Читать книгу Scandal In The Spotlight - Kimberly Lang - Страница 15

COUNT on it?

Hah. She couldn’t count on anything, thought Imogen, stalking into the conservatory after dinner with as much speed and force as her dress would allow, which infuriatingly wasn’t a lot. Ideally, she’d have liked to pace and stomp but all she could do was totter over to an armchair and throw herself into it.

At least the glowering she could manage, she thought, staring gloomily out into the softly lit gardens.

Where had the evening gone so wrong?

After leaving Jack, she’d sailed into the dining room as if she were floating across the floor, aware that the electricity still flowing through her must be evident to anyone with eyes in their head, but unable to summon up the energy to do anything to hide it.

She’d taken her seat and smiled a hello to the other people at her table. She’d murmured her appreciation of the food and dipped in and out of the conversation. And all the while her thoughts had kept drifting back to that broom cupboard.

How she’d managed to get through the short speech she’d had to give thanking the sponsors and the guests she’d never know. Even as she’d been elaborating on the causes the trust had recently supported she’d felt a self-destructive urge to rip up her prompt cards and ask the audience, in a choose-your-own-adventure kind of way, what they thought might have happened next if Jack hadn’t stopped when he had.

Which would really not have impressed the illustrious gathering. Nor the trust’s board. And had it made its way into the press, it certainly wouldn’t have gone down well with the submissions committee at the university she’d applied to in the States.

Imogen let out a sigh and frowned. Oh, who was she kidding? She knew exactly when the evening had started to go downhill. It had taken a turn for the worse the moment she’d stepped down from that podium and spotted the woman Jack was sitting next to.

She’d been a blonde of indeterminate age. Beautiful in a ravaged kind of way. The sort of woman who commanded the centre of attention and revelled in it. And, judging by the way her hands had been all over him, one who’d clearly set her sights on Jack.

Not that he’d seemed to object, she thought sourly. Throughout dinner her gaze had kept sliding to him and every time she’d looked, he’d just been sitting there, letting himself be pawed to pieces.

Probably still was, because where was he anyway? Dinner had been over for ages and she’d hung around but there’d been no sign of him. So much for his promise to come and find her after supper.

Logic and common sense told her that there were a dozen different reasons he might have been delayed, but neither stood a chance against the overwhelming suspicion that he could well be checking out the broom cupboard with the blonde.

And how had he known about that anyway? Imogen frowned and swung her feet up to rest on the window sill. The way he’d steered her out of the lobby and down that corridor, as if he knew exactly where he was going …

She nibbled on her lip, vaguely aware that her mind was careering off in a dangerously extravagant direction, but too wound up to stop it. Why was she even bothering to wonder? For all she knew Jack was acquainted with the whereabouts of all the broom cupboards in every top London hotel.

That little voice hammering away inside her head and insisting she was wrong, that he wasn’t like that, was all very well but, despite what he’d told her that night in the taxi, and despite what she’d told herself over the past few days, she couldn’t get what she knew of his reputation entirely out of her mind.

Irrational, undoubtedly, but there it was. What with the betrayal she’d suffered recently and the knowledge that Max and Connie’s affair must have been going on right under her nose was it any wonder she was predisposed to mistrust?

Imogen glanced at her watch and sighed. Five more minutes to compose herself and then she’d be saying her goodbyes and getting out of here, because the night had turned out to be just as grim as she’d thought—although for entirely different reasons—and she’d had enough.

Jack scoured the ground floor of the hotel for Imogen. The things he had to suffer in the pursuit of a date!

As if having to bring ferocious desire and the memories of those scorching kisses under control hadn’t been trial enough, Jessica had been on particularly demanding form this evening.

From her behaviour at dinner one would never guess she’d ignored him most of her life, but it had taken Jack less than two minutes to figure out that his mother’s brief foray into lavish maternal affection was nothing more than an effort to impress her latest conquest, who happened to work in the same field as he did.

Which couldn’t have bothered him less. Jessica, who’d had him when she was a teenager and had promptly handed him over to her parents to raise him so that she could carry on partying, didn’t have a maternal bone in her body, and he’d never deluded himself into thinking otherwise.

So the stabbing at his gut was nothing more than indigestion, although if someone had asked him what had been on the menu he couldn’t have said. All he’d been able to think about for course after course was what had gone on in that broom cupboard and what might have happened if he hadn’t heard the echo of the gong announcing dinner.

Jack strode through the lobby, his temper beginning to simmer. He didn’t think he’d ever had such an uncomfortable couple of hours and Imogen’s disappearing act wasn’t helping.

