The Couple Behind the Headlines (2 page)

Swallowing back the lump in her throat at the reminder of how little
she
laughed at the moment, Imogen focused on the colour of his irises instead. That kind of blue was unusual. It made her think of the sky in summer and the shallows of the Mediterranean Sea. Which would have had her envisaging long, languid summer afternoons and the long languid ways in which one might spend them with a man like this had she not ruthlessly shut down that strand of her imagination for ever.

And as if all that weren’t potentially sense-scrambling enough, there was the glint. The glint lurked in the depths of his eyes and suggested danger and excitement and naughtiness. The glint promised fun. A lot of fun. For a woman who was into that sort of thing, which, being too emotionally scarred, she wasn’t. But if she
had
been, the heat sweeping through her would have been down to instant chemistry, and not what must surely be a fault with the air-conditioning.

Whatever it was that was causing her to overheat, Imogen hauled herself back under control as she dragged her gaze over the rest of his face, which would have more than lived up to her expectations if she’d had any. His dark hair looked as if it were made for rumpling and his mouth looked as if it would deliver the most devastating of kisses.

All in all, the combination of that face and that body was lethal, she thought, suppressing a shiver. If you were interested in that sort of thing. Which, dammit, she wasn’t. She really wasn’t.

‘My fault,’ he said with a smile that had her stomach somersaulting before she could stop it.

He unwound his arms from around her and she took a hasty step backwards.

‘And not a drop spilt,’ she said, glancing at the glasses of champagne that had only moments ago been flung around her. ‘Impressive.’

‘I’ve had plenty of practice.’

Of having random women barrel into him? She could just imagine. ‘How fortunate.’

The smile deepened and Imogen felt something inside her melt. Her pathetically weak resistance probably. ‘For you it is.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘For me?’

He held out a glass to her. ‘One of these. You looked like you could do with it.’

Had he been watching her? Checking her out?

At the thought of those eyes roaming over her, Imogen’s heart began to race and she swallowed hard to combat the sudden dryness of her mouth. ‘I was just leaving,’ she said a lot more breathily than she’d have liked.

His mesmerising gaze slid to the painting behind her and then back to hers. The glint twinkled. ‘Not because of the scorpion, I hope?’ he said.

‘Is that what it is?’

He nodded. ‘It is.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

‘It’s obscure.’

‘Very.’

‘It represents man’s fight against the injustice of capitalism.’

Imogen tilted her head and frowned as she finally managed to locate her brain. ‘It seems a bit hypocritical to charge a quarter of a million pounds for a piece of canvas and a few brush strokes that apparently represent the injustice of capitalism, don’t you think?’

‘To be honest I hadn’t given it much thought,’ he said dryly.

Vaguely wondering what was happening to her intention to leave, Imogen took the glass he was holding out and lifted it to her lips.

‘Thank you,’ she murmured and took a sip.

‘You’re welcome,’ he said, watching her as she parted her lips and let a mouthful of champagne slide down her throat. ‘So what do you think of it?’

She thought she heard a trace of hoarseness in his voice and it sent a shiver down her spine. ‘The painting?’

He nodded. Then cleared his throat a little.

‘Honestly?’

‘Oh, I’m all for honesty,’ he said.

Hmm. If he was, and frankly she doubted it because he was, after all, a man, then it was more than Max had been, the lying, cheating scumbag. ‘Then honestly,’ she said a touch more tartly than she’d intended, ‘it makes my eyes bleed.’

Without warning he threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter and her stomach tightened at the sound. ‘And there was me thinking it had great light, searing depth and imaginative perspective,’ he said, shoving a hand through his hair and grinning.

Imogen went still for a second, her eyes colliding with his, and her heart stuttered. The warm amusement in his voice that suggested he thought the exact opposite reminded her of the gaping hole in her life left by the treacherous Connie, and her eyes stung again.

And then an appalled thought crossed her mind and she snapped herself away from the memories. ‘Oh, no, you’re not the artist, are you?’

His eyebrows shot up. ‘Do I look like the artist?’

Imogen let her gaze run over him from head to toe, felt her blood begin to simmer and managed to convince herself it was a perfectly normal reaction to an extremely handsome man and there was no need to get her knickers in a twist over it.

He certainly didn’t look like any artist she’d ever met, she reflected, vaguely distracted by the thought of her knickers getting, not just in a twist, but totally removed, slowly and seductively, by the man smouldering down at her. He looked
dark and dangerous and wicked. The sort of man that could make a woman lose her head if she wasn’t careful. ‘Come to think of it,’ she said as coolly as she could manage, which wasn’t coolly at all, ‘no.’

‘Thank heavens for that.’

Ignoring the odd fizzing of her veins, Imogen pulled herself together. If he’d gone to the trouble to bring her a glass of champagne, the least she could do was engage in a minute or two of conversation before leaving. After all, his smile might be lethal and the glint was downright criminal, but conversation had never killed anyone, had it? ‘So how do you know so much about this particular—ah—piece?’

‘I own it.’

‘God, why?’ she asked aghast, rapidly revising her opinion of him. He might be gorgeous but his taste in art left a
lot
to be desired.

His eyes gleamed. ‘I won it at a charity auction.’

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Someone else was bidding for it?’ That at least two people had wanted the thing was astounding.

He nodded and grinned. ‘A friend of mine.’

‘Some friend.’

‘One of the best. It was quite a tussle.’

‘But he eventually bowed out?’

‘He did.’

‘Sensible man.’

He shrugged. ‘He didn’t have much of a choice. I like to win.’

