LITMIR.BIZ

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what made him think he could help when he didn’t have a chivalrous bone in his body. Whatever was going on, Imogen clearly needed him to be attentive, so attentive he’d be.

      After all, he reflected, belatedly gathering his scattered wits and switching to Besotted Lover mode, he’d planned on being extremely attentive to Imogen this evening and he’d envisaged having to put in a lot more groundwork. If circumstances expedited matters he’d be a fool not to take advantage of them.

      Wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her tight against him, he smiled down into her eyes and murmured, ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t?’

      He felt her relax. Saw the clouds drift from her eyes, the trouble gradually fade, and as heat and desire crept in to take its place all he could think about was how much fun getting Imogen to unravel in his arms was going to be.

      ‘I wasn’t sure.’

      ‘Such little faith.’

      ‘Forgive me?’

      Right now, with her voice all soft and breathy and her body moulded to his, he thought he’d probably forgive her anything. Faintly disconcerted by the thought, Jack released his grip on her slightly and dragged his gaze from hers to cast a quick glance at the couple she was with. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, darling?’

      Imogen blinked. ‘What? Oh. Yes. Of course. Jack, this is Max Llewellyn.’ Her smile faltered and it made Jack wonder if friends was quite the word. ‘And Connie Nicholson.’

      ‘Jack Taylor,’ he said, nodding briefly and shaking their hands in turn.

      Something about Max made his hackles shoot up. Made him take an instant dislike to the man even though he couldn’t for the life of him work out why. Maybe it was the fact that he was altogether too smooth. His teeth were too white, his hair too perfectly coiffured, his nails too manicured.

      ‘Max and Connie are engaged,’ Imogen said with a tightness that confirmed his earlier suspicion that whatever the three of them were they weren’t friends.

      ‘Congratulations,’ said Jack.

      ‘Thanks,’ said Connie, her wide smile fading as she shot a quick glance at Imogen, whose own smile was now so brittle it looked as if it might be about to shatter.

      An awkward kind of lull fell, during which no one apart from Jack looked at anyone else. As long seconds passed, the strained silence worsened and he sensed Imogen’s anxiety grow.

      Deciding that, as fascinating as the dynamics of this group were, someone needed to do something to ease the situation, Jack was just about to lob in a polite but inane comment about the weather when Imogen pulled herself together and did the job for him.

      ‘Well, isn’t this nice?’ she said brightly.

      ‘Delightful,’ Jack murmured, thinking nice was not the word.

      ‘I must say,’ said Connie enthusiastically, clearly overcompensating for the palpable tension vibrating around their little group, ‘your events department has done an excellent job.’

      He followed her gaze as it skipped around the tastefully lavish Valentine’s Day decorations that adorned both the lobby and, from what he could see through the giant half-open doors, the ballroom.

      ‘And so it should have with tickets costing four figures each.’ Imogen let out a laugh that sounded high and false, and, to his ears, verged on hysterical. ‘You see the rose petals?’ she said, waving a hand in the direction of the petal-strewn floor. ‘Damask. Flown in from Morocco, would you believe? All two hundred thousand of them. And the candles? Bought from the same people that supply Westminster Abbey. And let’s not forget the casino. I understand the croupiers have been specially brought in from Monte Carlo. You must try it later. There’s roulette, not of the Russian kind, luckily, ha-ha-ha.’

      ‘Are you a gambling man?’ Jack said, cutting into Imogen’s rapidly spiralling-out-of-control rambling, not because he was the slightest bit interested in Max’s gambling habits, but because he thought she might thank him later.

      ‘No.’ Max laughed and Jack inwardly winced. The man sounded like a horse neighing. ‘Far too risky. Modern art’s more my thing.’

      Idiot. ‘Really?’

      ‘Yes. In fact, I recently picked something new up.’ He waited, evidently expecting to be asked all about it, and when no one did, went on, ‘Well, when I say I, I mean I instructed my man to buy it on my behalf, of course, haw-haw-haw. Very exclusive. Very exciting.’

      ‘I’m sure,’ Jack muttered, fervently hoping that whatever Imogen’s relationship was with this pompous prat, it wasn’t close.

      ‘Cost me a bomb, naturally, but I always think you can never put a price on truly great art, don’t you?’

      ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more,’ he said.

      ‘Yes,’ said Connie, loyally picking up the conversational thread. ‘Apparently, it’s supposed to represent man’s fight against the injustice of capitalism, but personally I can’t see it. I just like the colours.’

      Jack stilled as a horrible thought darted across his mind. No. It couldn’t be …

      But with the way Imogen was tensing at his side, apparently it just possibly could. He glanced down at her to find out if she’d come to the same conclusion he had and at the same time she turned her head to look up at him.

      Their eyes met. And locked. He saw a flash of amused horror sparkle in the brown depths. Felt a corresponding smile tug at his lips, and for one heady moment everything receded. The brightly coloured mass of people gathered around them … The low hum of conversation … The crackling and spitting of the fire … The gentle clink of glasses and the fizz of champagne … It all faded away until the only two things he was aware of were Imogen’s warm, soft and pliant body clamped to his side and the growing sense of need clawing at his gut.

      ‘Well, that’s always important,’ Jack murmured, his voice sounding strangely hoarse as desire began to hammer through him.

      ‘And I’m sure it’ll make a great investment,’ said Imogen, nodding gravely, her eyes still glued to his.

      ‘So they tell me,’ brayed Max from somewhere that sounded miles away.

      And quite suddenly Jack had had quite enough of Max and Connie and this excruciating conversation. And quite enough of sharing Imogen with them. With anyone, for that matter.

      His pulse was racing and his mouth was dry. He’d come here with one purpose in mind, and his hard, aching body was telling him to get on with it. He’d come to her aid. Now it was time she repaid the favour.

      ‘Darling,’ he murmured, heat whipping through him so fiercely his body pounded with the force of it, ‘I think we should circulate, don’t you?’

      His hand tightened around her waist, bringing her in closer contact with his hard, aroused lower body and she blinked, her eyes darkening and her breath catching.

      ‘What?’ she breathed. ‘Oh, yes. You’re right. Absolutely right. Circulate. Good idea.’ She flashed Max and Connie a bright smile and raised her hand in a jaunty wave. ‘Well, we must be off. So lovely to see you both. Toodle pip.’

       CHAPTER SEVEN

      TOODLE pip? Toodle pip?

      Oh, good Lord.

      Still clamped to Jack’s side as he whisked her out of the lobby, around the corner and along a corridor, Imogen stifled a wince and wished she could go back and redo that conversation with the cool, collected poise she’d intended.

      How could she have crumbled quite so hideously? How could she have forgotten every word of those pep talks?

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