kind of blue was unusual. It made her think of the sky in summer and the shallows of the Mediterranean Sea. Which would have had her envisaging long, languid summer afternoons and the long languid ways in which one might spend them with a man like this had she not ruthlessly shut down that strand of her imagination for ever.

And as if all that weren’t potentially sense-scrambling enough, there was the glint. The glint lurked in the depths of his eyes and suggested danger and excitement and naughtiness. The glint promised fun. A lot of fun. For a woman who was into that sort of thing, which, being too emotionally scarred, she wasn’t. But if she had been, the heat sweeping through her would have been down to instant chemistry, and not what must surely be a fault with the air-conditioning.

Whatever it was that was causing her to overheat, Imogen hauled herself back under control as she dragged her gaze over the rest of his face, which would have more than lived up to her expectations if she’d had any. His dark hair looked as if it were made for rumpling and his mouth looked as if it would deliver the most devastating of kisses.

All in all, the combination of that face and that body was lethal, she thought, suppressing a shiver. If you were interested in that sort of thing. Which, dammit, she wasn’t. She really wasn’t.

‘My fault,’ he said with a smile that had her stomach somersaulting before she could stop it.

He unwound his arms from around her and she took a hasty step backwards.

‘And not a drop spilt,’ she said, glancing at the glasses of champagne that had only moments ago been flung around her. ‘Impressive.’

‘I’ve had plenty of practice.’

Of having random women barrel into him? She could just imagine. ‘How fortunate.’

The smile deepened and Imogen felt something inside her melt. Her pathetically weak resistance probably. ‘For you it is.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘For me?’

He held out a glass to her. ‘One of these. You looked like you could do with it.’

Had he been watching her? Checking her out?

At the thought of those eyes roaming over her, Imogen’s heart began to race and she swallowed hard to combat the sudden dryness of her mouth. ‘I was just leaving,’ she said a lot more breathily than she’d have liked.

His mesmerising gaze slid to the painting behind her and then back to hers. The glint twinkled. ‘Not because of the scorpion, I hope?’ he said.

‘Is that what it is?’

He nodded. ‘It is.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

‘It’s obscure.’

‘Very.’

‘It represents man’s fight against the injustice of capitalism.’

Imogen tilted her head and frowned as she finally managed to locate her brain. ‘It seems a bit hypocritical to charge a quarter of a million pounds for a piece of canvas and a few brush strokes that apparently represent the injustice of capitalism, don’t you think?’

‘To be honest I hadn’t given it much thought,’ he said dryly.

Vaguely wondering what was happening to her intention to leave, Imogen took the glass he was holding out and lifted it to her lips.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and took a sip.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said, watching her as she parted her lips and let a mouthful of champagne slide down her throat. ‘So what do you think of it?’

She thought she heard a trace of hoarseness in his voice and it sent a shiver down her spine. ‘The painting?’

He nodded. Then cleared his throat a little.

‘Honestly?’

‘Oh, I’m all for honesty,’ he said.

Hmm. If he was, and frankly she doubted it because he was, after all, a man, then it was more than Max had been, the lying, cheating scumbag. ‘Then honestly,’ she said a touch more tartly than she’d intended, ‘it makes my eyes bleed.’

Without warning he threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter and her stomach tightened at the sound. ‘And there was me thinking it had great light, searing depth and imaginative perspective,’ he said, shoving a hand through his hair and grinning.

Imogen went still for a second, her eyes colliding with his, and her heart stuttered. The warm amusement in his voice that suggested he thought the exact opposite reminded her of the gaping hole in her life left by the treacherous Connie, and her eyes stung again.

And then an appalled thought crossed her mind and she snapped herself away from the memories. ‘Oh, no, you’re not the artist, are you?’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Do I look like the artist?’

Imogen let her gaze run over him from head to toe, felt her blood begin to simmer and managed to convince herself it was a perfectly normal reaction to an extremely handsome man and there was no need to get her knickers in a twist over it.

He certainly didn’t look like any artist she’d ever met, she reflected, vaguely distracted by the thought of her knickers getting, not just in a twist, but totally removed, slowly and seductively, by the man smouldering down at her. He looked dark and dangerous and wicked. The sort of man that could make a woman lose her head if she wasn’t careful. ‘Come to think of it,’ she said as coolly as she could manage, which wasn’t coolly at all, ‘no.’

‘Thank heavens for that.’

Ignoring the odd fizzing of her veins, Imogen pulled herself together. If he’d gone to the trouble to bring her a glass of champagne, the least she could do was engage in a minute or two of conversation before leaving. After all, his smile might be lethal and the glint was downright criminal, but conversation had never killed anyone, had it? ‘So how do you know so much about this particular—ah—piece?’

‘I own it.’

‘God, why?’ she asked aghast, rapidly revising her opinion of him. He might be gorgeous but his taste in art left a lot to be desired.

His eyes gleamed. ‘I won it at a charity auction.’

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Someone else was bidding for it?’ That at least two people had wanted the thing was astounding.

He nodded and grinned. ‘A friend of mine.’

‘Some friend.’

‘One of the best. It was quite a tussle.’

‘But he eventually bowed out?’

‘He did.’

‘Sensible man.’

He shrugged. ‘He didn’t have much of a choice. I like to win.’

Hmm. She cast him a sceptical glance and noticed the determined set to his jaw as well as the now decidedly ruthless glint in his eye. Oh, yes, he liked to win. And, she deduced, at any cost.

‘Well, it seems to me that on this occasion you lost,’ she said, stifling a shudder at the dangerously enticing thought of being pursued and conquered by someone like him.

He gazed at her for so long and so intently that her mouth went dry and her body began to buzz. ‘You know, you could be right,’ he murmured.

She tried to blot out the buzzing by telling herself that the man was an idiot who had more money than sense, but it didn’t appear to be working. ‘So really you acquired it by accident?’

He tilted his head and grinned. ‘It would seem so. Although not an unhappy one, given the increase in its value over the years.’

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘And that’s important?’

‘Profit is always important.’

Imogen frowned. ‘Well, I suppose in this case the simple appreciation of something beautiful doesn’t really come into the equation.’

