Scandal In The Spotlight: The Couple Behind the Headlines / Redemption of a Hollywood Starlet / The Price of Fame
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‘Then do continue.’
‘I’ve also heard that you’re callous, cold and emotionally bankrupt.’
Jack kept a neutral expression fixed to his face but behind it he was reeling. Forget knife in the singular. Imogen was attacking him with an entire kitchen drawer full of the things, and to his surprise her accusations stung.
Being called arrogant and presumptuous he could just about deal with. There might even have been a smidgeon of truth in the charges, although he’d have preferred ‘confident’ and ‘spotting an opportunity and taking it’.
But callous, cold and emotionally bankrupt? That was going too far. He wasn’t either callous or cold. And so what if he kept his emotions to himself? Not everyone liked flaunting them left, right and centre.
‘I didn’t realise dinner called for much emotional depth,’ he said, his voice not betraying a hint of what he was thinking.
‘I doubt anything you do calls for much emotional depth,’ she said with faint amusement that did nothing to soften what sounded rather like an insult.
And where had she got this stuff from anyway? ‘You don’t even know me.’
‘I know men like you.’
‘Men like me?’ The idea he was a type was oddly distasteful. And wrong.
‘OK,’ she conceded. ‘Men with your reputation.’
Jack went still. ‘That’s what you’re basing your accusations on?’ he said deceptively mildly. ‘Gossip, rumour and hearsay?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s as good a place to start as any.’
No, it wasn’t. He wasn’t nearly as notorious as his reputation liked to make out. Not that he’d ever done anything to contradict it. Most of the time it suited him to have people—women especially—think the worst of him. Then unattainable expectations were less likely to arise. On either side.
Now, however, having people—Imogen—think the worst of him didn’t seem appealing at all.
‘You seem to have judged me exceptionally quickly,’ he said, unaccountably irritated by the notion because it had never bothered him before.
Imogen bit her lip and frowned. ‘Possibly. But I do have grounds.’
Oh, this he’d love to hear. ‘Which are?’
‘Amanda Hobbs, for one thing.’
Amanda Hobbs? He frowned as he racked his memory. Oh, yes. ‘What about her?’
‘You broke her heart.’
‘Did I?’ he said, knowing perfectly well he hadn’t because he never let things ever get to the stage where hearts became involved.
Her jaw dropped and she stared at him. ‘You mean you don’t know?’
‘I mean I really don’t know.’
Imogen spluttered in outrage, her grip on her control clearly unravelling. ‘I can’t believe you could be so callous as to not even acknowledge what you did.’
As far as he was aware he had nothing to acknowledge, but Imogen’s outrage and the way it made her eyes flash was utterly absorbing, and besides he was intrigued by what fresh rumours the mill had been grinding. ‘So enlighten me.’
‘Are there really so many women you can’t remember them?’ she said scathingly.
Not nearly as many as rumour would have it. But she didn’t need to know that right now, so Jack merely shrugged and smiled in a ‘what can I say?’ kind of way, which made her eyes flash even more.
‘OK, fine,’ she said, nodding and pushing herself upright. ‘You went out together. For three months.’ Three months? Jack’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You were about to move in together but then you ditched her. By text. Of all the rotten, lousy things to do.’ She glared at him, her chin up and her body quivering with emotion.
‘Anything else?’ he said.
‘Isn’t that enough?’
‘I’m sure you have more.’
‘Did you even care that the poor girl was heartbroken? That she was a complete wreck and had to flee to Italy to recover?’
Well, no, he didn’t. Why would he? And what was it to her anyway? Why was she so offended? Were they friends? They certainly shared the same melodramatic tendencies.
‘So you’re some sort of avenging angel? Getting your own back for all the crimes I’ve supposedly committed?’ he said. Was that really why she’d flung the ‘victim devouring’ comment at him? ‘Because let me assure you, sweetheart, there’s absolutely no need.’
‘Really,’ she said witheringly, obviously not believing him for a second.
Right. That was enough, Jack decided, twisting round and giving in to the increasingly pressing desire to set her straight. ‘Look, here are the facts. The facts,’ he repeated, fixing her with a stare, ‘not some twisted third-hand gossip.’
She opened her mouth to say something, but he was fed up with the accusations and the scorn so he uncrossed his arms and clamped a hand over it. ‘Quiet.’
Ignoring the feel of her soft skin and her mouth beneath his palm and the way her eyes were widening with shock and something else, Jack made himself focus on the facts.
‘Amanda and I went out two or three times,’ he said. ‘Four at the most.’ And even that was several times too many. Although beautiful, Amanda had been a drama queen with a penchant for flouncing, which was one of the reasons he’d stopped seeing her. ‘We didn’t have a relationship and we certainly never discussed moving in together.’
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
THAT 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.’
‘There aren’t any.’
Luke arched an eyebrow and grinned. ‘That I find hard to believe.’
Jack shrugged. As far as he was concerned, Luke could believe what he liked. ‘Why are you so interested?’
