Scandal In The Spotlight: The Couple Behind the Headlines / Redemption of a Hollywood Starlet / The Price of Fame

With such a battering assault on his senses was it any wonder his equilibrium had been somewhat off?

But now, however, he could see that Imogen was just one in a long line of women who’d caught his eye. She was business he badly wanted to finish, that was all.

‘I was an idiot,’ said Jack, feeling the restlessness and tension ease from his body at the burgeoning notion of pursuing and capturing Imogen.

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Track her down.’

And when he did he’d make her acknowledge the attraction that flared between them if it was the last thing he did. He’d employ every tactic he knew—and he knew plenty—and by the time he was through with her, she’d be begging him to take her in his arms and assuage the ache he’d stir up in her.

‘How?’

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Jack said, telling himself that with the energy and focus suddenly spreading through him it wouldn’t present too much of a problem.

‘Need any help?’

Jack caught the trace of yearning in Luke’s voice and grinned. Years ago the two of them had been a lethal double act in their pursuit of women, but now he operated alone. ‘Thanks,’ he said and glanced over at the approaching waiter, ‘but I should be able to manage.’

CHAPTER SIX

TONIGHT was going to be grim, thought Imogen for the billionth time that Friday. Utterly grim, and if she hadn’t been the only person available to represent her family at tonight’s Valentine’s Day Ball, she’d have stayed at home, curled up with a good book and a glass of wine.

For one thing she was exhausted. Not because she’d been putting in sixteen-hour days at work or anything. Her lowly nine-to-five job in the funding department at the Christie Trust—which she’d only been given because of who she was—wasn’t, unfortunately, hugely demanding.

And not because she’d been out until the early hours, either, as in an effort to avoid Max and Connie she’d largely shunned the social scene ever since they’d got together.

No. The cause of her restless nights was Jack.

To her intense, teeth-grinding frustration, she hadn’t been able to get him out of her head. The minute she closed her eyes at night, there he was, frazzling her brain with his voice, his eyes, his scent and the feel of his hand on her mouth.

As if disturbing her dreams wasn’t bad enough, he had an annoying tendency to invade her thoughts during the day, too. Often at the most inconvenient times. Like yesterday when she’d been in the supermarket contemplating what to buy for supper. She’d been lurking in the frozen food aisle and eyeing up the pizzas when, completely apropos of nothing, the image of him in the back of the taxi had flown into her head.

However, in her now hyperactive imagination, Jack hadn’t got out. In her mind’s eye the driver had magically disappeared and Jack had stayed put. With a smouldering smile, he’d pulled her towards him and kissed her until her stomach disappeared and she forgot her name. And then he’d done all manner of indescribably delicious things to her with his hands that had had her temperature rocketing and her knees turning to jelly right there by the frozen peas.

If it hadn’t been for the shop assistant asking if she was all right and bringing her crashing back down to earth, she’d have found herself hopping into the freezer to cool off.

It really had to stop because she’d come to the unwelcome and disturbing conclusion that she was developing a seriously unhealthy obsession with Jack.

Why else would she have got hold of Amanda Hobbs’ details in Italy the morning after the art exhibition and called her to wheedle out the truth?

Why else had she spent hours fantasising about him when she’d managed to convince herself that she’d never be seeing him again?

Why else had she had to unplug her laptop and stuff it in a cupboard at home if not to stop herself from doing a Google search on him relentlessly?

And why else had she endlessly tortured herself with the acknowledgement that her wanting him wasn’t the only thing he’d been right about?

Imogen sighed and nibbled on her lip as once again her thoughts helplessly barrelled off in that direction. Jack had been right about everything else he’d pointed out too. She had misjudged him. Even in her frazzled state she’d managed to work that out. Her reputation was hugely exaggerated—if not completely inaccurate—so why wouldn’t his be, too? Frankly some of the stuff she’d heard had been so outlandish she’d thought at the time that it had to be fabricated.

Not that that made him a saint, of course, but if Jack really was a louche layabout he wouldn’t be heading up one of the most successful investment companies in the country, would he? And yes, he might have had more than his fair share of women, but a man who looked like that, had a voice like that and such charismatic magnetism would.

And that meant that perhaps she’d made a mistake in rejecting his offer of dinner quite so out of hand.

The taxi she’d called to take her to the five-star hotel overlooking Hyde Park hurtled round a corner as if on two wheels and Imogen, too lost in thought to grab onto the handle in time, crashed into the side. Which didn’t hurt, but did bring her careering back to her senses.

