She’d been standing with her back to him in front of his six-foot-by-four-foot painting, gazing up at it, utterly still, her head tilted to one side. Something about her had caught his eye and held it. Made his muscles contract a little and his heart beat a fraction faster. And not just because she was the only person to display any interest in his painting.
Out of habit, he’d checked her out. He’d run his gaze over her, taking his time as he registered long, wavy, gold-streaked hair fanning out from beneath her black beret, generous curves moulded by a figure-hugging black knee-length coat, and the best pair of calves he’d ever seen encased in sheer silk and tapering down to sexy black high heels.
He’d felt a fierce stirring of attraction, his body tightening with awareness and his mouth going dry. His pulse had picked up and the blood rushing through his veins had heated.
And then, just as he’d been wondering why he was responding so strongly to a woman whose face he hadn’t even seen, just as he’d managed to dredge up some kind of self-control and get his heart rate and breathing back to normal, she’d turned to hold the catalogue up to the light, and he’d lost his breath all over again.
She was quite simply stunning. Light from the spotlight overhead had spilled over her face, illuminating high cheekbones, a straight nose and creamy skin. Her mouth was wide, her lips full and pink and extremely kissable.
It had struck him then that, despite her considerable assets, his response to her had been startlingly unusual in its intensity. He’d never lacked for female company—quite the opposite in fact—but the immediacy and the strength of it had been new. And actually not just new. He’d found it intriguing. Tantalising. Deliciously unsettling.
Which was why, thinking optimistically that despite its inauspicious start the evening had started to look up, he’d levered himself off the pillar he’d been leaning against and had gone in search of a couple of glasses of champagne.
Well, that had been a spectacular waste of time, Jack thought darkly, rooted to the spot as he stared at Imogen’s retreating figure, shock reverberating through him as he tried to work out what had happened.
Victim?
Victim?
Where the hell had that come from?
All he’d suggested was dinner and what on earth was wrong with that? Where had all that vitriol sprung from? Anyone would think he’d suggested slinging her over his shoulder and carting her off somewhere dark and private so he could have his wicked way with her. Which he hadn’t, quite.
He dragged in a breath, shoved a hand through his hair and scowled after her as the latter part of their conversation rattled around his brain.
Up until the point Imogen had gone all psycho on him, he’d thought things had been progressing marvellously. Even their initial collision, though unplanned, had worked to his advantage. His head might have gone momentarily blank at the feel of her body plastered up against his and at the scent of her winding through him, but he’d heard her breath catch.
He’d seen the flash of interest in her eyes. And felt the hammering of her heart against his chest.
And it had been all the encouragement he’d needed. He’d done what came as naturally as breathing, and flirted with her. And she’d flirted right back. She’d shot him sexy little smiles, let out breathy little sighs and he’d instinctively had the feeling that she was as attracted to him as he was to her. Inviting her to dinner to see how the attraction—and the evening—might develop had seemed an entirely logical step forwards.
Jack rubbed his hand along his jaw and frowned as he remembered the moment his radar had picked up her unexpected switch in mood. He’d been holding her hand, recovering from the jolt of electricity that had shot through him the moment their palms had met and wondering whether he should be feeling disconcerted or delighted by the obvious chemistry.
He’d been vaguely asking himself whether the floor really was tilting and whether he ought to be concerned by the way the words ‘this one’ were flashing in his head in great neon letters when he’d felt her tense. She’d whipped her hand out of his as if his touch had suddenly scorched her, and he’d realised that something had changed. Dramatically.
To say he’d been wrong-footed was the understatement of the century. He’d always believed he had an uncanny ability to read women, but never in a million years would he have seen the chilly, supercilious air that she had adopted coming.
His jaw tightened as the disdainful expression on her face and the scorn in her voice when she refused his offer of dinner slammed into his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been rejected. People—women in particular—generally didn’t, and, ever since his mother had pretty much abandoned him at birth, rejection was something he’d taken great care to avoid. Which was why he only ever issued dinner invitations to women he was convinced would say yes.
Until now.
But what the hell had gone wrong?
OK, so he probably shouldn’t have made that comment about dessert, but he’d been so disconcerted by her change in attitude, and, if he was being honest, disappointed, that winding her up as much as she’d wound him up had proved irresistible.
Which meant that when she’d accused him of being outrageous, she might have had a point. But he’d never anticipated that she’d react in quite such a melodramatic way. Why should he? He’d seen the flicker of desire in her eyes and he’d heard her shallow breathing. For a split second he’d thought that perhaps he’d got away with it after all. That mutual attraction might have come to outweigh her indignation.
And that made her rejection, her parting shot, all the more devastatingly brutal.
Jack glowered after her. So much for thinking the evening had been looking up. He’d just crashed and burned spectacularly and he didn’t like it. Any of it.
Ignoring the smattering of interested glances being cast in his direction, he let the anger and frustration that had been simmering inside him surge through his veins.
How dared she assume he had victims? How dared she assume he devoured anyone? How dared she make him feel he’d been harassing her?
And what exactly was so off-putting about him anyway? He’d never had any complaints before. He’d never had anything but sighs of appreciation and requests for repeat performances.
So what was her problem? And frankly why was he bothering to try and work it out? Imogen clearly had it in for him and he wasn’t a masochist. The best thing he could do would be to forget the last half an hour and get the hell out of here.
The rational part of his brain told him to chalk this evening up to experience, that, apart from everything else he’d had to endure, no woman was worth the hassle. Especially not one as shallow as Imogen Christie.
He knew who she was. The minute he’d heard her name he’d recognised it. It would have been hard not to, given the number of times it had appeared in the press. Imogen Christie was nothing more than a vacuous socialite. The kind of pointless woman who did nothing but flit from party to party and hit the headlines with her antics. The kind of pointless woman his mother was.
So what if during their brief conversation she’d made him laugh? So what if she’d made his body respond so intensely that all he could
