Scandal In The Spotlight: The Couple Behind the Headlines / Redemption of a Hollywood Starlet / The Price of Fame

Despite the tension in him one corner of his mouth hitched up. ‘Don’t be. I actually found the whole thing hugely entertaining.’

Imogen blinked in surprise and not a little pique. Entertaining? That was not what she’d been expecting. ‘I’m delighted you enjoyed the show,’ she said tartly.

Jack raised an eyebrow and grinned, then twisted round to lean one shoulder against the wall, far too close for her peace of mind. ‘You don’t really behave like that with every man you’re pleased to see, do you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good.’

‘I was just a little—ah—jumpy.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

She ignored that and sought refuge in manners. ‘Anyway, thank you for coming to my rescue.’

‘It was my pleasure. I’m glad I was able to help out. Why the jumpiness?’

Imogen tried come up with a suitable explanation but it was tough when she only had a variety of unsuitable ones to choose from.

She could attribute her nerves to the awkwardness that had hit her when she’d first laid eyes on Max and Connie. But that had disappeared the minute she’d seen Jack. From then on her jumpiness had been firstly down to the feel of his body against hers and the corresponding desire that had swept through her and wiped out every scrap of self-possession she had, and then the sense of connection she’d had when their eyes had met over the realisation that Max could well have bought Jack’s painting.

But as she had no intention of giving him the pleasure of knowing how jumpy he made her, she was going to have to explain about Max and Connie. Which wouldn’t exactly put her in a good light, but then given the nature of their acquaintance to date she doubted she could sink any lower in his estimation.

‘If you must know,’ she said, straightening her spine against the wall and ignoring the twinge she felt at the notion of sinking lower in his estimation, ‘I used to go out with Max.’

She turned her head in time to see Jack’s eyebrows shoot up and a flicker of something flare in the depths of his eyes. ‘I see.’

Hmm. Intriguing. What had that been? Disappointment? Anger? Jealousy? Imogen’s heart fluttered for a second and then she told herself not to be so absurd, because why would he be any of those things?

When he didn’t say anything else, she shifted round to face him and folded her arms across her chest. ‘What?’ she asked, jutting her chin up partly in response to the frown creasing his forehead and partly because she was annoyed with herself for actually wanting him to be jealous.

‘I must say I’m surprised.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, for one thing, he has abysmal taste in art.’

At the memory of how dazed she’d felt when her gaze had locked with his and they’d just stared at each other while coming to the same conclusion her heart gave a little lurch. ‘Did he really buy your painting, do you think?’ she said.

Jack shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t propped against the wall. ‘I had a phone call from the gallery the morning after the show, and apparently someone bought it, so it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility.’

A tiny smile tugged at her lips. ‘Oh, dear, poor Max.’

From the way Jack grunted, she guessed he didn’t share the sentiment.

‘So what’s the other thing?’ she asked.

He arched one dark eyebrow. ‘What other thing?’

‘You said “for one thing”, which would imply there’s another.’

‘He’s a jerk.’

Imogen frowned, faintly put out that Jack had deduced in five minutes what it had taken her the last two months to figure out. ‘Well, yes, but he was my jerk. Now he’s Connie’s jerk and that hurts.’

‘Why? I’d have thought you’d be glad to be rid of him.’

‘Oh, I am. Now.’ She bit her lip. ‘But I wasn’t for a long time.’

‘What happened?’

Imogen sighed and decided that she had nothing to lose by telling him. ‘We went out together for about a year. I thought everything was going fabulously, until one weekend a couple of months ago when I got home from staying with my parents and found a note, telling me he was leaving me to shack up with Connie.’

His jaw tightened. ‘Like I said, he’s a jerk. And she’s not much better.’

‘She was my best friend. My best friend. How could she?’ Imogen frowned and shook her head at her own naiveté. ‘I thought I knew her inside out. We grew up together. Started at the same school on the same day. Hung out all the time in the holidays. That sort of thing. It’s the ultimate betrayal.’

‘It sounds like you’re more upset at the loss of a friend than a boyfriend.’