At that his eyes gleamed and her heart unaccountably skipped a beat. His gaze suddenly dropped and then slowly roamed over her. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he murmured, and to her alarm she felt her cheeks going bright red. Heat shot through her and she began to tingle in places she’d thought she’d never tingle in again.

Didn’t intend to ever tingle in again, she reminded herself, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. ‘Nevertheless you have my commiserations.’

He smiled that smile of his and to her irritation she could feel her blush deepening. ‘But not an offer to buy it?’

Right now, what with being on the verge of becoming putty in his hands, Imogen thought she could well end up offering him anything he asked for.

And didn’t that bring her up short?

Forcing herself to imagine the painting on her wall, having to stare at the hideous thing day in day out, and concentrating on not turning into that putty, she shuddered. ‘You must be joking,’ she said, adopting a look of horror for good measure. ‘This isn’t my kind of thing at all.’

‘Pity,’ he said, then sighed and rubbed a brown hand along his jaw. ‘I have a depressing feeling it’s never going to sell.’

‘Are you surprised?’

‘Not particularly. But if it doesn’t, Luke, that friend of mine who bowed out of the bidding, will never let me forget it. He needles me about it enough as it is.’

He looked so cross that Imogen couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, that’s what comes of indulging in silly displays of competitive pride,’ she said solemnly, tutting and shaking her head in mock admonishment.

‘You’re probably right.’

‘And can you blame him?’

He arched an eyebrow as he gazed at her, his mouth eventually curving into a rueful smile. ‘Not really. If the roles had been reversed I’d do the same.’

‘Of course you would.’

‘So,’ he said, draining his glass and handing it to a waiter who was weaving past, ‘I know why I’m here, but, if this isn’t your kind of thing, why are you here?’

Imogen went still, her smile fading and her temperature plummeting as her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

Oh, heavens. What could she say? No way could she tell him the truth. That only half an hour ago she’d learned about Max and Connie’s engagement, on Facebook of all places. That she’d been so stunned, so thrown off balance and tossed upside down, and so hurt by the fact that they hadn’t bothered to call her up and tell her personally that she’d fled the office in search of the nearest source of alcohol, which happened to be the gallery next door to the office where she worked. No way. That kind of revelation she’d be keeping to herself.

So, aware that he was waiting for an answer and not liking that probing gaze one little bit, Imogen shrugged and fixed a bland smile to her face. ‘I’ve decided lately that my horizons need broadening,’ she said, thinking it was, after all, at least the partial truth.

‘I see.’ He gave her a sexy kind of half smile and his eyes glittered. ‘Need any help?’

She stared at him as shivers raced up and down her spine. Help? Oh, goodness. From the way the glint was glinting she could guess exactly the sort of help he was offering. The sort she wasn’t interested in, she reminded herself. Not. Interested. In.

‘Thank you, but no,’ she said, sounding a lot firmer than she felt.

‘Are you sure? Because I’m good at broadening horizons.’

‘I’ve no doubt you are.’

He smiled into her eyes, and even though he hadn’t moved it felt as if he’d somehow got closer. ‘Have dinner with me and I’ll show you how good.’

CHAPTER TWO

IMOGEN blinked, faintly stunned, although why the invitation should be quite such a surprise was beyond her. It wasn’t as if she’d never been asked out to dinner before.

Maybe it was the fact that the intensity of his attention was so all-encompassing it had robbed her of reason. Or maybe it was simply the fact that, as he’d apparently stolen all the air around her, her brain was being starved of oxygen. ‘Dinner?’ she murmured.

He nodded. ‘That’s right. Dinner. Comes after lunch and before breakfast. Around this time.’

‘Ah, that dinner.’

‘That’s the one. So?’

Imogen was almost certain her answer ought to be no. More than almost certain, actually, because hadn’t she just been telling herself that she’d had enough of men for the foreseeable future, the whole lousy lot of them? Wasn’t she just the tiniest bit unhinged at the moment? And didn’t she need to concentrate on repairing her poor battered emotions instead of letting herself be dragged under the spell of such a dangerously magnetic man?

But it was so tempting, she thought, her common sense beginning to unravel beneath his unwavering gaze. After two months of miserable soul-searching, her self-esteem could really do with the attention, and after nearly three glasses of champagne her stomach could really do with the food.

Besides she hadn’t sworn off all men, had she? She blotted out the little voice in her head jumping up and down, waving its arms in alarm and demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, and concentrated on justifying the decision she was pretty sure she was going to make. She might have had her fingers burnt recently but she wasn’t that jaded. And dinner didn’t have to go anywhere, did it? How could a couple of hours in the company of a gorgeous attentive man hurt?

Feeling her spirits creeping up, Imogen laughed for what seemed like the first time in weeks and felt lighter than she had in months. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

‘Jack Taylor.’ He held out his hand.

‘Imogen Christie,’ she said, taking it.

For a moment she was so startled by the feel of his hand wrapped around hers and the energy that suddenly spun through her that the name didn’t register. She was too busy marvelling at the way every nerve ending she possessed tingled. The way her whole body was suddenly coming alive, and thinking about how much fun dinner was going to be.

But when it did, seconds later, her smile froze and her stomach disappeared. Her heart sank and the heat pounding through her turned to ice.

Oh, hell.

Jack Taylor? Not the Jack Taylor? Not the one she’d read about. Heard about. Been warned about …

How typical was that? She reluctantly pulled her hand out of his as disappointment washed through her.

Random snippets of information started whipping round her head. Facts she must have subconsciously gleaned over the years that now spun and whirled and settled into one long list.

According to the financial press, the man was some kind of investment superstar. He made millions on a daily basis, backing ventures most people wouldn’t touch with a bargepole and taking risks considered to be either insane or genius depending on one’s point of view. His funds were huge and his successes were global.

As, apparently, were his extra-curricular activities.

According to her friends and the kind of press that favoured gossip over finance, Jack Taylor was legendary. He was gorgeous and charming. Smooth and charismatic, yet ice cool and elusive. He was, by all accounts, a true heartbreaker.

As poor wretched Amanda Hobbs had eventually found out, she recalled. The story of Amanda, who she didn’t personally know but was the friend of a friend of a friend, had recently taken the grapevine by storm, causing hands to be clapped to mouths and gasps of shock and pity. Poor, tragic Amanda, who’d been going out with him until he’d callously ditched her, and had had to flee to Italy to recover.