Where was she? Did she think playing hard to get would somehow reel him in even more? Well, he thought, setting his jaw grimly, she needn’t have bothered. He was reeled in quite comprehensively already.

Or at least he would be if only he could find her.

Right. This was it. The last room. If she wasn’t here, he was going home. Yes, he very much wanted to continue where they’d left off but there was only so much volatile behaviour he was prepared to take and hers was hitting his limit.

Jack pushed open the door to the conservatory and scanned the space. Tall, lush palms brushed the walls, the subtle lighting casting long, dark shadows over the cane furniture, the pillars and the marble floor. But other than the fixtures and fittings, that was it. There was no sign of her here, either.

Disappointment walloped him in the stomach, roiling and churning and making him go all light-headed.

He shoved his hands through his hair and pulled himself together. So that was that, then. He’d be off. He’d forget all about Imogen and the insane notion that he somehow wouldn’t survive if he didn’t finish the business they’d started, and get back to being in control of his life.

It had been an absurd idea anyway. When had he ever chased a woman he was interested in quite so determinedly? When had he ever had to? And as for not surviving, well, that was ridiculous. Of course he’d survive. He always did.

Calling himself all kinds of fool, Jack turned on his heel and was about to march out, when something caught his eye and made him freeze.

It was a pair of feet. Clad in black high-heeled shoes and propped up on the window sill.

They could be anyone’s, of course, but what the hell, it was worth checking out. He strode over to the huge armchair that faced away from him and stopped in front of it.

And there she was, calmly sitting there, her elbows resting on the arms of the chair, her hands clasped, her fingers entwined and tapping against her mouth. Her legs stretched out, one exposed where her dress had fallen open, and as his gaze travelled the length of it from hip to ankle and back again all thoughts about leaving and forgetting about her vanished beneath a tidal wave of relief. ‘So this is where you got to.’

She glanced up at him and it was then he noticed the frown and the lack of warmth in her eyes. ‘Top marks for observation.’

The relief ebbed and he inwardly flinched. That didn’t sound like the voice of a woman keen to continue where they’d left off in the broom cupboard. In fact, it sounded like the voice of a woman who was grumpy and fed up. Very possibly—although he had no idea why—with him.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Fine,’ she said, clearly anything but.

‘So what are you doing here all by yourself?’

‘Well, I was hoping to have a few moments of peace …’

Jack rubbed a hand along his jaw and frowned. If that was a not-so-subtle hint that he should leave, then she was going to be disappointed because he wasn’t going anywhere. Instead, he pulled up a chair and sat down facing her. ‘I did say I’d come and find you after dinner.’

‘You took your time.’

Jack’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. Was that what was annoying her? The fact that he hadn’t come looking for her the minute coffee had been served? Was she really that high maintenance? ‘I got waylaid by someone wanting to invest in one of my funds.’

‘Oh.’ Her gaze jerked to his and he saw something flash in her eyes. Something that looked a little like relief and Jack inexplicably felt like grinning. Imogen might be hard work at times, but he had no doubt she’d be worth it.

‘And you didn’t exactly make it easy by hiding out here.’

‘I wasn’t hiding.’ She sniffed. ‘I was merely taking a little time out to think.’

‘About what?’

‘Things.’

‘Where I was being one of them?’

She flushed. ‘Possibly.’

‘And what conclusion did you draw?’ he asked, intrigued because whatever it was she’d been thinking about it was highly likely to be the cause of her frostiness.

‘It occurred to me you might have been … how shall I put it … otherwise engaged.’

‘What?’

‘Oh, nothing,’ she said with an airy wave of her hand. ‘It’s irrelevant now anyway. Have you had a pleasant evening?’

His smile tightened a little at the thought of the ordeal he’d had to endure so far this evening and still was. Pleasant was not the word he’d have used. ‘Not particularly.’

‘Oh?’ She raised her eyebrows and regarded him coolly. ‘From where I was sitting it looked like you were having a whale of a time.’

‘Believe me, I wasn’t.’

‘The blonde virtually sitting in your lap certainly looked as if she was enjoying herself.’

Jack frowned. What on earth was she talking about? What blonde? There hadn’t been a blonde.

Unless she meant Jessica.

Jack went still as the memory of his mother’s overblown behaviour at dinner flew into his head. She did mean Jessica.

As realisation dawned he felt like laughing because if he wasn’t mistaken Imogen was jealous. It wasn’t an emotion he’d ever experienced himself, of course—that weird tightening of his body when she’d told him she’d once gone out with Max had been nothing but surprise—but he could recognise it in others.

