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