With all the details of the whole saga zooming to the forefront of her mind Imogen bridled, and the disappointment turned into something colder, harder and stonier because, apart from the work aspect, Jack Taylor was exactly the sort of man Max was. Exactly the sort of man she’d vowed to steer well clear of.

Rumour had it that a few years ago he’d even engaged in an Internet bidding war over some woman. From what she could remember he’d opted for greatsexguaranteed as a user name and didn’t that tell her everything she needed to know? And not just that he was a fan of online auctions.

As she stared up at him standing there oozing self-confident charm, his eyes gleaming with that wicked glint, she wondered how on earth she could have missed it. It was there for anyone with half a brain to see. The laid-back insouciance. The unmistakeable air of wealth. Of innate arrogance. The dazzling smile of a man who knew he had the ability to make women fall into his bed like dominoes.

Well, not this woman, thought Imogen grimly, gathering her scattered wits and pulling herself together. In targeting her he’d chosen badly. Really badly.

The little part of her that was deeply flattered at being hit on by the infamous Jack Taylor, that wondered if he really could guarantee great sex, could forget it. So could the gleam of expectation in his eye, because she wasn’t falling into his bed or anywhere else. She was immune. And dinner was most definitely off.

‘I know a great little place just round the corner,’ Jack was saying, and Imogen dragged herself back to the conversation.

Oh, she just bet he did, she thought, going numb. She bet he knew great little places round every corner of London.

‘Actually,’ she said smoothly, drawing her shoulders back and giving him a tight smile, ‘I don’t think dinner is such a good idea after all.’

There was a pause. A flicker of surprise in his eyes as he tensed a little. ‘No?’

He sounded distinctly put out and satisfaction surged inside her. Hah. He probably hadn’t been turned down in his life. Well, the experience would do him good. ‘No,’ she said, lifting her chin a little higher and injecting a hint of steel into her voice.

He tilted his head and regarded her with that disconcertingly probing gaze. ‘Why not?’

‘I’m busy.’

‘Then how about another night?’

‘Thank you, but no.’

‘Sure?’

God, he was unbelievable. Why had no one ever mentioned his persistence along with everything else? ‘Tell me, Jack,’ she said, delighted to hear that she was sounding as withering as she’d intended, ‘has anyone ever said no to you?’

He grinned, her arch tone clearly rolling off him like water off a duck’s back. ‘Not recently.’

Typical. ‘Well, there’s a first time for everything,’ she said deliberately waspishly.

And that ought to have been that. By now he should have got the message that she wasn’t interested and should be shrugging, turning away and going off in search of easier prey.

But much to her irritation, his smile barely faltered. If anything, it turned more seductive, and for some reason her mouth went dry. Something about the way his eyes were glittering, the way he’d shifted his weight sent warning bells tinkling around her head.

Which started clanging violently when without warning he reached out, put a hand on the side of her neck and leaned forwards.

Imogen couldn’t move. At the feel of his hand, singeing her skin where it lay, the thudding of her heart turned to a hammering and her breathing shallowed, and to her horror there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Not when her feet seemed to be rooted to the floor and her body had turned to stone.

Every one of her senses, pretty much the only part of her that hadn’t been stunned into immobility, leapt to attention and zoomed in on Jack and what he was doing.

And what exactly was that? she wondered dazedly as she gazed up at him. The ghost of a smile played at his lips, lips that parted a fraction and dragged her attention down, robbing her of what little of her breath remained and flipping her stomach.

Oh, God, he wasn’t going to kiss her, was he? Not now. Not right here among all these people.

Not that an audience was her greatest concern. No, her greatest concern was what she’d do if he did.

But just as she was trying to work out what that was and panicking at the idea that she even had to think about it, just as her heart was about to stop and she thought she might be about to pass out, he angled his head and murmured right into her ear, ‘OK, if you’re tight for time, how about skipping dinner and moving straight on to dessert?’

For a moment there was a kind of vibrating silence while his words made their way to her brain. Long heavy seconds during which everything but the two of them and the electric field that they generated disappeared. Imogen was so wrapped up in not responding to his nearness, in not shivering as the warmth of his breath caressed her cheek, and so preoccupied with not closing the minute distance between them and winding her arms around his neck to kiss him that his proposition took quite a while to arrive.

Then it did, and she thought she must have misheard. Misunderstood or something, because surely he couldn’t be suggesting what she thought he was suggesting.

But when he drew back and she saw the glimmer of intent and desire in the depths of his eyes she realised she hadn’t misheard. Or misunderstood. And he was suggesting exactly what she’d thought he’d been suggesting.

‘That’s outrageous,’ she breathed, although whether this was directed at his audacity or at the sharp thrill that was spinning through her she wasn’t sure.

He took a step back and ran his gaze over her face, slowly and thoroughly as if committing every square millimetre to memory before letting it linger on her lips. Which, to her horror, automatically parted to emit a tiny dreamy gasp.

‘Is it?’ he murmured.

Barely able to breathe, she watched his smile become knowing and the gleam in his eyes turn to something that looked suspiciously like triumph and quite suddenly Imogen had had enough.

Of everything.

All the pain and frustration of the past few months wound together in one great knot in the pit of her stomach and began to pummel her from the inside out. So hard, so relentlessly that she nearly doubled up with the force of it.

Memories and thoughts and feelings cascaded into her head, each one tumbling over the other, fast and furious and unstoppable.

Of her own battered heart carelessly ripped from her chest and then stamped all over by two people she’d cared so much about.

Of poor Amanda weeping and wailing her way across Italy.

Of the cool arrogance of the man standing before her. Of the God-given right he thought he had to seduce people—women—into falling in with his plans. The idea that anyone, he of all people, had the nerve to guarantee great sex.

As the whole gamut of emotions swept through her with the force of a tidal wave, the urge to strike a blow for every woman worldwide who’d had her heart broken by a lothario like Jack surged up inside her.

It was overwhelming, overpowering. It overrode any sense of civility, of politeness, of reason, and obliterated the lingering heat and any trace of desire.

