ago the two of them had been a lethal double act in their pursuit of women, but now he operated alone. ‘Thanks,’ he said and glanced over at the approaching waiter, ‘but I should be able to manage.’
TONIGHT was going to be grim, thought Imogen for the billionth time that Friday. Utterly grim, and if she hadn’t been the only person available to represent her family at tonight’s Valentine’s Day Ball, she’d have stayed at home, curled up with a good book and a glass of wine.
For one thing she was exhausted. Not because she’d been putting in sixteen-hour days at work or anything. Her lowly nine-to-five job in the funding department at the Christie Trust—which she’d only been given because of who she was—wasn’t, unfortunately, hugely demanding.
And not because she’d been out until the early hours, either, as in an effort to avoid Max and Connie she’d largely shunned the social scene ever since they’d got together.
No. The cause of her restless nights was Jack.
To her intense, teeth-grinding frustration, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head. The minute she closed her eyes at night, there he was, frazzling her brain with his voice, his eyes, his scent and the feel of his hand on her mouth.
As if disturbing her dreams wasn’t bad enough, he had an annoying tendency to invade her thoughts during the day, too. Often at the most inconvenient times. Like yesterday when she’d been in the supermarket contemplating what to buy for supper. She’d been lurking in the frozen food aisle and eyeing up the pizzas when, completely apropos of nothing, the image of him in the back of the taxi had flown into her head.
However, in her now hyperactive imagination, Jack hadn’t got out. In her mind’s eye the driver had magically disappeared and Jack had stayed put. With a smouldering smile, he’d pulled her towards him and kissed her until her stomach disappeared and she forgot her name. And then he’d done all manner of indescribably delicious things to her with his hands that had had her temperature rocketing and her knees turning to jelly right there by the frozen peas.
If it hadn’t been for the shop assistant asking if she was all right and bringing her crashing back down to earth, she’d have found herself hopping into the freezer to cool off.
It really had to stop because she’d come to the unwelcome and disturbing conclusion that she was developing a seriously unhealthy obsession with Jack.
Why else would she have got hold of Amanda Hobbs’ details in Italy the morning after the art exhibition and called her to wheedle out the truth?
Why else had she spent hours fantasising about him when she’d managed to convince herself that she’d never be seeing him again?
Why else had she had to unplug her laptop and stuff it in a cupboard at home if not to stop herself from doing a Google search on him relentlessly?
And why else had she endlessly tortured herself with the acknowledgement that her wanting him wasn’t the only thing he’d been right about?
Imogen sighed and nibbled on her lip as once again her thoughts helplessly barrelled off in that direction. Jack had been right about everything else he’d pointed out too. She had misjudged him. Even in her frazzled state she’d managed to work that out. Her reputation was hugely exaggerated—if not completely inaccurate—so why wouldn’t his be, too? Frankly some of the stuff she’d heard had been so outlandish she’d thought at the time that it had to be fabricated.
Not that that made him a saint, of course, but if Jack really was a louche layabout he wouldn’t be heading up one of the most successful investment companies in the country, would he? And yes, he might have had more than his fair share of women, but a man who looked like that, had a voice like that and such charismatic magnetism would.
And that meant that perhaps she’d made a mistake in rejecting his offer of dinner quite so out of hand.
The taxi she’d called to take her to the five-star hotel overlooking Hyde Park hurtled round a corner as if on two wheels and Imogen, too lost in thought to grab onto the handle in time, crashed into the side. Which didn’t hurt, but did bring her careering back to her senses.
God, she was doing it again, she thought, rubbing her shoulder and then checking her hair. Obsessing over Jack when there was absolutely no point. Even if she had reached the realisation that he was nothing like Max and might quite like the idea of joining his bevy of conquests, it was far too late.
Besides, Jack Taylor was way out of her league in every respect, and she hadn’t exactly put herself across in the best of lights that evening.
Imogen closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples as she fought a rising blush and tried to calm down. Not that there was much hope of that when her stomach was churning, her head was pounding and her nerves were wound so tight she thought they might be about to snap.
Because her sense of impending doom about this evening wasn’t entirely down to exhaustion. Or her frustration at her inability to wipe Jack from her brain.
As if either of those factors weren’t enough to tempt her to tell the taxi driver to take her back home and dive under her duvet, she also had to deal with the fact that tonight it was almost inevitable she’d come face to face with Max and Connie. She’d seen their names on the guest list, and in a crowd of a hundred there’d be little place to hide. And she wouldn’t be able to avoid the whispers and sidelong glances that were bound to be cast her way, either.
Sensing the taxi coming to a halt, Imogen opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Never mind, she told herself, getting out and stiffening her spine. All she had to do was keep her cool and remain poised, and everything would be fine.
Adjusting her stole and rubbing her teeth to remove any errant lipstick, she opened the door and, with a grace that years of practice had bestowed on her, got out. She flashed a blinding smile at a loitering photographer and then made her way up the wide stone steps and through the huge glass doors.
This was an important night for the trust, she reminded herself, holding her head high as she shrugged off the stole and handed it to the waiting attendant. Stashing the ticket she received in return in her clutch bag and giving the attendant a beaming smile of thanks, she walked across the black-and-white-chequered marble floor towards the handful of people who’d already arrived. The annual Valentine’s Day Ball raised thousands, if not millions, for good causes, and she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise that.
She’d given herself a string of hearty pep talks and gone over how she’d behave and what she’d say a thousand times. Should she happen to bump into either Max or Connie, or heaven forbid the two of them together, she’d resist the urge to claw their eyes out and instead would be charming, witty and chatty. The life and soul of the party, in fact. She’d show everyone that she couldn’t care less about what they’d done, or how much they’d hurt her, because she was over it.
‘Imogen?’
At the sound of the familiar female voice behind her, Imogen froze. Her heart thumped and her blood roared in her ears before shooting to her feet. As if in slow motion, she turned.
And there they were. Max and Connie. Standing right in front of her, arms linked, clinging to each other like limpets and grinning like maniacs. Connie’s hand was
