Scandal In The Spotlight: The Couple Behind the Headlines / Redemption of a Hollywood Starlet / The Price of Fame
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As the memory of the insults she’d thrown at him flew into her head Imogen felt her blush turn to one of shame. How had she ever thought him all that? He was turning out to be so different from what she’d initially imagined. So much more. Yes, he was gorgeous and sexy, but he was also funny, thoughtful and surprisingly gallant.
She blinked and put a stop to her analysis of his considerable attributes because thinking of Jack as anything other than the guarantor of great sex was pointless on a dozen different levels.
‘So?’ she asked, sitting up and resolutely hauling herself back on the conversation.
‘I’m babysitting.’
Babysitting?
Imogen’s jaw dropped as she stared at him and she nearly fell off the stool. It was a good thing she’d just put her cup down otherwise there’d be shards of porcelain and coffee all over the floor. ‘Babysitting?’ she echoed.
‘That’s right.’
‘You?’
‘Me.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Totally.’ He paused, then tilted his head as he gauged her reaction. ‘You know,’ he added mildly, ‘your astonishment isn’t exactly flattering.’
Imogen pulled herself together and flashed him a quick smile. ‘Sorry, but I’m finding it a little difficult to get my head round the idea.’ Then she frowned as a disturbing thought crossed her mind. ‘Whose baby is it?’
‘Not mine, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘It wasn’t,’ she said with a speed that she suspected rather weakened that denial.
‘Yes, it was,’ he said, switching the oven on. ‘But don’t worry. I’m not that irresponsible. The baby belongs to that friend of mine, Luke, and Emily, his wife. Daisy’s my god-daughter and Anna is Emily’s sister.’
‘Who happens to know you sleep without anything on?’
Jack grinned. ‘Her notion of a joke, I imagine.’
‘She sounds hilarious.’
‘She has her moments.’
‘So how old is she?’ Imogen asked, still trying to come to terms with the fact that Jack had a god-daughter who he was babysitting tonight.
‘No idea. Late thirties, early forties, maybe.’
‘Ha-ha. Very funny. I meant Daisy.’
‘She’s three.’
‘Do you have much experience of babysitting three-year-old girls?’
‘None at all. This is my first time.’
Oh, dear. If the trauma she’d suffered as a result of running through all those possible explanations for Emily’s phone call hadn’t been so fresh in her mind, she’d have given him her sympathies. But it was, so instead she settled for what she hoped was an enigmatic smile. ‘Then in that case, good luck.’
‘Will I need it?’
All of a sudden he looked worried and Imogen grinned and resisted the temptation to reach out and pat his hand. ‘I’m sure it’ll be a walk in the park.’
Jack nodded. ‘That’s what I thought. I mean, she’s three. How hard can it be?’
If Daisy was anything like her niece, Jack was in for one hell of a weekend. The poor guy really had no idea what was about to hit him. And on top of such little sleep …
Nevertheless, at the thought of a man like Jack giving up his weekend, his Saturday night, to spend time with a little girl, something in the region of her chest melted and she let out a gentle sigh.
‘What?’ he asked, frowning at her.
‘Who’d have thought?’ she said dreamily.
‘Who’d have thought what?’
‘You’re a softie.’
Jack tensed and scowled. ‘No, I’m not. This is a one-off favour for friends who were desperate. That’s it. So don’t tell anyone, because just think what it would do to my reputation if it got out.’
She could imagine; he’d have even more women flocking to him than he did at the moment. Ignoring the jealousy that darted through her at the idea, Imogen took a sip of coffee and regarded him over the rim of the cup. ‘Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘What? My reputation?’
She nodded.
‘Not in the slightest,’ he said, evidently happier to be on different ground if the way his scowl cleared and his mouth curved into a grin was anything to go by. ‘Why would it when I’ve gone to such great lengths to cultivate it?’
Imogen’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You actively encourage it?’
Why on earth would he want to do that? Was he nuts? From what she’d heard his reputation wasn’t one to be particularly proud of, so why, when he had so much more going for him, would he want people to think otherwise?
