the equation.’
At that his eyes gleamed and her heart unaccountably skipped a beat. His gaze suddenly dropped and then slowly roamed over her. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he murmured, and to her alarm she felt her cheeks going bright red. Heat shot through her and she began to tingle in places she’d thought she’d never tingle in again.
Didn’t intend to ever tingle in again, she reminded herself, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. ‘Nevertheless you have my commiserations.’
He smiled that smile of his and to her irritation she could feel her blush deepening. ‘But not an offer to buy it?’
Right now, what with being on the verge of becoming putty in his hands, Imogen thought she could well end up offering him anything he asked for.
And didn’t that bring her up short?
Forcing herself to imagine the painting on her wall, having to stare at the hideous thing day in day out, and concentrating on not turning into that putty, she shuddered. ‘You must be joking,’ she said, adopting a look of horror for good measure. ‘This isn’t my kind of thing at all.’
‘Pity,’ he said, then sighed and rubbed a brown hand along his jaw. ‘I have a depressing feeling it’s never going to sell.’
‘Are you surprised?’
‘Not particularly. But if it doesn’t, Luke, that friend of mine who bowed out of the bidding, will never let me forget it. He needles me about it enough as it is.’
He looked so cross that Imogen couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, that’s what comes of indulging in silly displays of competitive pride,’ she said solemnly, tutting and shaking her head in mock admonishment.
‘You’re probably right.’
‘And can you blame him?’
He arched an eyebrow as he gazed at her, his mouth eventually curving into a rueful smile. ‘Not really. If the roles had been reversed I’d do the same.’
‘Of course you would.’
‘So,’ he said, draining his glass and handing it to a waiter who was weaving past, ‘I know why I’m here, but, if this isn’t your kind of thing, why are you here?’
Imogen went still, her smile fading and her temperature plummeting as her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
Oh, heavens. What could she say? No way could she tell him the truth. That only half an hour ago she’d learned about Max and Connie’s engagement, on Facebook of all places. That she’d been so stunned, so thrown off balance and tossed upside down, and so hurt by the fact that they hadn’t bothered to call her up and tell her personally that she’d fled the office in search of the nearest source of alcohol, which happened to be the gallery next door to the office where she worked. No way. That kind of revelation she’d be keeping to herself.
So, aware that he was waiting for an answer and not liking that probing gaze one little bit, Imogen shrugged and fixed a bland smile to her face. ‘I’ve decided lately that my horizons need broadening,’ she said, thinking it was, after all, at least the partial truth.
‘I see.’ He gave her a sexy kind of half smile and his eyes glittered. ‘Need any help?’
She stared at him as shivers raced up and down her spine. Help? Oh, goodness. From the way the glint was glinting she could guess exactly the sort of help he was offering. The sort she wasn’t interested in, she reminded herself. Not. Interested. In.
‘Thank you, but no,’ she said, sounding a lot firmer than she felt.
‘Are you sure? Because I’m good at broadening horizons.’
‘I’ve no doubt you are.’
He smiled into her eyes, and even though he hadn’t moved it felt as if he’d somehow got closer. ‘Have dinner with me and I’ll show you how good.’
CHAPTER TWO
IMOGEN blinked, faintly stunned, although why the invitation should be quite such a surprise was beyond her. It wasn’t as if she’d never been asked out to dinner before.
Maybe it was the fact that the intensity of his attention was so all-encompassing it had robbed her of reason. Or maybe it was simply the fact that, as he’d apparently stolen all the air around her, her brain was being starved of oxygen. ‘Dinner?’ she murmured.
He nodded. ‘That’s right. Dinner. Comes after lunch and before breakfast. Around this time.’
‘Ah, that dinner.’
‘That’s the one. So?’
Imogen was almost certain her answer ought to be no. More than almost certain, actually, because hadn’t she just been telling herself that she’d had enough of men for the foreseeable future, the whole lousy lot of them? Wasn’t she just the tiniest bit unhinged at the moment? And didn’t she need to concentrate on repairing her poor battered emotions instead of letting herself be dragged under the spell of such a dangerously magnetic man?
But it was so tempting, she thought, her common sense beginning to unravel beneath his unwavering gaze. After two months of miserable soul-searching, her self-esteem could really do with the attention, and after nearly three glasses of champagne her stomach could really do with the food.
Besides she hadn’t sworn off all men, had she? She blotted out the little voice in her head jumping up and down, waving its arms in alarm and demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, and concentrated on justifying the decision she was pretty sure she was going to make. She might have had her fingers burnt recently but she wasn’t that jaded. And dinner didn’t have to go anywhere, did it? How could a couple of hours in the company of a gorgeous attentive man hurt?
Feeling her spirits creeping up, Imogen laughed for what seemed like the first time in weeks and felt lighter than she had in months. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘Jack Taylor.’ He held out his hand.
‘Imogen Christie,’ she said, taking it.
For a moment she was so startled by the feel of his hand wrapped around hers and the energy that suddenly spun through her that the name didn’t register. She was too busy marvelling at the way every nerve ending she possessed tingled. The way her whole body was suddenly coming alive, and thinking about how much fun dinner was going to be.
But when it did, seconds later, her smile froze and her stomach disappeared. Her heart sank and the heat pounding through her turned to ice.
Oh, hell.
Jack Taylor? Not the Jack Taylor? Not the one she’d read about. Heard about. Been warned about …
How typical was that? She reluctantly pulled her hand out of his as disappointment washed through her.
Random snippets of information started whipping round her head. Facts she must have subconsciously gleaned over the years that now spun and whirled and settled into one long list.
According to the