God, she was doing it again, she thought, rubbing her shoulder and then checking her hair. Obsessing over Jack when there was absolutely no point. Even if she had reached the realisation that he was nothing like Max and might quite like the idea of joining his bevy of conquests, it was far too late.

Besides, Jack Taylor was way out of her league in every respect, and she hadn’t exactly put herself across in the best of lights that evening.

Imogen closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her temples as she fought a rising blush and tried to calm down. Not that there was much hope of that when her stomach was churning, her head was pounding and her nerves were wound so tight she thought they might be about to snap.

Because her sense of impending doom about this evening wasn’t entirely down to exhaustion. Or her frustration at her inability to wipe Jack from her brain.

As if either of those factors weren’t enough to tempt her to tell the taxi driver to take her back home and dive under her duvet, she also had to deal with the fact that tonight it was almost inevitable she’d come face to face with Max and Connie. She’d seen their names on the guest list, and in a crowd of a hundred there’d be little place to hide. And she wouldn’t be able to avoid the whispers and sidelong glances that were bound to be cast her way, either.

Sensing the taxi coming to a halt, Imogen opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Never mind, she told herself, getting out and stiffening her spine. All she had to do was keep her cool and remain poised, and everything would be fine.

Adjusting her stole and rubbing her teeth to remove any errant lipstick, she opened the door and, with a grace that years of practice had bestowed on her, got out. She flashed a blinding smile at a loitering photographer and then made her way up the wide stone steps and through the huge glass doors.

This was an important night for the trust, she reminded herself, holding her head high as she shrugged off the stole and handed it to the waiting attendant. Stashing the ticket she received in return in her clutch bag and giving the attendant a beaming smile of thanks, she walked across the black-and-white-chequered marble floor towards the handful of people who’d already arrived. The annual Valentine’s Day Ball raised thousands, if not millions, for good causes, and she wouldn’t do anything to jeopardise that.

She’d given herself a string of hearty pep talks and gone over how she’d behave and what she’d say a thousand times. Should she happen to bump into either Max or Connie, or heaven forbid the two of them together, she’d resist the urge to claw their eyes out and instead would be charming, witty and chatty. The life and soul of the party, in fact. She’d show everyone that she couldn’t care less about what they’d done, or how much they’d hurt her, because she was over it.

‘Imogen?’

At the sound of the familiar female voice behind her, Imogen froze. Her heart thumped and her blood roared in her ears before shooting to her feet. As if in slow motion, she turned.

And there they were. Max and Connie. Standing right in front of her, arms linked, clinging to each other like limpets and grinning like maniacs. Connie’s hand was wrapped around Max’s arm and the whopping diamond on the third finger of her left hand sparkled as if on fire.

Feeling as if someone had walloped her in the solar plexus and then sucked all the air from around her, Imogen looked from Connie to Max and back again. And to her horror, her vision blurred, her throat closed over and her head went completely and utterly blank.

Aha, thought Jack with a surge of satisfaction as he scanned the lobby of the hotel and spotted Imogen. There she was. Over there by the fireplace. Standing next to a tall, dark-haired man and a short blonde woman.

Excellent.

It seemed that his mother, for once in her shallow, flaky life, had actually come up with the goods.

Calling her to make discreet enquiries about when and where he might find Imogen had been something of a last resort. However, despite assuring Luke he’d manage perfectly well alone, tracking Imogen down had proved trickier than he’d thought.

After lunch he’d gone back to the office, his mind trawling through the options and discarding each one almost as soon as it entered his head. Chasing around London on the off chance of bumping into her he’d deemed inefficient and unlikely to result in success. Obtaining her contact details and sending her an email or giving her a call would give her the chance to ignore him. And if he’d pitched up on her doorstep, her stalking accusation might actually have held some merit.

Which had left him with no alternative but to try his mother. He’d figured that no one knew the London social scene better—with her penchant for partying ‘til dawn with men younger than he was, she’d had enough practice—and if anyone knew where Imogen was going to be it was her.

Not that he’d needed to be subtle when making his enquiries, he thought, adjusting his bow tie as he weaved his way towards Imogen. His mother was so self-absorbed she’d never spare the time to wonder why her son would be asking about the whereabouts of a girl.

Of course, there wasn’t anything particularly newsworthy about the fact that he had. His wanting to track Imogen down wasn’t a big deal. So what if he’d never cared in the past about who knew who he was dating? And so what if he’d previously sought a girl’s contact details from friends and acquaintances without a care for the gossip doing so might generate?

With the possibility of Imogen’s resistance being a large obstacle in his intention to make a conquest of her, this operation required delicacy. Subtlety. A different approach.