Imogen snapped her gaze up to find him looking at her thoughtfully. Maybe he had a point. Connie’s betrayal had cut far deeper than Max’s. ‘I’m upset full stop,’ she muttered, slightly thrown by the realisation.

Although actually she wasn’t all that upset, was she? At least not about the disgustingly happy couple. Not any more.

Now that she thought about it, over the last couple of days she’d been so caught up with thoughts of Jack and the way he made her feel that Max and Connie and their forthcoming nuptials had barely crossed her mind.

She cast her memory back to the traumatic afternoon she’d discovered they’d got engaged, and to her bewilderment she felt nothing. Not a pang, not a twinge, not an ache. Which was as unnerving as it was a relief.

‘Or at least I was,’ she added, thinking that since Jack had come to her rescue so splendidly and as it no longer appeared to hurt perhaps she owed him the rest as well. ‘The afternoon we met at the gallery when I was a little, ah …’ She paused as she searched for any word that wouldn’t make her sound demented.

‘Unhinged?’

‘Vulnerable,’ she corrected, flashing a glare at him, ‘I’d just found out they’d got engaged.’

‘I see.’

‘And it kind of threw me.’

‘Well, that explains a lot,’ he said with a satisfied nod.

‘Don’t look so pleased with yourself,’ she said archly. ‘You didn’t exactly help.’

‘Oh?’

‘You reminded me of Max.’

Jack’s eyebrows shot up and then he scowled. ‘I’m nothing like Max.’

He looked so affronted she couldn’t hold back a smile. ‘Well, I realise that now, but I didn’t know that at the time, did I? All I could see then was that you were both good-looking, charming with a fine line in banter, and heartbreaking players.’

Jack flinched. ‘You jumped to an awful lot of conclusions.’

‘And you didn’t?’ she countered as she thought of the character flaws he’d flung at her.

He frowned. Tilted his head as he stared at her with such an intense expression on his face her stomach squeezed. ‘You’re right. I did. I’m sorry.’

Mollified, Imogen gazed up at him until something that had been niggling away at her ever since he’d pitched up at her side struck her again. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she said. ‘I don’t remember seeing your name on the original guest list.’

‘It wasn’t. My ticket was a last-minute thing.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to see you.’

His eyes darkened and the glint appeared. As the air seemed to thicken around them Imogen gulped, her heart rate rocketing.

‘What for?’ she said a little huskily. ‘You must think I’m insane.’

He pushed himself off the wall and turned so that he was standing so close she could feel the heat radiating off him. ‘I don’t think you’re anything of the sort.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’ He tilted his head and gave her a smile that frazzled her senses. ‘Would you like to know what I do think?’

She’d love to. ‘I’d be fascinated,’ she said evenly, trying not to sound too desperate.

‘I think you must have had a rough time recently.’

‘Oh, I have.’ That he appeared to understand was doing strange things to her brain.

‘And I think you’re beautiful.’

Every bone in her body melted. ‘You do?’

‘I do.’ His gaze dropped to her mouth and his eyes darkened to navy. ‘I also think that you and I have unfinished business.’

Oh, heavens. Perhaps she hadn’t sunk quite as low in his estimation as she’d imagined. ‘Do we?’

‘I think so.’

‘In what way?’

‘We started something on Tuesday night. Something that got held up by misunderstandings and assumptions.’ He reached out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear and she jumped. ‘But now,’ he added, lowering his hand to her wrist and slowly stroking it up to her shoulder, ‘it seems to me that there isn’t anything standing in the way of the basic facts any longer.’

‘What basic facts?’ she breathed because, although she was getting a pretty good idea, she was finding it hard to concentrate with his hand gliding over her skin.

‘That I want you and you want me.’

Relief flooded through her. ‘Ah, those facts.’ His fingers were now spreading over her skin where her neck met her shoulder and his thumb was on the pulse that hammered there. ‘I hope you’re not going to try and dispute them again.’

Imogen swallowed. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ What would be the point? He was right. She did want him. More than she’d ever wanted anyone ever before. Had done for ages. And right now she wanted every smidgeon of danger, excitement and fun that that glint had to offer, because the realisation that he wanted it, too, was destroying what little was left of her self-control.