‘You’re my oldest and best friend. Why wouldn’t I be interested?’
Ah, thought Jack wryly. How could he have forgotten? Of course Luke would be interested. Ever since he’d married three years ago, he’d been dropping not very subtle hints that Jack should think about following his example and settle down himself.
Hah. As if. As much as Luke and Emily might wish otherwise, the last thing he wanted was what they had. They had each other, and Daisy, and another baby on the way. Which was great for Luke, but that kind of family set-up wasn’t for him. Never had been, never would be.
‘So Emily put you up to this?’ he said, stifling a shudder at the thought of settling down.
‘She asked me to get the low-down,’ said Luke, completely without shame.
‘Well, you can tell her to tell her friend that there’s nothing to report. Imogen and I met at the gallery and had a conversation, which continued in a taxi. Then I got out and she carried on to wherever she was going. That was it. End of story.’
‘OK, great.’ Luke grinned and sat back, his mission clearly accomplished. ‘Because if you weren’t up for babysitting, I’m not sure what we’d have done.’
Which only went to prove how subtly Jack had been finessed. Not that he cared about that at this particular moment. The sudden contraction of his muscles had nothing to do with being skilfully finessed. Nor did the pounding of his head and the rocketing of his heart rate.
No. The cause of all that was the thought now ricocheting around his brain to the annihilation of everything else: what if it wasn’t the end of the story?
Jack went hot, then cold, and felt a bead of sweat trickle down his spine as the idea stopped racing round his head and began to take root.
Wow, he thought, his stomach churning. If it wasn’t and he did in fact consider Imogen unfinished business, then that would certainly explain his unease and his restlessness over the past twelve hours. Was it a coincidence that he’d started feeling like this the minute he’d left her? He didn’t think so.
As realisation dawned all the thoughts his subconscious had been keeping at bay broke though the fragile barrier it had erected and rained down on him.
If he’d done the right thing by getting out of that damn taxi last night, why had it felt the exact opposite? Why had he marched down that street towards his flat feeling as if he had hundred-tonne weights attached to his ankles? Why had the broken dreams he’d had during the moments of sleep he had managed to snatch been filled with such erotic images? Why did his blood heat and desire race though him at the mere thought of her? And why couldn’t he get the memory of her sprawled against him as the taxi had pulled away, her mouth inches from his and her hand clamped to his thigh, out of his head?
Oh, yes, he thought grimly, that definitely sounded like unfinished business.
‘But I can’t help wondering why.’
‘Why what?’ said Jack, dazed by the intensity with which he ached to finish what he’d started with Imogen.
‘Why you aren’t seeing her again. I’ve heard she’s very pretty.’
Imogen was more than pretty. She was beautiful, contrary, fascinating and as sexy as hell, and there was no point in denying it. A wave of heat rocked through him and he shifted on the chair to ease the pressure building in his lower body. ‘She is.’
‘Then what’s wrong with her?’
Jack inwardly winced. ‘She’s just not my type,’ he muttered, thinking that Luke might be his best friend but there was no way he was about to confess how badly he’d crashed and burned.
‘Not your type? She has a pulse, doesn’t she?’
‘Ha-ha.’ Jack frowned and tried to ignore the sting of the seriously lame joke.
‘Sorry. I couldn’t resist.’
‘Well, try.’
Luke’s eyebrows shot up at the sharp tone of Jack’s voice, as well they might. Luke, who was one of the few people who knew Jack wasn’t as dissolute as he’d have everyone believe, often took the mickey. Usually it never bothered him, so why did it now?
Telling himself to get a grip, Jack shot his friend an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Just knackered.’
‘No problem,’ said Luke with a quick smile of his own. ‘I shouldn’t have brought her up in the first place.’
Jack sighed and pushed his hands through his hair. ‘If you must know, I did ask her out. She turned me down.’
‘God, why?’
‘She disapproved of my reputation.’
‘I see.’ Luke nodded. Tilted his head and frowned. ‘Didn’t you set her straight?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I don’t get it. What happened?’
Jack resisted the urge to grind his teeth. That was a billion-dollar question, and the one he’d been avoiding ever since he’d made the decision to get out of that taxi, if he was being brutally honest.
The truth of it was that he’d got spooked. He’d known that Imogen was as attracted to him as he was to her. He’d seen and heard the evidence. Hell, he’d even told her she wanted him.
But had he taken advantage of it? No. Instead, he’d opted for the easy way out, dogged by the weird sensation that Imogen was somehow dangerous. That she could very easily pose some kind of threat to his peace of mind if he got involved with her.
Which was absurd, he thought, conjuring up the image of her sitting there eyes wide and darkening with heat as he leaned in close to set her straight. The woman was as much of a threat as a marshmallow, and his overreaction had been melodramatic to say the least.
But then why wouldn’t it have been? Over the course of a matter of hours he’d had to endure agony-inducing art, been struck by the severest case of lust he’d had in a long time, had had an invitation to dinner hurled back in his face, suffered a jab to the ribs and then been accused of being arrogant and cold.