Dimly aware that she was out of control but unable to do anything about it, Imogen lifted her chin and said coldly, ‘If you’re hungry, I suggest you find some other poor victim to devour.’

And with that, she spun on her heel and marched off.

When it came to ways of occupying himself on a Tuesday night, Jack had options. Lots of options.

Last Tuesday he’d accompanied a sleek blonde to a classical concert in aid of medical research. The Tuesday before that he’d wined and dined a rumpled brunette at a newly opened restaurant so sought-after it already had a six-month waiting list. And the Tuesday before that he’d been discussing investment strategy with clients over cocktails in Geneva.

This Tuesday night, however, was apparently payback for all that fun.

It hadn’t started well. For one thing he loathed modern art. Absolutely loathed it. The pretension of the paintings and the people who waffled on about them invariably made him want to hit something hard. This allegedly exclusive one-night-only art exhibition in the West End of London was one of the worst he’d ever encountered and the only reason he’d come was to see his own unforgivably awful contribution sell.

And even that hadn’t been going his way. While a number of the other exhibits had attracted buyers, his hadn’t, and it had started to occur to him that he might be forced to take the bloody thing back home with him.

With the evening plumbing depths he could never have anticipated, Jack had decided to write the whole episode off as a complete disaster and had been on the point of leaving when he’d spotted Imogen.

She’d been standing with her back to him in front of his six-foot-by-four-foot painting, gazing up at it, utterly still, her head tilted to one side. Something about her had caught his eye and held it. Made his muscles contract a little and his heart beat a fraction faster. And not just because she was the only person to display any interest in his painting.

Out of habit, he’d checked her out. He’d run his gaze over her, taking his time as he registered long, wavy, gold-streaked hair fanning out from beneath her black beret, generous curves moulded by a figure-hugging black knee-length coat, and the best pair of calves he’d ever seen encased in sheer silk and tapering down to sexy black high heels.

He’d felt a fierce stirring of attraction, his body tightening with awareness and his mouth going dry. His pulse had picked up and the blood rushing through his veins had heated.

And then, just as he’d been wondering why he was responding so strongly to a woman whose face he hadn’t even seen, just as he’d managed to dredge up some kind of self-control and get his heart rate and breathing back to normal, she’d turned to hold the catalogue up to the light, and he’d lost his breath all over again.

She was quite simply stunning. Light from the spotlight overhead had spilled over her face, illuminating high cheekbones, a straight nose and creamy skin. Her mouth was wide, her lips full and pink and extremely kissable.

It had struck him then that, despite her considerable assets, his response to her had been startlingly unusual in its intensity. He’d never lacked for female company—quite the opposite in fact—but the immediacy and the strength of it had been new. And actually not just new. He’d found it intriguing. Tantalising. Deliciously unsettling.

Which was why, thinking optimistically that despite its inauspicious start the evening had started to look up, he’d levered himself off the pillar he’d been leaning against and had gone in search of a couple of glasses of champagne.

Well, that had been a spectacular waste of time, Jack thought darkly, rooted to the spot as he stared at Imogen’s retreating figure, shock reverberating through him as he tried to work out what had happened.

Victim?

Victim?

Where the hell had that come from?

All he’d suggested was dinner and what on earth was wrong with that? Where had all that vitriol sprung from? Anyone would think he’d suggested slinging her over his shoulder and carting her off somewhere dark and private so he could have his wicked way with her. Which he hadn’t, quite.

He dragged in a breath, shoved a hand through his hair and scowled after her as the latter part of their conversation rattled around his brain.

Up until the point Imogen had gone all psycho on him, he’d thought things had been progressing marvellously. Even their initial collision, though unplanned, had worked to his advantage. His head might have gone momentarily blank at the feel of her body plastered up against his and at the scent of her winding through him, but he’d heard her breath catch.

He’d seen the flash of interest in her eyes. And felt the hammering of her heart against his chest.

And it had been all the encouragement he’d needed. He’d done what came as naturally as breathing, and flirted with her. And she’d flirted right back. She’d shot him sexy little smiles, let out breathy little sighs and he’d instinctively had the feeling that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Inviting her to dinner to see how the attraction—and the evening—might develop had seemed an entirely logical step forwards.

Jack rubbed his hand along his jaw and frowned as he remembered the moment his radar had picked up her unexpected switch in mood. He’d been holding her hand, recovering from the jolt of electricity that had shot through him the moment their palms had met and wondering whether he should be feeling disconcerted or delighted by the obvious chemistry.

He’d been vaguely asking himself whether the floor really was tilting and whether he ought to be concerned by the way the words ‘this one’ were flashing in his head in great neon letters when he’d felt her tense. She’d whipped her hand out of his as if his touch had suddenly scorched her, and he’d realised that something had changed. Dramatically.

To say he’d been wrong-footed was the understatement of the century. He’d always believed he had an uncanny ability to read women, but never in a million years would he have seen the chilly, supercilious air that she had adopted coming.

His jaw tightened as the disdainful expression on her face and the scorn in her voice when she refused his offer of dinner slammed into his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been rejected. People—women in particular—generally didn’t, and, ever since his mother had pretty much abandoned him at birth, rejection was something he’d taken great care to avoid. Which was why he only ever issued dinner invitations to women he was convinced would say yes.

Until now.

But what the hell had gone wrong?

OK, so he probably shouldn’t have made that comment about dessert, but he’d been so disconcerted by her change in attitude, and, if he was being honest, disappointed, that winding her up as much as she’d wound him up had proved irresistible.

Which meant that when she’d accused him of being outrageous, she might have had a point. But he’d never anticipated that she’d react in quite such a melodramatic way. Why should he? He’d seen the flicker of desire in her eyes and he’d heard her shallow breathing. For a split second he’d thought that perhaps he’d got away with it after all. That mutual attraction might have come to outweigh her indignation.

And that made her rejection, her parting shot, all the more devastatingly brutal.

Jack glowered after her. So much for thinking the evening had been looking up. He’d just crashed and burned spectacularly and he didn’t like it. Any of it.

Ignoring the smattering of interested glances being cast in his direction, he let the anger and frustration that had been simmering inside him surge through his veins.