‘Jack—’ she said hoarsely.

But as his thumb circled relentlessly over her skin her head swam and she couldn’t remember what she’d been intending to say. Still only touching her along her collarbone, he reached behind her and opened the door and backed her into whatever lay behind it.

‘What are you doing?’ she breathed as she stepped into darkness.

‘Finishing that business we started. Do you have any objections?’

Somewhere through the fog swirling around her head, she was pretty sure she did. Not least because of where she was and what she was supposed to be doing. Reason made one pathetic last-ditch attempt to do the right thing. ‘Dinner’s about to begin.’

His gaze dropped to her mouth. ‘You’re so right.’

She shivered at that. ‘I’m the guest of honour. I can’t hide out in a—’ she glanced round, her eyes adjusting to the dimness ‘—in a broom cupboard.’

‘Five minutes,’ he murmured, holding her transfixed with a look of pure need.

Oh, God, she thought, her heart beginning to thud crazily. Her nerve endings were sizzling so manically that the idea that she might be able to resist him was laughable. ‘Two.’

‘We’ll see.’

And then he lowered his head to hers and all Imogen could see was him. Enveloping her and intoxicating her.

Her breath caught, her heart stopped and just when she thought she might pass out with the sheer weight of anticipation, his lips brushed hers. Lightly. Fleetingly. She trembled and let out a breathy little sigh. So he did it again. And again. The third time her moan was one of frustration because surely after all the build-up he wasn’t planning to spend the whole two minutes doing that, was he?

But just in case that was his plan, just in case he was intending to give her only a tantalising hint of what he had to offer and truly drive her insane, Imogen reached up and wound her arms around his neck. She threaded her fingers through his hair, then tilted her hips and wiggled.

Which seemed to do the trick.

The hand that was on her shoulder whipped round to the nape of her neck while his other arm snapped around her and then to her delight and relief she was being hauled against him. Stunned by the speed and suddenness with which he moved, Imogen let out a startled gasp, which he took advantage of immediately by slamming his mouth down on hers.

The minute his lips met hers, properly this time, the remaining fragments of her brain disintegrated. As their tongues tangled and devoured, heat shot through her from head to toe. Her heart crashed against her ribs while her stomach swooped.

Barely able to control her movements, she pressed herself closer and he deepened the kiss. She heard him groan, felt the hot, hard evidence of his arousal against her and every inch of her body throb with need. He was all hard, powerful muscle and strength and the idea that right now every drop of it was hers was making her head swim. It was a good thing he had such a tight hold of her. If she hadn’t been clasped so tightly in the strong, warm circle of his arms she’d have crumpled to the floor in a quivering, molten heap.

‘You pack quite a punch,’ Jack muttered, dragging his mouth from hers to explore the skin of her neck and upper chest.

‘So do you,’ she said raggedly as a series of uncontrollable shudders ripped through her. ‘You know, never have I been so glad to be wearing a strapless dress.’

She was even more so when he slid his hand up her side to cup her breast. At the jolt of desire, Imogen let out a whimper of pleasure.

‘Shh,’ Jack murmured.

‘Make me,’ she said, desperate for his mouth to find hers again.

Which, to her fevered relief, it did. While he continued his devastating assault on her mouth, he pushed the top of her dress and her bra down and, taking the weight of one breast in his palm, he rubbed his thumb over her nipple.

Beneath his touch her nipple hardened and ached and Imogen groaned and arched her back. And then his mouth moved down to her other breast, closing over that nipple, and she screwed her eyes tight shut and dug her teeth into her lower lip, because, wow, she’d never felt pleasure like it.

Sparks showered through her, straight down to the hot, aching centre of her, and she shuddered against him, trembling with the desire to have him thrusting up hard inside her.

But just when she thought she was about to collapse with need, Jack lifted his head and stared down at her, breathing heavily, his eyes blazing and dark and his face tight with restraint. Swallowing hard, he dragged in a ragged breath and took a step back.

‘No,’ Imogen muttered in protest.

