Scandal In The Spotlight. Kimberly Lang
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the fiery dagger-shooting glare she gave him, he added with feigned ignorance, ‘You mean it isn’t?’
She shook her head again.
‘I see. So why would things be different for me?’
He waited while she thought it over. And when she shrugged, he leaned forwards a fraction and murmured, ‘Perhaps I’m not as bad as you’d like me to be.’
He felt a shudder run through her. Saw her eyes darken, thought he felt her mouth open, and lust burst through him.
Visions of what might happen if they were both as bad as could be bombarded his head, and again he wanted to slide his hand down her neck round to her nape and pull her head towards him. He wanted to slam his mouth down on hers and wrap her in his arms and assuage this desire that itched inside him.
Which would be the worst idea on the planet.
Quite why, Jack couldn’t fathom. If his reputation was largely fabricated, there was every chance hers was too. Despite what he’d heard, Imogen certainly didn’t come across as shallow and vacuous. She came across as spiky, fearless and utterly intriguing.
So if her reputation was as fabricated as his, there wasn’t anything stopping him from suggesting dinner again. Nothing to stop him persuading her to acknowledge the attraction that sizzled between them and nothing to stop them pursuing it.
Nothing, that was, apart from the weird warning flag that was waving frantically in his brain. The one that had taken up residence the minute the words ‘this one’ had popped into his head when he’d first shaken her hand and was now insisting on being noticed. The one that had his blood chilling and his stomach clutching with something that felt suspiciously like panic.
Not that he ever suffered from panic, of course. No. On reflection, that odd sensation was undoubtedly hunger. But still …
Jack cleared his throat and drew back a little. It would probably be an idea to bring this whole evening to a close. He’d found out what Imogen’s problem was, and had rectified it. He’d done what he’d set out to do and there was no need to stick around. In fact, he should get out. Now. While the taxi was stationary at the lights.
‘OK,’ he said with a firmness designed to convince himself as much as her. ‘Is that it? Are we done with the accusations?’
She nodded.
‘Sure?’
She nodded again.
‘Then I’ll say goodnight.’
And before he could change his mind, he whipped his hand from her mouth, opened the door and leapt out.
THAT Jack had got out of the taxi when he had was a good thing, Imogen told herself, pummelling her pillow into shape a few hours later, then flinging herself back and staring up at the ceiling. Definitely a good thing.
Because if he hadn’t …
As the scene in the taxi slammed into her head all over again, she shivered beneath the thick duvet and threw her arms over her head in frustration. What might have happened if he hadn’t was precisely what she’d been trying not to think about all evening. And failing miserably.
Not that that was any surprise. She could still feel the imprint of his hand clamped over her mouth. Her lips still tingled. Her skin still burned. She could still remember how dizzy with desire she’d been at the intoxicating nearness of him. Desire that had been whipping through her long before he’d leaned forwards and touched her, and still was.
The moment she’d got home, she’d decided she might as well try to get on with the things she’d planned. She’d poured herself a glass of wine and run herself a bath, but neither had had the intended effect. The wine had tasted like acid in her mouth and the bath had merely heightened the buzzing in her body to such a degree that not even the bubbles could disguise the effects of the lingering traces of desire.
And as for daydreaming about life in the States, well, that had been utterly pointless. Every time she told herself to concentrate on what might happen if she was really lucky and they accepted her, she’d found herself fantasising about Jack instead.
It hadn’t helped that her brain kept rehashing the latter part of their encounter, starting with the minute she’d brought up the whole greatsexguaranteed thing. Of all the places she could have begun … Imogen let out a soft wail and threw one arm across her eyes. Who knew what he must have made of that?
Naturally, once she’d mentioned it, it was all she’d been able to think about. Great sex. With Jack. Guaranteed. Even when she’d been calling him arrogant and cold and callous she’d been going so hot and tingly that she’d wanted nothing more than to hurl herself onto his lap and ravish him.
Once he’d covered her mouth she’d tried to concentrate on all those questions, all those very valid points of his, but his voice had been so soft and so low that she’d felt hypnotised and she rather thought she couldn’t have said a word even if his hand hadn’t been in the way.
In fact, the only things that had stopped her tearing his fingers away and launching herself at him right there and then had been the presence of the taxi driver and her distaste of exhibitionism.
Imogen sighed again and gave up, because there was little point in denying it. She wanted him and had done from the moment they’d met. He’d certainly been right about that.
Not that it mattered one way or the other any more, she thought, scowling up at the ceiling. There she’d been, going all soft and swoony, coming to the realisation that struggling to control the desire racing through her body was like trying to paddle against the current, and wondering if giving in would really be so bad, and he’d been planning his escape.
Which with hindsight was completely understandable. Her behaviour, rattled by the effect he had on her and the events of the afternoon, had been unbelievably deranged and if she’d been in his position she’d have done exactly the same.
Imogen screwed her eyes tight shut and pulled the duvet over her head as if that might somehow obliterate the memories and the images because all in all the whole evening had been mortifying and she’d give anything to be able to forget every ghastly second.
The only reason she wasn’t going to give in to the temptation to barricade herself in her bedroom for the next ten years was the knowledge that she had no need to lay eyes on him ever again.
Something was wrong, thought Jack the next day, running a finger around the inside of his collar, and shifting on his chair as he tried to concentrate on the menu.
Very wrong.
Maybe he was coming down with something. A cold. The flu. Pneumonia perhaps. Whatever. Something had to account for the achiness and the restlessness that had invaded his body some time during the night.
Usually he had no problem sleeping. Usually he crashed out the minute his head hit the pillow and fell into a deep dreamless sleep. But last night he’d slept terribly. He’d tossed and turned, then prowled and paced around his bedroom until he’d finally given up and gone to the office.
However, given that he’d been in since six, he’d achieved remarkably little. All morning he’d been feeling on edge. He’d growled at his secretary, when he never normally growled, barked unfairly at one of his traders, and had made some stupidly rash investment decisions.
Eventually, unable to stand the four walls of his office and the tension any longer, and realising he could do some serious damage to his funds—and his team—if he stuck around when he was in this perplexing mood, he’d called Luke and dragged him out for lunch.
‘So what’s up?’
At the sound of Luke’s voice, Jack