The Couple Behind the Headlines (18 page)

Wrapping the duvet around her and holding her head high, Imogen wandered into the sitting room to see Jack rummaging around for his shoes.

‘I’d better make a move,’ he muttered.

‘Of course,’ she said, letting the duvet slip a little as he glanced up at her. ‘The markets won’t wait for you.’

Jack’s gaze dropped to her cleavage and he stopped what he was doing, the glint in his eye suddenly gleaming fiercely. ‘Which is unfortunate,’ he murmured, walking over to her, grasping the top of the duvet and pulling her towards him.

The searing kiss gave her the encouragement and lack of inhibition she needed. ‘So what would you say to doing this again some time?’ she murmured giddily when he finally lifted his head.

Jack grinned. ‘I’d say I’m free on Wednesday if you are.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

A
ND
that was how it had been ever since.

Jack grated lime zest into a bowl and wondered if he ought to be worried. Not about the fact that he and Imogen arranged their dates from one to the next—that was the way he liked it, the way he’d always liked it. No. It was the fact that there had been so many of them that was so unsettling. Six weeks of them to be exact, which was five weeks more than usual, and he couldn’t see an end in sight. Strangely, he didn’t seem to want to.

As if all that wasn’t disconcerting enough, he thought, squeezing the lime juice and adding it to the bowl, here he was at home. In his kitchen, cooking. For her. And not for the first time.

He spooned a dollop of fromage frais into the lime, sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar on top and gave it a stir. In the six weeks of random dates, which, as they happened two or three times a week, hadn’t been quite as random as he’d have liked, he and Imogen had stayed in as much as they’d gone out. Sometimes she cooked for him, on other occasions he for her. They’d joked that her kitchen had never been so well used, and that his fridge, used to housing nothing but beer and milk, had never been so well stocked.

But actually it wasn’t much of a joking matter, was it? he reflected, filling a pan with water and sticking it on the hob.
Because if he’d been on the outside looking in, he’d have described the whole thing as domesticated. Cosy. Something that looked suspiciously like the beginnings of an affair. Or even a relationship.

And that definitely
was
worrying.

As much as he might tell himself he didn’t do relationships, he had the unsettling feeling that he was getting used to Imogen. Getting used to having her around.

Jack poured himself a glass of wine, then walked into his study, sat in his chair and stared out at the darkening London skyline, his brow furrowed. What was it about her that he found so appealing? OK, so she was undeniably gorgeous and incredible in bed, but that combination—while rare—he’d come across before. So it had to be more than that.

Was it her wickedly dry wit? The way her eyes sparkled with passion and admiration when she talked about the work the trust did? Or the honesty with which she regarded her place within it?

Was it her ability to laugh at herself? The biting, self-deprecating humour she used to deflect the barbs of others? Or was it the warmth and affection with which she spoke of her family?

Jack frowned and pressed the rim of the glass to his chin. Whatever it was, it held him weirdly enthralled.

So far they’d lived entirely for the present. They never discussed the past or the future. They didn’t talk about hopes and dreams or anything remotely personal. As if by some kind of unspoken agreement they kept things light, their conversation sticking to how their days had been, when they were going to meet up next and what they were going to do when they did. Besides, they spent so much of their time together in bed, there hadn’t exactly been a lot of time for chatting.

Which had suited him perfectly initially.

But now …

Now he found himself wanting to know more. He wanted
to know about her past. Her plans for the future. What her hopes and dreams were and what she wanted out of life. He wanted to find out what had happened with that stalker and then personally go and hunt him down and string him up. Swiftly followed by everyone who’d criticised and mocked her over the years.

Basically, he thought, he just wanted more of everything.

He stilled, and his fingers tightening around the bowl of the glass, his blood chilling because wanting more of everything hadn’t been in the plan. It had
never
been in the plan. It simply wasn’t an option, and to ensure it never happened Jack had taken the precaution of building up defences so high, so impenetrable that he’d been sure they were unbreachable.

But somehow Imogen, with her warm smile and disconcertingly penetrating gazes, had sneaked straight past them, he realised with a start. And as a result, after a lifetime of denial, she’d got him hoping for things he’d never dreamed he’d be able to have.

On the increasingly frequent occasions he thought of Luke and Emily and their little family unit, he now found himself responding, not with heartfelt relief that it would never happen to him, but with an extremely unfamiliar and deeply unsettling pang of envy.

He kept thinking about that exhausting but entertaining weekend with Daisy and wondering ‘what if?’. Which invariably led him to go over the conversation he and Imogen had had about his upbringing.

What if she’d had a point when she’d queried his assertion that history would undoubtedly repeat itself? What if he’d been denying himself something deep down he’d always wanted just because of some ancient misplaced feelings of inadequacy?

As those defences he’d spent years fortifying cracked and wobbled, Jack’s heart pounded and his head swam. If Imogen
was right about that, what else might she be right about and he be wrong about?

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt if he opened up and let her in a bit to see what she had to say about things. And then if that turned out to be relatively painless, maybe he could open up and let her in a bit more.

Noticing the hand that was holding the wine glass was trembling, he set the glass down and rubbed his chest to ease the tightness that was suddenly gripping it.

He’d never thought he’d get the chance to have a relationship, but it seemed that whether he’d planned it or not that was exactly what had been going on with Imogen.

So maybe now was the time to give it a proper shot, he thought, his mouth going dry as his pulse raced. Put things on a firmer footing. See where things went. She might have told him that first time that she wanted nothing more than sex, but as far as he could make out she was as into this as he was.

