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 think about was how much he wanted to wrap her round him and keep her there for hours? She was the sort of woman he despised, the sort he’d spent most of his adult life avoiding, and if he ever bothered to look back on this evening he’d be grateful he’d had such a lucky escape.
That was what the sane, logical part of his brain was telling him.
However, another louder, more insistent part of his brain, the part that housed a deeply ingrained, deeply hidden craving for approval, and the part that would, if he let it, wonder what was wrong with him, demanded to know why she’d said what she had and why she’d changed her mind.
Not because he wanted to change it back. No. Now he was finally listening to that warning voice inside his head, he had no intention of pursuing her. He just wanted to know what she thought gave her the right to be so rude, and what exactly it was that she had against him.
There was no way he was allowing someone like Imogen Christie to just waltz off with the last word and no explanation, he thought grimly, watching her push through the door and disappear into the night. No way.
So forget the gold-streaked hair that made him want to tangle his hands in its silky softness. Forget the eyes of such a deep brown that looking into them was like falling into a vat of molten chocolate. Forget the curves that his hands itched to caress. He really didn’t need the distraction.
What he needed were answers, and he’d get them, whether she liked it or not.
CHAPTER THREE
WHAT an idiot, Imogen told herself for the hundredth time as she stood on the street and shivered in the chilly February breeze.
What on earth had possessed her to say that? Why, oh, why hadn’t she just smiled serenely, told Jack she had a boyfriend or something and left it there?
Whatever had happened to her decision to stay cool and collected at all times? To do absolutely nothing that might attract the attention of the press? It was a good thing she hadn’t given in to temptation and flung that glass of champagne all over him. That really would have been the pits.
Maybe the whole Connie/Max engagement thing had affected her more than she’d thought, because the way everything inside her had merged into one hot seething tangle of emotion and then swooped up, seizing control of her brain and her senses, had been weird.
How could she have been so rude? she asked herself yet again, stamping her feet in an effort to inject a degree of heat into her body and scouring the shadowy, empty street for a taxi. Jack might be everything she detested in a man—well, aside from his considerable physical attributes, of course—but that was no excuse. She was never rude.
Imogen winced with shame as her words flew back into her head. What had she been thinking? OK, so she’d barely been thinking at all, let alone rationally, but that was no excuse, either.
Not that there was anything she could do about it now. She couldn’t rewind time and she could hardly go back and apologise, could she? An apology—even assuming he’d be willing to listen—would lead to conversation and undoubtedly a request for an explanation, and she really didn’t want to go into the reason for her temporary mental meltdown.
No. All she could do was hope that Jack had written her off as bonkers, slope off home, open a bottle of wine and forget all about the entire excruciating afternoon.
If her brother and his family had been around she’d have invited herself over for supper and let herself be plied with wine and sympathy, clambered all over by her niece and nephew, and maybe let herself not feel quite so lonely and messed up for a while. But unfortunately they were skiing in the Alps.
And yes, there were a couple of parties that she’d been invited to, but having to dodge the inevitable loaded questions about the newly betrothed couple didn’t appeal in the slightest.
The worst thing was that with the defection of Connie she no longer had the sort of girlfriend she could call up and drown her sorrows with. Not for the first time, Imogen asked herself how it was possible to feel so alone in a vast city like London, where she knew loads of people and there was always something going on.
Pushing that thought aside before she became even more maudlin, she hauled her spirits up. Home—a cosy mews house in Chelsea—wasn’t such a bad option, she thought dryly, spying the yellow light of a cruising taxi and throwing her arm up to hail it. It had always been something of a haven, a place to shut herself away from the occasional unpleasantness of life. A scathing newspaper report, a deliberately awful paparazzi photo, a lousy boyfriend … She’d licked her wounds there many times, and would probably do so many times in the future.
Tonight she’d run a bath, pour herself a glass of wine, light a few candles and relax. She might even allow herself to contemplate
