But then what did she know about anything?
Imogen took a step back, bit her lip and frowned. Recent events had proved that her judgement sucked. Big time. So who was she to decide whether or not this stuff was any good? As bizarre as she might think it, little red dots were popping up next to the paintings like chicken pox, so the evidence appeared to be speaking for itself.
Which only hammered home the painful realisation that her judgement was indeed still in bits.
Not that that was any surprise.
Only two months had passed since Connie, her once-upon-a-time partner-in-crime and best-friend-since-school had run off with Max, Imogen’s then boyfriend, and, although the pain had ebbed to a dull ache instead of the agony it had once been, it still hurt.
More so this evening, thought Imogen morosely, her already battered spirits taking a nosedive. The last time she’d been to a private view, Connie had been with her. They’d laughed and talked loudly and pompously about light and depth and perspective, ransacked the canapés and then hit the latest club.
Tonight, however, she was alone, and Connie, the sneaky snake-in-the-grass, was in all likelihood at home, snuggling up to Max on the sofa and hatching wedding plans.
Imogen’s heart twanged. She’d told herself to get over it a million times and she reckoned she was making good progress, but from time to time—usually when she was least expecting it—the whole sorry affair swooped down and smacked her around the head.
Like this afternoon.
Like now.
The backs of her eyes prickled but she blinked the sting away and yanked her shoulders back. What did she care what Connie was up to? So what if the friendship they’d had, the one that had started at kindergarten and had continued for the past twenty-five years, had disintegrated in the ten seconds it had taken to read Max’s note? And so what if her ex-boyfriend and her ex-best friend were getting married?
She didn’t give a toss, did she?
No. She’d had plenty of time to reflect on the betrayal, and with hindsight she’d come to realise that actually they’d done her a favour. Because who needed friends who could do something like that to you?
And as for Max, well, yes, he was undeniably gorgeous—all dark floppy hair, twinkling eyes and oodles of charm—but he was a complete waste of space and she was well shot of him.
If the press had levelled the same waste-of-space accusation at her—which they had, frequently and not entirely unfairly—that was fine because she had plans to reverse that and to prove to herself and her critics that she did have something to offer the world.
Max, on the other hand, seemed happy to spend the rest of his life perfecting his air of insouciant ennui. So if Connie wanted to spend the rest of her life massaging that ego, she was welcome to it.
Imogen shook her head at her own naïve foolishness. Far from being the perfect couple she’d always assumed she and Max had been, they were, she now knew, chalk and cheese. The really astounding thing about their relationship was not how it had ended, but how it had limped along for so long in the first place.
Truly, the mind boggled, she thought, casting another glance at the monstrosity calling itself ‘The Sting in Society’. And she was through with it all. Bored, rich playboys, fickle best friends and staggeringly pretentious so-called art.
She’d got what she’d come for. Two glasses of ice-cold bone-dry champagne had done an excellent job of obliterating the shock and torment of learning of the engagement. Her body was buzzing and her mind was numb, and she had better things to do than waste any more time in front of this kind of rubbish.
Determinedly banishing the blues and reminding herself that she was far luckier than most, that she had no business wallowing in misery and that she ought to focus on what she did have rather than what she didn’t, Imogen gritted her teeth and spun on her heel.
And crashed into something hard and unyielding.
Something that let out a soft ‘oof’ and flung its arms around her for balance.
For a second it felt as if the world had stopped. She stood there, stunned, crushed up against whoever it was she’d cannoned into, the breath whooshing from her lungs and her head spinning with shock.
Then the shock receded and her surroundings settled and other things filtered into her brain. Like the fact that he was male. Tall. Broad. Solid. Warm. And strong. His arms were like bands of steel around her back and she could feel the restrained power in the hardness that was wrapped around her. Plus he smelled amazing.
Imogen couldn’t remember the last time she’d found herself in such close proximity to a man like that—if ever—and to her horror her body automatically began to respond. Her stomach quivered. Her heart lurched and her temperature rocketed. For one crazy split second she wanted to press herself closer. Wanted to snuggle up to him and feel those arms wrap themselves tighter around her. Enveloping her. Protecting her.
Which was nuts. Completely nuts.
Imogen blinked as sanity put in an appearance and nudged aside the fancifulness. She could stop that right now. She’d been through the emotional wringer recently and the last thing she needed was to fall head first into the arms of another man. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
And what on earth made her think she needed protecting anyway? She was perfectly capable of doing that herself. Heaven knew she’d had enough practice.
Summoning up every ounce of self-control she possessed, Imogen gulped in a breath and forced herself not to react to the intoxicating waft of soap and sandalwood that shot up her nose.
‘Oh, sorry,’ she muttered, jerking back and looking up to see who it was that was having such an odd effect on her.
And nearly swooned all over again.
All thoughts of Connie and Max and self-protection vanished as she found herself staring up into the most gorgeous eyes she’d ever seen.
To begin with he had the kind of thick, dark eyelashes she’d give her designer wardrobe for. Then there were the fine lines that fanned out from their corners and suggested he laughed a lot.
Swallowing back the lump in her throat at the reminder of how little she laughed at the moment, Imogen focused on the colour of his irises instead. That kind of blue was unusual. It made her think of the sky in summer and the shallows of the Mediterranean Sea. Which would have had her envisaging long, languid summer afternoons and the long languid ways in which one might spend them with a man like this had she not ruthlessly shut down that strand of her imagination for ever.
And as if all that weren’t potentially sense-scrambling enough, there was the glint. The glint lurked in the depths of his eyes and suggested danger and excitement and naughtiness. The glint promised fun. A lot of fun. For a woman who was into that sort of thing, which, being too emotionally scarred, she wasn’t. But if she had been, the heat sweeping through her would have been down to instant chemistry, and not what must surely be a fault with the air-conditioning.
Whatever it was that was causing her to overheat, Imogen hauled herself back under control as she dragged her gaze over the rest of his face, which would have more than lived
