Because the way she was actually enjoying this whole conversation was just plain odd. ‘Is it really so hard to believe that I just don’t want to have dinner—or anything else—with you?’
He stared at her for a while, his expression utterly unfathomable, and then to her consternation a smile curved his mouth and his eyes took on a dangerous gleam. Achingly slowly, he began to run his gaze over her. Lingering on her face, then moving down, drifting over her breasts, her waist, her hips and her legs, right down to her toes.
Her body tingled, fizzed beneath the smouldering gaze, and the beat of something hot and achy thudded deep inside her. Helpless to do anything to stop him, Imogen watched him look, her heart pounding. As his gaze roamed back up her in the same languid way, flames of desire licked at her stomach and her bones melted. If it hadn’t been for the wool of her dress rubbing over her sensitised skin, she’d have thought he’d just stripped her naked and then set her on fire.
‘Frankly, yes,’ he murmured, and she bristled because the realisation that not even several layers of winter clothing could disguise the reaction of her body was frustrating in the extreme.
‘Well, believe it,’ she said sharply.
He gave her a knowing smile. ‘You might not want dinner, but you definitely want me.’
Imogen blinked as his words hit her brain and she yanked herself out of the rapidly unravelling sensual web he’d woven around her.
There it was again, she thought, giving herself a mental slap. The rock-solid conviction of a man who thought he knew everything about everything. Including her. And, quite suddenly, instead of wanting to scoot across the leather and snuggle up to him, she wanted to smack him across the head.
‘In your dreams,’ she said, jutting her chin up to add strength to her words. But all that did was jerk his gaze down to her mouth, which instantly tingled.
‘You know I could prove you wrong, don’t you?’ he murmured.
‘You could try,’ she said, arching a challenging eyebrow. She did not want to know what his mouth would feel like on hers. Definitely not. She’d focus on the button beneath that wedge of chest instead. ‘But I wouldn’t fancy your chances of success.’
‘I would.’
Barely able to believe his cheek, Imogen snapped her eyes to his face, all thoughts of focusing on his shirt button vanishing. It was the smile playing at his lips that did it. A knowing, confident smile that acted like a match tossed onto the smouldering embers of her indignation.
Forget that he was probably right. This wasn’t about rightness. This was about him and those like him. Anger suddenly raced along her veins and her head went fuzzy with the intensity of everything she’d thought she’d packaged away but evidently hadn’t.
But then, just as she was about to lean over, jab him in the chest as she told him exactly what she thought of him, something made her pause. Made her ask herself what losing her temper would get her. She’d already exhibited more emotional volatility in the last six hours than she had in her entire life, and a further display would simply reinforce the impression, on both herself and Jack, that she was seriously unstable. And recent events aside, she wasn’t. Much.
Losing her temper now, getting all hot and fiery while he sat there as cool as an ice sculpture, would merely give Jack more ground. She’d be far better off staying calm and collected and in some sort of control.
Closing her eyes, Imogen inhaled deeply and went to her happy place where the sun warmed her skin and Martinis flowed.
How hard could it be?
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