How dared she assume he had victims? How dared she assume he devoured anyone? How dared she make him feel he’d been harassing her?

And what exactly was so off-putting about him anyway? He’d never had any complaints before. He’d never had anything but sighs of appreciation and requests for repeat performances.

So what was her problem? And frankly why was he bothering to try and work it out? Imogen clearly had it in for him and he wasn’t a masochist. The best thing he could do would be to forget the last half an hour and get the hell out of here.

The rational part of his brain told him to chalk this evening up to experience, that, apart from everything else he’d had to endure, no woman was worth the hassle. Especially not one as shallow as Imogen Christie.

He knew who she was. The minute he’d heard her name he’d recognised it. It would have been hard not to, given the number of times it had appeared in the press. Imogen Christie was nothing more than a vacuous socialite. The kind of pointless woman who did nothing but flit from party to party and hit the headlines with her antics. The kind of pointless woman his mother was.

So what if during their brief conversation she’d made him laugh? So what if she’d made his body respond so intensely that all he could think about was how much he wanted to wrap her round him and keep her there for hours? She was the sort of woman he despised, the sort he’d spent most of his adult life avoiding, and if he ever bothered to look back on this evening he’d be grateful he’d had such a lucky escape.

That was what the sane, logical part of his brain was telling him.

However, another louder, more insistent part of his brain, the part that housed a deeply ingrained, deeply hidden craving for approval, and the part that would, if he let it, wonder what was wrong with him, demanded to know why she’d said what she had and why she’d changed her mind.

Not because he wanted to change it back. No. Now he was finally listening to that warning voice inside his head, he had no intention of pursuing her. He just wanted to know what she thought gave her the right to be so rude, and what exactly it was that she had against him.

There was no way he was allowing someone like Imogen Christie to just waltz off with the last word and no explanation, he thought grimly, watching her push through the door and disappear into the night. No way.

So forget the gold-streaked hair that made him want to tangle his hands in its silky softness. Forget the eyes of such a deep brown that looking into them was like falling into a vat of molten chocolate. Forget the curves that his hands itched to caress. He really didn’t need the distraction.

What he needed were answers, and he’d get them, whether she liked it or not.

CHAPTER THREE

WHAT an idiot, Imogen told herself for the hundredth time as she stood on the street and shivered in the chilly February breeze.

What on earth had possessed her to say that? Why, oh, why hadn’t she just smiled serenely, told Jack she had a boyfriend or something and left it there?

Whatever had happened to her decision to stay cool and collected at all times? To do absolutely nothing that might attract the attention of the press? It was a good thing she hadn’t given in to temptation and flung that glass of champagne all over him. That really would have been the pits.

Maybe the whole Connie/Max engagement thing had affected her more than she’d thought, because the way everything inside her had merged into one hot seething tangle of emotion and then swooped up, seizing control of her brain and her senses, had been weird.

How could she have been so rude? she asked herself yet again, stamping her feet in an effort to inject a degree of heat into her body and scouring the shadowy, empty street for a taxi. Jack might be everything she detested in a man—well, aside from his considerable physical attributes, of course—but that was no excuse. She was never rude.

Imogen winced with shame as her words flew back into her head. What had she been thinking? OK, so she’d barely been thinking at all, let alone rationally, but that was no excuse, either.

Not that there was anything she could do about it now. She couldn’t rewind time and she could hardly go back and apologise, could she? An apology—even assuming he’d be willing to listen—would lead to conversation and undoubtedly a request for an explanation, and she really didn’t want to go into the reason for her temporary mental meltdown.

No. All she could do was hope that Jack had written her off as bonkers, slope off home, open a bottle of wine and forget all about the entire excruciating afternoon.

If her brother and his family had been around she’d have invited herself over for supper and let herself be plied with wine and sympathy, clambered all over by her niece and nephew, and maybe let herself not feel quite so lonely and messed up for a while. But unfortunately they were skiing in the Alps.

And yes, there were a couple of parties that she’d been invited to, but having to dodge the inevitable loaded questions about the newly betrothed couple didn’t appeal in the slightest.

The worst thing was that with the defection of Connie she no longer had the sort of girlfriend she could call up and drown her sorrows with. Not for the first time, Imogen asked herself how it was possible to feel so alone in a vast city like London, where she knew loads of people and there was always something going on.

Pushing that thought aside before she became even more maudlin, she hauled her spirits up. Home—a cosy mews house in Chelsea—wasn’t such a bad option, she thought dryly, spying the yellow light of a cruising taxi and throwing her arm up to hail it. It had always been something of a haven, a place to shut herself away from the occasional unpleasantness of life. A scathing newspaper report, a deliberately awful paparazzi photo, a lousy boyfriend … She’d licked her wounds there many times, and would probably do so many times in the future.

Tonight she’d run a bath, pour herself a glass of wine, light a few candles and relax. She might even allow herself to contemplate the press-free and purposeful life she’d have in the States if her application to study there was accepted.

She watched the taxi execute a U-turn and pull up at the pavement where she was standing, and chewed on her lip as a flicker of optimism flared into life inside her.

Yes, that was what she’d do, she thought, leaning forwards to give the taxi driver her address and then reaching for the door handle. She’d package everything that had happened this afternoon and stuff it in the cupboard called Denial, and wallow in that blissful daydream. And then she’d—

‘Just a minute.’

At the sound of the deep, dry voice behind her and the sudden scorching heat of the hand covering hers, Imogen jumped, and then, as her back brushed against him, froze. Her heart leapt into her throat. Pure terror shot through her and as her head went fuzzy she automatically jerked her elbow back. Up and hard.

She heard a growl of surprise, of pain, and with adrenalin whipping through her veins she snapped round. Instinctively, braced herself.

And crashed back to reality as she clapped eyes on the man who’d sneaked up on her.

Oh, dear.

As all the adrenalin and energy drained away, Imogen bit her lip and grimaced. Jack was almost doubled up, one hand planted on the window of the taxi, the other clutching his stomach as he gasped for breath.

‘What on earth did you do that for?’ he said when he was finally able to speak.

‘It was an automatic reaction. You startled me. Sorry.’

‘Remind me never to do that again,’ he muttered and, with a wince, straightened. Which brought him almost as close as he’d been when he’d crept up on her in the first place.