And one that required his full focus, he reminded himself, keeping her in his line of sight. Focus that mustn’t be derailed at any cost. Especially not by the spectacular way she looked.

As he got closer he could see that she was wearing a strapless black full-length dress that clung everywhere and had a split up to the top of her thigh. Her hair was swept up and looked like spun gold. Diamonds glittered at her throat and ear lobes.

A weaker man would have been dazzled. A weaker man would have cast aside any tactics he might have had, fallen to his knees at her feet and begged her for a smile. Luckily for him and his life-long adherence to strategy, Jack had self-control and strength in spades and didn’t possess one iota of weakness.

Although actually, he thought, narrowing his eyes as something about the tense set of her shoulders snagged his attention, Imogen wasn’t looking quite as radiant as she should be. In fact, she was looking rather pale. Somewhat stunned. And increasingly as if she was going to pass out.

He quickened his pace, concern rushing through him at the realisation that something was badly wrong.

‘Imogen?’ he said, coming to a halt a foot from her and steeling himself against the effect she’d have on him if he let her. ‘Are you all right?’

For a moment she simply stared at him, her eyes huge and troubled, and he had the strangest feeling that she was looking straight through him. But then, just when he was beginning to get really worried by her pallor, she blinked. Pulled her shoulders back, gave herself a quick shake and then shot him a stunning smile.

‘Jack, darling,’ she purred, and to his astonishment reached up, wrapped a hand around his neck and planted a kiss at the corner of his mouth. ‘You made it.’

At the brush of her lips so soft and full and so tantalisingly close to his own and at the touch of her hand on his neck, Jack felt as if he’d been electrocuted. Her breast was squashed up against his arm, her body was warm and soft against his, and her scent was intoxicating. She shot every one of his senses to pieces and blew his strategy to smithereens, and he wanted nothing more than to haul her into the shadows and tug that mouth to his properly. So he could explore it with his, thoroughly and at length.

She drew back, her eyes dark and now sparkling, and Jack ruthlessly stamped out the urge. Strength and self-control, he reminded himself. Strength and self-control. Because right now he wasn’t here to show her how pointless denying the chemistry they shared was. He was here to help.

Catching the flicker of pleading in her eyes, he ignored the voice inside his head demanding to know 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? And how could she have behaved so recklessly?

As she sneaked a glance at Jack and the stern set of his face, her body buzzed with a mind-altering combination of adrenalin, desire and wariness. What must he be thinking?

When he’d first materialised, she’d thought she must have conjured him up. Because having exchanged a series of stilted ‘how are you?’s and ‘what have you been up to lately?’s with her bêtes noires, she’d been racking her brain for some way out of the desperately awkward situation she’d found herself in and had come up with nothing that would allow her to extricate herself with any kind of dignity.

And then there he’d been, all dark and gorgeous and gazing down at her with that mesmerising look of concern on his face, and with barely a thought for the consequences, and because it had struck her that Jack outclassed Max in every way, she’d decided to use him. Quite shamelessly.

Not that he’d seemed to mind. After what must have been considerable initial surprise Jack had thrown himself into the role of besotted lover with admirable aplomb, and if she hadn’t known better she’d have been totally convinced.

Of course, unlike herself, he’d merely been putting on a performance, and it was little wonder he’d borne her off. After the way she’d been gabbling on about the decorations like an interior designer on acid, on top of everything she’d done on Tuesday night, he must think her completely nuts. In fact, he was probably removing her for her own safety.

But where were they going? she wondered as alarm began to trickle through the adrenalin, the desire and the wariness. Wanting to give her time to collect herself in private was one thing, but he’d better not be planning to stash her in a cupboard or something. She had a speech to give.

Just as she was toying with the idea of wrenching herself from the tight embrace of his arm and legging it, Jack drew to a halt at the far end of the corridor. He set her against the wall and, shoving his hands in his pockets, took a step back. His deep blue gaze fixed on hers, pinned her there and in the silence that ensued all she could hear was the rapid thump of her heart.

Dimly aware that the guests were far away and that the corridor was dusky and completely deserted, she realised that they were completely alone and Jack wasn’t nearly as relaxed as she’d imagined. And her heart beat even faster.

‘So, darling,’ he said, leaning in a fraction and apparently stealing all her oxygen, ‘what exactly was that all about?’

At the low seductive tone of his voice and the glitter in his eyes, her mouth went dry. Resisting the urge to run her tongue along her lips, Imogen swallowed. ‘Would you believe me if I said I behaved like that with every man I’m pleased to see?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so.’ She sighed and bit her lip as shame, which had been an embarrassingly long time coming, struck her square in the chest. ‘I’m sorry.’