The only answer she could come up with was that maybe he used it as some kind of shield, a defence mechanism of sorts. But that would imply he needed protection and what would he need protecting against? It didn’t make any sense.
However, there was little point in asking because it didn’t look as if she was going to get an answer. Not now, with the way his smile was vanishing and a frown was furrowing his brow. In fact, she had the feeling he hadn’t meant to let that slip, which only made it all the more intriguing.
‘You know,’ said Jack, moving round the breakfast bar to stand in front of her, his eyes glittering with such intent that Imogen’s heart began to hammer and all the questions that she’d wanted to ask evaporated, ‘I don’t have to leave for another couple of hours.’
‘A couple of hours?’ she breathed as he nudged her knees apart, then lifted her onto the counter.
‘At least.’ He eased her back and slipped his hands beneath her shirt. ‘So maybe you’d like to help me find a way to fill the time.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BY the time the following evening came around Imogen, having spent the weekend drifting around in something of a deliciously achy daze, had come to a number of conclusions.
First, as she’d relived Friday night, it had occurred to her how short-changed she’d been by boyfriends over the years. She hadn’t exactly had loads of sex, but she’d had enough to realise that with hindsight she should have been a lot more assertive in the bedroom. And a lot pickier in her choice of the men who’d occasionally occupied it.
Secondly, she’d decided that now she’d experienced the mind-blowing variety with Jack she wanted more of it. Not the ‘for ever’ kind of more, of course, but certainly the ‘take it one day at a time’ kind of more, because as a way of banishing the loneliness that had been swamping her for so long it was unbeatable.
Unable to resist any longer, and becoming increasingly frustrated that she couldn’t seem to stop mooning over Friday night, she’d hauled her laptop out of the cupboard, fired it up and had settled down to find out as much about Jack as possible.
As she’d suspected there was a lot to go through, but after hours of poring over the links she’d discovered, among many other things, that, thirdly, their short-term goals might actually be compatible.
From what she’d gleaned Jack wasn’t big on relationships, and, given that she would hopefully be on her way to the States in the autumn, neither was she. But she would definitely be up for a string of dates or a brief fling or anything else he might be able to offer. It would be thrilling and exciting, and exactly what she needed before she embarked on the next stage of her life.
The only fly in the ointment was the fourth conclusion she’d come to. That wanting a fling with Jack was all very well, but as he’d shown no signs of intending to see her again, things didn’t look hugely promising on that front.
After they’d filled the couple of hours he had free yesterday most satisfactorily, Jack had dropped her home. He’d given her a searing kiss, rather perfunctorily muttered he’d be in touch, and then sped off.
Which did leave her in a bit of a quandary, because how could she engage in a fling with him if he didn’t in fact ever call?
Still pondering the problem that had been occupying her mind all day, Imogen climbed out of the bath, dried herself off, then pulled on her favourite leggings and top. She’d figure something out, she thought firmly, padding into the sitting room. She had a medley of eighties’ music blaring out of her iPod and a roaring fire in the grate. She had a chicken roasting in the oven and a glass of wine waiting for her on the coffee table, and a whole relaxing Sunday evening in which to come up with a way to firstly get in touch with him and secondly persuade him to agree to a fling.
With all that for inspiration, how could she fail?
What he was doing here, thought Jack, frowning up at the bank of windows that ran along the length of Imogen’s first floor and shoving his hands through his hair, he had no idea.
He hadn’t planned on dropping by. Quite apart from the fact that he’d decided it would be a good idea to leave it for a while before seeing her again and to give himself time to reestablish his equilibrium and fortify his self-control before she could destroy it totally, after the weekend he’d had he’d intended to drive straight home and crash into bed.
So why had he made the detour to see if Imogen was home? Why was he so pleased to see her lights on? And why when he’d pulled over and parked outside had his pulse started racing like a teenager’s on a first date?
Jack gave his head a quick shake, then rubbed a hand over his face and stifled a yawn. Did it really matter? He opened the door and levered himself out of the car. Was there really any need to make a big deal over it? Of course there wasn’t. After thirty-six hours in the company of a three-year-old girl he simply felt like a while in the company of a twenty-eight-year-old one and there was nothing odd about that.