Hmm. She cast him a sceptical glance and noticed the determined set to his jaw as well as the now decidedly ruthless glint in his eye. Oh, yes, he liked to win. And, she deduced, at any cost.

‘Well, it seems to me that on this occasion you lost,’ she said, stifling a shudder at the dangerously enticing thought of being pursued and conquered by someone like him.

He gazed at her for so long and so intently that her mouth
went dry and her body began to buzz. ‘You know, you could be right,’ he murmured.

She tried to blot out the buzzing by telling herself that the man was an idiot who had more money than sense, but it didn’t appear to be working. ‘So really you acquired it by accident?’

He tilted his head and grinned. ‘It would seem so. Although not an unhappy one, given the increase in its value over the years.’

She lifted her eyebrows. ‘And that’s important?’

‘Profit is always important.’

Imogen frowned. ‘Well, I suppose in this case the simple appreciation of something beautiful doesn’t really come into the equation.’

At that his eyes gleamed and her heart unaccountably skipped a beat. His gaze suddenly dropped and then slowly roamed over her. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he murmured, and to her alarm she felt her cheeks going bright red. Heat shot through her and she began to tingle in places she’d thought she’d never tingle in again.

Didn’t intend to ever tingle in again, she reminded herself, straightening her spine and lifting her chin. ‘Nevertheless you have my commiserations.’

He smiled that smile of his and to her irritation she could feel her blush deepening. ‘But not an offer to buy it?’

Right now, what with being on the verge of becoming putty in his hands, Imogen thought she could well end up offering him anything he asked for.

And didn’t that bring her up short?

Forcing herself to imagine the painting on her wall, having to stare at the hideous thing day in day out, and concentrating on not turning into that putty, she shuddered. ‘You must be joking,’ she said, adopting a look of horror for good measure. ‘This isn’t my kind of thing at all.’

‘Pity,’ he said, then sighed and rubbed a brown hand along his jaw. ‘I have a depressing feeling it’s never going to sell.’

‘Are you surprised?’

‘Not particularly. But if it doesn’t, Luke, that friend of mine who bowed out of the bidding, will never let me forget it. He needles me about it enough as it is.’

He looked so cross that Imogen couldn’t help smiling. ‘Well, that’s what comes of indulging in silly displays of competitive pride,’ she said solemnly, tutting and shaking her head in mock admonishment.

‘You’re probably right.’

‘And can you blame him?’

He arched an eyebrow as he gazed at her, his mouth eventually curving into a rueful smile. ‘Not really. If the roles had been reversed I’d do the same.’

‘Of course you would.’

‘So,’ he said, draining his glass and handing it to a waiter who was weaving past, ‘I know why I’m here, but, if this isn’t your kind of thing, why are
you
here?’

Imogen went still, her smile fading and her temperature plummeting as her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.

Oh, heavens. What could she say? No way could she tell him the truth. That only half an hour ago she’d learned about Max and Connie’s engagement, on Facebook of all places. That she’d been so stunned, so thrown off balance and tossed upside down, and so hurt by the fact that they hadn’t bothered to call her up and tell her personally that she’d fled the office in search of the nearest source of alcohol, which happened to be the gallery next door to the office where she worked. No way. That kind of revelation she’d be keeping to herself.

So, aware that he was waiting for an answer and not liking that probing gaze one little bit, Imogen shrugged and fixed a bland smile to her face. ‘I’ve decided lately that my horizons
need broadening,’ she said, thinking it was, after all, at least the partial truth.

‘I see.’ He gave her a sexy kind of half smile and his eyes glittered. ‘Need any help?’

She stared at him as shivers raced up and down her spine. Help? Oh, goodness. From the way the glint was glinting she could guess exactly the sort of help he was offering. The sort she wasn’t interested in, she reminded herself. Not. Interested. In.

‘Thank you, but no,’ she said, sounding a lot firmer than she felt.

‘Are you sure? Because I’m good at broadening horizons.’

‘I’ve no doubt you are.’

He smiled into her eyes, and even though he hadn’t moved it felt as if he’d somehow got closer. ‘Have dinner with me and I’ll show you how good.’

CHAPTER TWO

I
MOGEN
blinked, faintly stunned, although why the invitation should be quite such a surprise was beyond her. It wasn’t as if she’d never been asked out to dinner before.

Maybe it was the fact that the intensity of his attention was so all-encompassing it had robbed her of reason. Or maybe it was simply the fact that, as he’d apparently stolen all the air around her, her brain was being starved of oxygen. ‘Dinner?’ she murmured.

He nodded. ‘That’s right. Dinner. Comes after lunch and before breakfast. Around this time.’

‘Ah,
that
dinner.’

‘That’s the one. So?’

Imogen was almost certain her answer ought to be no. More than almost certain, actually, because hadn’t she just been telling herself that she’d had enough of men for the foreseeable future, the whole lousy lot of them? Wasn’t she just the tiniest bit unhinged at the moment? And didn’t she need to concentrate on repairing her poor battered emotions instead of letting herself be dragged under the spell of such a dangerously magnetic man?

But it was so tempting, she thought, her common sense beginning to unravel beneath his unwavering gaze. After two months of miserable soul-searching, her self-esteem could
really do with the attention, and after nearly three glasses of champagne her stomach could really do with the food.

Besides she hadn’t sworn off all men, had she? She blotted out the little voice in her head jumping up and down, waving its arms in alarm and demanding to know what on earth she thought she was doing, and concentrated on justifying the decision she was pretty sure she was going to make. She might have had her fingers burnt recently but she wasn’t
that
jaded. And dinner didn’t have to go anywhere, did it? How could a couple of hours in the company of a gorgeous attentive man hurt?