‘We have to stop,’ he said roughly, drawing her dress and bra back into place with shaking fingers.

‘Why?’

His eyes dropped to her mouth and for a moment she thought he would declare he was joking and drag her back into his arms.

But he didn’t. Instead, he backed away even more and set his jaw. ‘Because we’ve already been more than five minutes,’ he said grimly, ‘and if we carry on like this I might very well end up getting us a proper room.’

‘A proper room?’ she echoed dazedly.

‘Well, this is a hotel, and beds are in dangerously close proximity.’

Imogen went dizzy at the thought of her and Jack hot and sweaty and naked in bed. ‘That would be fine by me.’ In fact, the sooner, the better.

‘What happened to you being the star of the show and all that concern about being missed?’

Oh. Damn.

She blinked as reality crashed back into her head and obliterated the heat. Yes. Of course. The Ball. Dinner. Her speech. She blanched. Her speech! In a matter of minutes, she had to get up in front of a hundred people and speak. Agh. ‘You’re right.’

‘You’d better go. Now. Before I change my mind and book that room.’

‘What about you?’ she said, wishing she didn’t have to leave.

‘I’ll follow in a few minutes.’

‘Will I see you after dinner?’

Jack hauled her into his arms and gave her a swift, hard kiss that made her head reel, and then shot her a look full of hot, dark promise before nudging her through the door and pointing her in the right direction. ‘You can count on it.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

COUNT on it?

Hah. She couldn’t count on anything, thought Imogen, stalking into the conservatory after dinner with as much speed and force as her dress would allow, which infuriatingly wasn’t a lot. Ideally, she’d have liked to pace and stomp but all she could do was totter over to an armchair and throw herself into it.

At least the glowering she could manage, she thought, staring gloomily out into the softly lit gardens.

Where had the evening gone so wrong?

After leaving Jack, she’d sailed into the dining room as if she were floating across the floor, aware that the electricity still flowing through her must be evident to anyone with eyes in their head, but unable to summon up the energy to do anything to hide it.

She’d taken her seat and smiled a hello to the other people at her table. She’d murmured her appreciation of the food and dipped in and out of the conversation. And all the while her thoughts had kept drifting back to that broom cupboard.

How she’d managed to get through the short speech she’d had to give thanking the sponsors and the guests she’d never know. Even as she’d been elaborating on the causes the trust had recently supported she’d felt a self-destructive urge to rip up her prompt cards and ask the audience, in a choose-your-own-adventure kind of way, what they thought might have happened next if Jack hadn’t stopped when he had.

Which would really not have impressed the illustrious gathering. Nor the trust’s board. And had it made its way into the press, it certainly wouldn’t have gone down well with the submissions committee at the university she’d applied to in the States.

Imogen let out a sigh and frowned. Oh, who was she kidding? She knew exactly when the evening had started to go downhill. It had taken a turn for the worse the moment she’d stepped down from that podium and spotted the woman Jack was sitting next to.

She’d been a blonde of indeterminate age. Beautiful in a ravaged kind of way. The sort of woman who commanded the centre of attention and revelled in it. And, judging by the way her hands had been all over him, one who’d clearly set her sights on Jack.

Not that he’d seemed to object, she thought sourly. Throughout dinner her gaze had kept sliding to him and every time she’d looked, he’d just been sitting there, letting himself be pawed to pieces.

Probably still was, because where was he anyway? Dinner had been over for ages and she’d hung around but there’d been no sign of him. So much for his promise to come and find her after supper.

Logic and common sense told her that there were a dozen different reasons he might have been delayed, but neither stood a chance against the overwhelming suspicion that he could well be checking out the broom cupboard with the blonde.

And how had he known about that anyway? Imogen frowned and swung her feet up to rest on the window sill. The way he’d steered her out of the lobby and down that corridor, as if he knew exactly where he was going …

She nibbled on her lip, vaguely aware that her mind was careering off in a dangerously extravagant direction, but too wound up to stop it. Why was she even bothering to wonder? For all she knew Jack was acquainted with the whereabouts of all the broom cupboards in every top London hotel.