A shiver that this time had nothing to do with the cold or fear or adrenalin scuttled down Imogen’s spine, and she sighed. So much for hoping that Jack might decide to write her off and forget what she said. It was stupid of her to think he would. To think that anyone would. ‘Did you want something?’ she said, blinking with what she hoped looked like innocence.

‘You walked off in the middle of our conversation,’ said Jack, rubbing his ribs and glowering at her. ‘That wasn’t very polite.’

‘As far as I was concerned,’ she said, lifting her chin and giving him a cool smile, while determinedly ignoring the stab of guilt that she might have hurt him, ‘it was over.’

‘I’m sure you think so,’ he said, clearly disagreeing.

Actually, maybe it was no bad thing he’d followed her, because now would be an excellent time to apologise. She could clean the slate, clear her conscience and draw a line under their brief but surprisingly turbulent acquaintance. And then she could nip into the taxi and disappear into the night and put an end to what had been a day she hoped never to repeat.

‘OK, look,’ she said, making herself keep eye contact, while groping behind her for the door handle. ‘I apologise for the whole victim-devouring-comment thing. It was uncalled for. I’m sorry.’

He frowned. ‘What prompted it?’

Imogen swallowed. No way was she going to go into the frightening cocktail of emotion that had surged through her and obliterated every shred of common sense. Instead, she recalled the ‘skipping straight to dessert’ remark, and raised her eyebrows. ‘You have to ask?’

‘I wouldn’t if I didn’t.’

‘I don’t do dessert.’

‘Ever?’

‘For the time being.’

His mouth curved into a faint smile. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sweet enough.’

Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please.’

‘I thought not.’ He paused. Then frowned as the smile faded. ‘Nevertheless, that was quite an overreaction.’

Very probably. ‘For which I apologise. Again.’ She stopped, tilted her head as she waited for some kind of response. Which appeared to be a long time coming. ‘You could do the gentlemanly thing and accept it,’ she said archly.

‘What makes you think I’m a gentleman?’

Imogen shrugged and ignored the way her body hummed with anticipation at the idea of Jack being very ungentlemanly indeed. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said with as much indifference as she could muster, which wasn’t a lot. ‘As delightful as it’s been to have this little chat, I have somewhere to be. So if there’s nothing else, I’ll say goodnight.’

‘Nothing else?’ he murmured, fixing her with a hypnotising glance as the frown disappeared and his lips curved into that lethal smile. ‘Imogen, darling, we’ve barely begun.’

Imogen swallowed as she stared up at him, her heart suddenly thumping with something other than anticipation and her mouth going dry. ‘Well, I guess it’s possible we’ll bump into each other again.’ Although given that they hadn’t to date it didn’t seem likely. Which was something of a relief because she had the feeling that too much of Jack would be so dangerous to her health he ought to come with a government warning. ‘But for now, goodnight.’

Suddenly desperate to get away, she flashed him a quick smile, yanked on the handle and pulled the door open. She clambered in and turned to close the door behind her, but to her dismay saw that Jack had planted one hand on the edge and the other on the taxi, and was showing no signs of getting out of the way.

‘What?’ she muttered, catching the determined look in his eye, her pulse fluttering with nerves.

‘Would you mind if I joined you?’

Imogen started. He wanted to join her? In the close confines of the taxi? For how long? Oh, no. No way. That would be nuts. With the skittish way she was feeling, it would be inviting trouble, and she’d had more than enough of that already. ‘I doubt we’re going in the same direction.’

‘We will be,’ he countered, and she had the feeling he wasn’t talking about their respective geographical destinations.

‘I’m sure another taxi will come in a minute.’

‘It’s starting to rain and I don’t have an umbrella.’

At his woeful expression, cracks appeared in her resistance. Jack didn’t look like the sort of man to be bothered by a few drops of water, but deliberately leaving him standing there in the rain would be plain cruel and while she might have many failings cruelty wasn’t one of them. Besides, if she protested any longer it would look as if she had a problem with him. Which of course she did, but she didn’t want him to know that.

And as if those weren’t reasons enough, the glint in his eye was turning ruthless and his comment about winning at all costs crossed her mind. Jack clearly wanted an explanation for her behaviour earlier and he probably deserved one.

So how could she refuse? With a fresh wave of the shame that was never far away washing over her, she couldn’t. It would be churlish and immature and she hoped she was neither.

With a sigh she gave in. ‘I’m heading west.’

‘Great. So am I.’

‘Then jump in,’ she said, scooting across the leather to the far side of the taxi.

As Jack climbed in, slammed the door shut behind him and threw himself onto the seat beside her, Imogen felt faintly foolish. What was there to worry about? It was a taxi ride and a short one at that. There were at least a couple of feet between them and absolutely no need to breach the distance. It would be fine.

And it was until the taxi pulled away with a sharp swerve. Caught unawares, Imogen let out a gasp of shock as she was flung sideways and thrown against him. Her head banged against his shoulder and her hand landed on his upper thigh, perilously close to his groin. She felt him jolt. Heard him inhale sharply. And felt herself go beetroot as she peeled herself off him, muttered an apology and twisted back and away.

‘That’s the second time that’s happened this evening,’ said Jack, slanting her a glance, a grin playing at his lips as he shifted and started undoing the buttons of his coat. ‘If it wasn’t for that parting shot of yours earlier, I might be tempted to think you’re finding it hard to resist me.’

Seriously, could today get any worse? Imogen inwardly wailed as mortification joined all the other emotions crashing around inside her. ‘You’re the one who followed me and wanted to share my taxi,’ she muttered, and then because she was in such mental disarray added, ‘and, you know, that could be construed as stalking.’

At that, Jack tensed. The hands busy at the buttons of his coat stilled. With her heart beating a fraction faster, she met his suddenly chilly gaze and noticed an almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw.

‘Stalking … devouring …’ he said in a dangerously low voice. ‘You want to watch where you throw those accusations, Imogen.’ Drawing the lapels of his coat apart, he tugged at the knot of his tie. He pulled it off, rolled it up and put it in his pocket, then undid the top button of his shirt.