Would it really be such a terrible idea to suggest they give it a go? Yes, he’d be putting more on the line than he had for years but maybe this time,
this time
, it would be OK. Maybe more than OK even …

At the sound of the buzzer, Jack jumped. Adrenalin raced along his veins and a thousand different emotions suddenly thundered through his body as he leapt to his feet and strode to the intercom in the hall to buzz Imogen in.

He’d suggest it the minute she arrived, before either his nerve failed him or one of his many hang-ups kicked in and demanded to know what the hell he thought he was doing.

Assuming she didn’t have something else in mind, of course. Unzipping her dress in the lift after the Valentine’s Day Ball seemed to have sparked her imagination, and he never knew quite what vision he’d be presented with when the lift doors drew back. If she was wearing as little as the last time she’d come over, his proposition might be delayed a while.

Jack waited and counted the seconds with fidgety anticipation. He tried leaning casually against a wall, but as he stood there rigid and tense, he realised that doing anything casually when he’d come to such an earth-shattering decision was hopeless. So he marched over to the console table to rearrange the pile of post he’d tossed there earlier.

And stopped. What the hell was he doing? Since when did he fidget like this? And what was this jittery feeling? Surely it couldn’t be nerves. He’d never experienced a moment of nervousness in his entire life. It was impatience, he told himself. That was all. Now he’d made his mind up he wanted to get on with it.

He really had to calm down, he thought, shoving his hands through his hair and ignoring the bead of sweat trickling down his spine. Now, before she came in and asked if there was anything wrong.

He heard the lift arrive and managed to pull himself together seconds before the doors opened and Imogen burst into his apartment, wearing all her clothes and a beaming smile. For a moment he didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved, but then it was all immaterial anyway because she was dropping her bag, shrugging off her coat and sidling up to him and he was busy being bamboozled by a surge of heat and longing.

His heart banged against his ribs as she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a hot, hard kiss that blew his mind. He was on the verge of tumbling her to the floor when she pulled back and grinned up at him.

‘You look happy,’ he said, smiling down at her.

‘I am.’

‘Me too.’ And possibly for the first time in his life he genuinely was. ‘I have news.’

‘Oh? So do I.’

Whatever hers was, his definitely needed the buffer of alcohol. ‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

‘I brought champagne.’ She twisted back, bent down and dug around in her bag.

Jack arched an eyebrow at the very expensive bottle she held aloft. ‘Are we celebrating?’

‘We are.’

‘Excellent,’ he said, heading for the kitchen and unable to stop himself wondering if by any possible chance she’d come to the same conclusion he had.

Imogen leaned against the counter while Jack took a couple of glasses from a cupboard. He popped the cork, then deftly filled each glass and handed one to her.

‘So what are we celebrating?’ he asked, his pulse racing as he geared himself up to tell her about the momentous conclusion he’d come to.

Her eyes sparkled and shone and his chest ached. ‘My news.’

‘Which is?’

‘I got in,’ she said, grinning and punching the air with a little ‘Yay’.

Jack tilted his head and smiled, her enthusiasm infectious even though he had no idea what she was talking about. ‘Got in where?’

‘University.’

He went still, for a moment stunned into speechlessness, all thoughts of sharing
his
news spectacularly derailed. What? University? She was going to university? ‘I didn’t know you’d applied,’ he said, the realisation she hadn’t told him stinging so badly that he was totally taken aback.

‘No, well, I didn’t tell anyone.’

‘No one?’

‘Not a soul.’

Oh. Well, that wasn’t so bad, then. But still … ‘Why not?’

She gave him a look that suggested she was surprised he even had to ask. ‘You know what the press is like. They’d
have mocked me, ripped me to shreds, given me hell. And imagine what they’d have said if I hadn’t got in.’

Jack thought of all the stories he’d read and heard about her and decided that she was undeniably right. Again. ‘So who knows you’ve been accepted?’

Imogen blinked. ‘No one yet. Well, apart from you now.’

Something warm unfurled in the pit of his stomach at that. ‘What are you going to study?’

‘Behavioural Economics.’

‘How long’s the course?’

‘Three years. And when I finish I’m going to wave my bit of paper at the board of the trust and make them give me a job where I can really make a difference.’

‘It sounds like you’ve got it all mapped out.’

She nodded. ‘For once.’

Jack grinned. He was delighted for her. And weirdly proud. She might not have said as much in so many words, but he’d got the impression lately that she rather regretted her misspent, frivolous youth. ‘Congratulations.’ He held up his glass and she clinked hers against it.

‘Thank you.’

‘So where are you heading?’ If she wasn’t staying in London, then, wherever it was, they should be able to make it work somehow. They’d both be busy during the weeks, but there were always weekends … And long, long holidays …

Her eyes shone and he could feel the excitement vibrating through her. ‘America. New York, to be precise.’

And just like that, Jack felt as if someone had socked him in the solar plexus. His head went fuzzy and his heart rate slowed right down. All the blood that had been surging through his veins shot to his feet and for a moment he thought his legs were about to give way.

‘Well, that is worth celebrating,’ he said, his voice sounding as if it came from far far away.

‘Isn’t it?’ She beamed and took a mouthful of champagne,
completely unaware her words were smashing all those achingly fragile fledgling hopes of his to smithereens. Because while London would have been perfect, the UK doable, the States was impossible.