That little voice hammering away inside her head and insisting she was wrong, that he wasn’t like that, was all very well but, despite what he’d told her that night in the taxi, and despite what she’d told herself over the past few days, she couldn’t get what she knew of his reputation entirely out of her mind.

Irrational, undoubtedly, but there it was. What with the betrayal she’d suffered recently and the knowledge that Max and Connie’s affair must have been going on right under her nose was it any wonder she was predisposed to mistrust?

Imogen glanced at her watch and sighed. Five more minutes to compose herself and then she’d be saying her goodbyes and getting out of here, because the night had turned out to be just as grim as she’d thought—although for entirely different reasons—and she’d had enough.

Jack scoured the ground floor of the hotel for Imogen. The things he had to suffer in the pursuit of a date!

As if having to bring ferocious desire and the memories of those scorching kisses under control hadn’t been trial enough, Jessica had been on particularly demanding form this evening.

From her behaviour at dinner one would never guess she’d ignored him most of her life, but it had taken Jack less than two minutes to figure out that his mother’s brief foray into lavish maternal affection was nothing more than an effort to impress her latest conquest, who happened to work in the same field as he did.

Which couldn’t have bothered him less. Jessica, who’d had him when she was a teenager and had promptly handed him over to her parents to raise him so that she could carry on partying, didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, and he’d never deluded himself into thinking otherwise.

So the stabbing at his gut was nothing more than indigestion, although if someone had asked him what had been on the menu he couldn’t have said. All he’d been able to think about for course after course was what had gone on in that broom cupboard and what might have happened if he hadn’t heard the echo of the gong announcing dinner.

Jack strode through the lobby, his temper beginning to simmer. He didn’t think he’d ever had such an uncomfortable couple of hours and Imogen’s disappearing act wasn’t helping.

Where was she? Did she think playing hard to get would somehow reel him in even more? Well, he thought, setting his jaw grimly, she needn’t have bothered. He was reeled in quite comprehensively already.

Or at least he would be if only he could find her.

Right. This was it. The last room. If she wasn’t here, he was going home. Yes, he very much wanted to continue where they’d left off but there was only so much volatile behaviour he was prepared to take and hers was hitting his limit.

Jack pushed open the door to the conservatory and scanned the space. Tall, lush palms brushed the walls, the subtle lighting casting long, dark shadows over the cane furniture, the pillars and the marble floor. But other than the fixtures and fittings, that was it. There was no sign of her here, either.

Disappointment walloped him in the stomach, roiling and churning and making him go all light-headed.

He shoved his hands through his hair and pulled himself together. So that was that, then. He’d be off. He’d forget all about Imogen and the insane notion that he somehow wouldn’t survive if he didn’t finish the business they’d started, and get back to being in control of his life.

It had been an absurd idea anyway. When had he ever chased a woman he was interested in quite so determinedly? When had he ever had to? And as for not surviving, well, that was ridiculous. Of course he’d survive. He always did.

Calling himself all kinds of fool, Jack turned on his heel and was about to march out, when something caught his eye and made him freeze.

It was a pair of feet. Clad in black high-heeled shoes and propped up on the window sill.

They could be anyone’s, of course, but what the hell, it was worth checking out. He strode over to the huge armchair that faced away from him and stopped in front of it.

And there she was, calmly sitting there, her elbows resting on the arms of the chair, her hands clasped, her fingers entwined and tapping against her mouth. Her legs stretched out, one exposed where her dress had fallen open, and as his gaze travelled the length of it from hip to ankle and back again all thoughts about leaving and forgetting about her vanished beneath a tidal wave of relief. ‘So this is where you got to.’

She glanced up at him and it was then he noticed the frown and the lack of warmth in her eyes. ‘Top marks for observation.’

The relief ebbed and he inwardly flinched. That didn’t sound like the voice of a woman keen to continue where they’d left off in the broom cupboard. In fact, it sounded like the voice of a woman who was grumpy and fed up. Very possibly—although he had no idea why—with him.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine,’ she said, clearly anything but.

‘So what are you doing here all by yourself?’

‘Well, I was hoping to have a few moments of peace …’