Ignoring the fact that he might have a point, Imogen bristled and told herself that staring at the wedge of flesh now exposed at the base of his neck wasn’t going to achieve anything. ‘And you ought to know that I don’t use the term lightly. I had a stalker a few years ago and he ended up in jail.’ The memory of the man who for six long months had followed her, sent her horrible emails and repeatedly ignored the restraining order imposed on him flashed into her head and she shuddered.

He shot her a quick glance and the odd look in his eye made her pulse leap. ‘A stalker?’

‘A stalker.’

‘I guess that would explain your elbow in my stomach.’

‘Would it?’ she replied sweetly. Whatever that look had been it had better not have been pity. ‘Maybe I just don’t like you.’

He smiled. ‘Yes, you do. You might not want to, but you do.’ And then his expression turned serious. ‘I’m sorry if I scared you.’

She frowned and decided that getting into a no-I-don’t-yes-you-do kind of tussle about whether she liked him or not, which she didn’t of course, wasn’t going to get her anywhere. ‘You didn’t. You startled me. There’s a difference.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I do.’

‘As a matter of interest, where are you going?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘Now, now, darling,’ he said with a grin. ‘You’re not being very friendly.’

‘You’ve practically hijacked my taxi. I’m not feeling very friendly.’

Although to be honest she wasn’t quite sure what she was feeling. Edgy, definitely. Skin-pricklingly aware of every inch of him as he sat back and ran his hands through his hair. All weirdly quivery, too.

Those ‘darlings’ had her wondering what it would be like to have him say them and mean them. They had her imagining him saying them in a whole load of other scenarios, all of which involved her naked and in his arms.

How on earth did he do it? she wondered dazedly. Yes, he was extraordinarily good-looking and his body was something else, but she’d met loads of handsome well-packaged men over the years and none of them had made her go fluttery and molten and teenagery like this.

All she wanted to do was clamber onto his lap, yank up his shirt and get her hands on him. While planting her mouth on his and kissing him as if her life depended on it. In fact it was taking every ounce of self-control she possessed not to slide across the leather and do precisely that.

Even more confusing was how she could react to him like this when she knew who he was and what he was really like. It was perverse.

But perhaps that was what chemistry was, she reflected, surreptitiously letting her eyes drift over him and almost scientifically noting her body’s inevitable response. A searing attraction that had no regard for logic or reason or circumstance.

Well, that was fine, she told herself, sliding her gaze down over the powerful muscles of his thighs, remembering the feel of those muscles tensing beneath her hand and wishing she could just switch herself off. She might be as attracted to him as an iron filing to a magnet, but she was simply going to have to defy the laws of physics and resist. It was a question of control. That was all.

‘If you’re not feeling very friendly, why are you eyeing me up?’

Jack’s voice jerked her out of her musings and Imogen felt her face blush a bright red. Thank goodness it was dark inside the taxi, she thought, and leaned forwards to lower the window a little. ‘No particular reason,’ she said and hoped she wouldn’t be struck down for the whopping lie. ‘I’m simply trying to work out what I’m—’ She stopped. Hmm. On reflection, ‘up against’, which was what she’d been about to say, didn’t seem all that prudent. ‘I’m simply trying to assess an adversary,’ she said instead.

Jack’s eyebrows rose. ‘You see this as a battle?’

Only an internal one, she thought darkly, pulling herself together and crossing her arms as if that might provide some kind of defence against his impact. And one she had to take control of. Now. Before the conversation headed down an avenue that led who knew where? ‘What do you want, Jack?’

‘What do you think I want?’

‘I have no idea,’ she said, lying for the second time in minutes.

‘I’d like an explanation.’

‘Oh? What for?’ As if she didn’t know.

‘All I did was ask you out for dinner.’

‘Really?’ she said, arching an eyebrow as she mentally revisited their conversation at the gallery. ‘It seemed to me like you were asking for a whole lot more than just dinner.’

‘Yes, well, it seemed to me that a whole lot more than just dinner was on offer.’

Imogen let out a gasp and her jaw nearly hit the floor. For a second she just gaped at him, her mind reeling. ‘My God,’ she breathed, ‘you really are incredible.’

‘Now why doesn’t that sound like a compliment?’

‘Because it isn’t,’ she all but snapped, feeling her temper beginning to stir as much at her own hopelessness as his outrageousness, and banking it down.

Jack shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘Imogen, Imogen, Imogen, what is your problem?’

She wished he wouldn’t say her name like that. She’d never thought of it as a particularly sexy name, but on his lips it sounded like every wicked thought she’d ever had. ‘I don’t have a problem.’ Although actually, she did. Because the way she was actually enjoying this whole conversation was just plain odd. ‘Is it really so hard to believe that I just don’t want to have dinner—or anything else—with you?’

He stared at her for a while, his expression utterly unfathomable, and then to her consternation a smile curved his mouth and his eyes took on a dangerous gleam. Achingly slowly, he began to run his gaze over her. Lingering on her face, then moving down, drifting over her breasts, her waist, her hips and her legs, right down to her toes.

Her body tingled, fizzed beneath the smouldering gaze, and the beat of something hot and achy thudded deep inside her. Helpless to do anything to stop him, Imogen watched him look, her heart pounding. As his gaze roamed back up her in the same languid way, flames of desire licked at her stomach and her bones melted. If it hadn’t been for the wool of her dress rubbing over her sensitised skin, she’d have thought he’d just stripped her naked and then set her on fire.

‘Frankly, yes,’ he murmured, and she bristled because the realisation that not even several layers of winter clothing could disguise the reaction of her body was frustrating in the extreme.

‘Well, believe it,’ she said sharply.

He gave her a knowing smile. ‘You might not want dinner, but you definitely want me.’

Imogen blinked as his words hit her brain and she yanked herself out of the rapidly unravelling sensual web he’d woven around her.

There it was again, she thought, giving herself a mental slap. The rock-solid conviction of a man who thought he knew everything about everything. Including her. And, quite suddenly, instead of wanting to scoot across the leather and snuggle up to him, she wanted to smack him across the head.

‘In your dreams,’ she said, jutting her chin up to add strength to her words. But all that did was jerk his gaze down to her mouth, which instantly tingled.

‘You know I could prove you wrong, don’t you?’ he murmured.