Nor was there anything odd about the unsteadiness of his hand as he jabbed a finger at the doorbell. That was simply down to chronic sleep deprivation and an unexpectedly tough weekend.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and listened to the echo of the bell ringing upstairs. A couple of minutes later he heard the sound of footsteps heading to the door and his pulse sped up.
There was a pause while Imogen presumably checked him out through the spyhole, then the click of the lock and the sliding of the chain. The door swung open, and when he looked down at her, standing there with tousled hair, glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes and a wide, dazzling smile, Jack knew exactly why he’d come.
‘Hi,’ she said with a breathlessness he hoped came from pleasure at seeing him and not from skipping down the stairs.
‘Hi,’ he said a little hoarsely.
‘What are you doing here?’
Jack cleared his throat. ‘I was passing. On my way home.’
‘Thank God for that.’
Her grin widened beguilingly and for a second his mind went blank. ‘What?’
She waved a hand vaguely. ‘Oh, nothing. I was hoping for a distraction, that’s all.’
‘From what?’
‘Ah, just a little problem I was grappling with. Most unsuccessfully. But it doesn’t matter any more. Come in.’
‘Thanks.’
She held the door wide open and stood back. ‘Go straight up and turn right.’
Jack brushed past her, followed her instructions and found himself in the sitting room, which was so warm and calm and relaxing that his exhaustion seeped right away.
Soft light from the lamps dotted around the room spilled over a pair of squishy-looking sofas and a battered leather armchair, all positioned round a low glass coffee table that was piled high with magazines, books and trinkets. A fire blazed in the fireplace, either side of which were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books, files and photos.
As a strange sense of contentment settled over him, Jack took off his coat and dropped it on one of the sofas, then turned. Imogen stood in the doorway, watching him with an expression that flickered between pleasure and longing, and wariness and uncertainty.
‘You look wiped out,’ she said.
‘You look gorgeous.’
An eyebrow arched in disbelief as she glanced down at what she was wearing. ‘In this?’
‘In that.’ Whatever it was—and it could hardly be called glamorous—it hugged every beautiful curve of her body. ‘You look very strokeable.’
She smiled and his hands began to itch with the need to reach out and show her exactly what he meant. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she asked.
‘I’d better not. I’m driving.’
‘I see.’ Her smile faded and she seemed to deflate right in front of him. But suddenly she lifted her chin up and pulled her shoulders back. ‘You could stay,’ she said quickly, her cheeks going bright red. ‘For supper, I mean. And whatever …’
Supper and whatever sounded like heaven. ‘Thank you.’
‘Great.’ She gave him a wonky kind of half smile but she didn’t look away. Didn’t turn away, either. ‘I’ll just go and get that wine, then, and—ah—check on the chicken.’
Which was, presumably, her cue to leave. But to his fascination and to her obvious consternation she didn’t appear to be going anywhere. Her eyes didn’t leave his. And as she continued to hold his gaze Jack heard her breathing shallow and felt a reciprocal quickening of his pulse.
Wondering if it would be entirely inappropriate to stride over, haul her into his arms and drag her to the floor, he saw her blink. Then sweep the tip of her tongue over her lips before letting out a tinkling little laugh. ‘It’s not fancy or anything,’ she said, her words tripping over each other so fast it occurred to him that she was nervous. ‘Just a roast. I often do them on the Sundays I’m around. Chicken, this time, obviously, otherwise why would I have said I’d better check on the chicken? And some vegetables. Carrots and leeks, from what I can remember. Oh, and potatoes, of—’
Taking a couple of quick long steps towards her, Jack wrapped one arm around her waist, buried the other in her hair and put a stop to the torrent of words with his mouth.
As he kissed her, hot and hard, he felt her melt against him, heard her moan, and the sound of it sent desire rocketing through him. She sighed against his lips, tilted her hips and pressed herself closer, and Jack thought he’d better stop before he lost all control.
Reluctantly lifting his head, he drew back and stared down at her. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes glazed and her lips red and swollen and she looked so desirable he told himself that, whatever the initial reason for it, his decision to detour via here was the best move he’d ever made.
‘Thank you,’ she breathed.
‘What for?’
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