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,