‘You could try,’ she said, arching a challenging eyebrow. She did not want to know what his mouth would feel like on hers. Definitely not. She’d focus on the button beneath that wedge of chest instead. ‘But I wouldn’t fancy your chances of success.’

‘I would.’

Barely able to believe his cheek, Imogen snapped her eyes to his face, all thoughts of focusing on his shirt button vanishing. It was the smile playing at his lips that did it. A knowing, confident smile that acted like a match tossed onto the smouldering embers of her indignation.

Forget that he was probably right. This wasn’t about rightness. This was about him and those like him. Anger suddenly raced along her veins and her head went fuzzy with the intensity of everything she’d thought she’d packaged away but evidently hadn’t.

But then, just as she was about to lean over, jab him in the chest as she told him exactly what she thought of him, something made her pause. Made her ask herself what losing her temper would get her. She’d already exhibited more emotional volatility in the last six hours than she had in her entire life, and a further display would simply reinforce the impression, on both herself and Jack, that she was seriously unstable. And recent events aside, she wasn’t. Much.

Losing her temper now, getting all hot and fiery while he sat there as cool as an ice sculpture, would merely give Jack more ground. She’d be far better off staying calm and collected and in some sort of control.

Closing her eyes, Imogen inhaled deeply and went to her happy place where the sun warmed her skin and Martinis flowed.

How hard could it be?

CHAPTER FOUR

NOW what was she doing?

Jack frowned as he stared at Imogen, who was sitting with her head bent, pinching the bridge of her nose and muttering to herself.

She really was peculiar. Intriguingly peculiar, but peculiar nonetheless. He didn’t think he’d ever met anyone so mercurial, who smouldered and sizzled one minute and bristled and bridled the next. No wonder he found himself caving in to the compulsion to needle her; her mood swings were enough to drive a man to drink.

Was she meditating? Or mentally preparing herself for battle?

Whatever it was, maybe he ought to cut his losses and leave her to it, because intentions were all very well, but forgetting about the frantic urge to run his hands over her curves when she was sitting a couple of feet away was proving harder than he’d anticipated. Especially now that, thanks to the taxi driver’s desire to get going, he knew what she felt like.

But when she eventually opened her eyes and gave him a serene smile his senses tumbled into such chaos that any idea he’d had of cutting and leaving completely vanished.

‘You really want to know what my problem is?’ she said silkily.

‘I do,’ he said, vaguely wondering why he was so keen to know when every instinct was telling him it wasn’t going to be good.

‘Well, this is exactly it.’

‘Exactly what?’

She gave him another beguiling smile and his stomach clenched. ‘There’s so much I barely know where to start.’

‘You could always try the beginning.’

‘You’re right. I could.’ She nodded and he had the unsettling feeling he’d just handed her a knife with which to eviscerate him. ‘OK, well, for a start you have a seriously over-inflated ego.’

An over-inflated ego? Jack felt his eyebrows shoot up. Of all the accusations she could have hurled at him that was the most inapplicable. ‘What makes you think I have an over-inflated ego?’

‘Outside the realm of this evening’s conversation, you mean?’

Now why did that sound as if she knew something he didn’t? Jack tilted his head as he regarded her, and racked his brains. ‘Have we met before?’

‘No.’

‘I thought not.’ If they had, he’d definitely have remembered. And come to think of it— ‘Why not?’

‘Oh, just lucky I guess.’

‘Ouch,’ he said, muttering and rubbing his chest. ‘Tell me, what precisely do you have against me? Or do you have it in for men in general?’

‘No, no,’ she said with a dazzling smile. ‘At the moment, just you.’

‘I’m flattered.’ He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. ‘So?’

Imogen arched an eyebrow. ‘Greatsexguaranteed?’

‘What?’ His jaw dropped and his pulse spiked. ‘Are you offering?’

Her eyes flashed for a second and relief spun through him because all that cool detachment had been faintly disconcerting. ‘No, of course I’m not offering,’ she said witheringly. ‘I’m referring to the eBay incident.’

Ah, that. Four years ago he’d prodded Luke into getting over the death of his first wife by entering into a bidding war over the woman who eventually became his second. Interesting how, of all the things Imogen could have started with, she’d chosen to focus on the user name he’d chosen in a moment of flippancy. Almost Freudian. ‘Oh, yes, I remember.’

She sniffed. ‘An over-stated claim if ever I heard one.’

Jack grinned, fascinated despite himself. ‘What makes you so sure?’

He’d never received any criticism of his performance in bed and Imogen was just too easy to wind up. Steam was whooshing out of her ears and she was rolling her eyes.

But that didn’t stop the blush creeping into her cheeks. Nor did it stop his gaze dipping to her mouth, where the tip of her tongue darted out to sweep along her lower lip.

His body contracted with a sudden powerful wave of desire. The air inside the taxi thickened and vibrated with an almost tangible tension and a series of X-rated images slammed into his head. Of Imogen panting and writhing as he moved on top of her, with her, buried deep inside her. Having sex. Great sex.

His head went fuzzy, his mouth went dry and his pulse thundered. The urge to haul her into his arms and set about making the fantasy a reality took him completely by surprise and he had to curl his hands into fists to stop himself from reaching for her.

‘Which only goes to prove my next point.’

As the cool tone of her voice filtered into his head, Jack blinked and willed his pulse to slow down.

Point? What point? He could barely remember his own name, let alone think about any point. He was rock hard and aching. He’d never felt such an overwhelming need to possess, such a primitive urge to claim. And it scared the living daylights out of him.

Telling himself not to be absurd, that physical attraction—even when it involved someone who had it in for him—was nothing to worry about, he cleared his throat. He ran his hands through his hair. Went to adjust the knot of his tie before remembering that he’d already removed it.

‘Which is?’ he said, eventually folding his arms across his chest and hoping he sounded calmer than he felt.

‘I’ve heard that you’re arrogant and presumptuous.’

What?

Jack frowned as Imogen paused and raised her eyebrows, evidently waiting for some kind of response. What was she expecting him to do? Apologise? Deny it? Or confirm she was right?

‘Oh, please don’t hold back on my account,’ he said dryly, having no intention of doing any of that and deciding to see what else she threw at him before responding.

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