‘Ah, the blonde,’ he said, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders as he leaned forwards and, unable to resist any longer, wrapped his hand around her ankle and slid it up her bare calf.

With a sharp gasp Imogen snatched her legs away and clutched the edges of the lower half of her dress together.

‘Don’t think you’re going to get out of this by virtually sitting in my lap,’ she said tartly, although, with her breath catching the way it was, it didn’t come out as tartly as he imagined she’d have liked.

‘I’m not trying to get out of anything,’ he said, grinning. ‘But I can see how it must have looked.’

‘Really? I’m surprised you could see anything at all what with that cleavage constantly being shoved in your line of sight.’

‘Jessica can be a little over-demonstrative at times.’

‘A little over-demonstrative?’ said Imogen. ‘Hah. I’ve never seen anyone so tactile. Honestly, it was appalling. All that pawing and leaning over you. I’m surprised she didn’t have a wardrobe malfunction.’

Jack’s grin widened as he watched her eyes flash and colour rise in her cheeks. ‘Yes, well, I don’t think it was quite as bad as that, but she’s always been on the tactile side. It’s part of her whole “dahhhling” persona. It drives me insane but, seeing as she’s the one who wangled me the space at her table, it seemed rude to cause a scene.’

Imogen scowled. ‘Do the two of you have history?’

‘You could say that.’

She harrumphed. ‘And a future?’

‘Unfortunately, that, too.’

‘Well, then, don’t let me keep you.’

‘You aren’t,’ he said, sitting back, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles as he looked at her. ‘My mother’s currently strutting her stuff on the dance-floor with her latest boyfriend and I doubt she could care less what I’m up to.’

For a moment Imogen thought she must have misheard. That, despite being so cross with him she’d been so caught up in white-hot jealousy, so thrown off balance by the searing jolt of electricity that had shot up her leg when his hand had caressed it, that she’d completely lost the plot.

Either that or he was joking.

But Jack didn’t look as if he was joking. Far from it. His expression was one of faint distaste and the blue of his eyes looked strangely flat.

In the long seconds of silence that stretched between them, all she could do was stare at him in astonishment while he looked unwaveringly back. The strains of music coming from the ballroom and the distant buzz of conversation barely registered as the realisation that he was one hundred per cent serious dawned.

‘Your mother?’ she said once she’d regained the power of speech.

Jack grimaced, his eyes dark and unfathomable. ‘I’m afraid so.’

‘That was your mother?’

‘So she claims.’

‘But she can’t be.’ She thought of her own mother, who was in her fifties and favoured tweed. Her mother, who was happiest on her knees in a flowerbed, trowel in hand, and wouldn’t be seen dead with a neckline that plunged to her navel or a hemline that skirted her buttocks, let alone shaking her groove on the dance floor.

Jack let out a deep sigh. ‘That’s what I’ve wished for many times over the years, but she is, and unfortunately there isn’t a thing I can do about it.’

So many questions raced around her head that she didn’t know where to start. ‘But how …?’

‘Oh, the usual way, I should imagine.’

‘I mean she looks about twenty-one.’

‘I’ll tell her you said so. She’ll be delighted.’

‘How old was she when she had you?’

‘Sixteen.’

‘Crikey.’ She paused. ‘And how old are you?’

‘Thirty-three.’

Imogen did the calculation, then blew out a breath. Jack’s mother might not be twenty-one, but she was spectacularly, and no doubt expensively, well preserved. ‘Goodness.’

His eyes glittered. ‘Quite.’

She blinked. ‘Well, I must say, I’m speechless.’ And more relieved than she could possibly have imagined.

‘Good, because I don’t particularly want to talk about my mother.’

That was a pity because she did. She really ought to have given in and searched him on the Internet, because she’d bet her entire shoe collection that it would all be there. ‘No?’

‘No.’

‘But—’ There was so much more she wanted to know. Who was his father? Who’d brought him up? What had his childhood been like? How did he feel about having a mother who behaved like that?

‘I said no.’

And presumably just in case she was thinking of pressing the point, which she was, Jack sprang to his feet and, taking hold of her elbows, pulled her out of the chair and up into his arms. Barely before she could work out what was happening he was winding her arms around his neck, then hauling her tight against him and lowering his head to capture her mouth with his.

The minute their lips melded and tongues met, Imogen was lost. As ways of shutting her up went, she thought a second before her brain addled, this one was pretty effective. No doubt exactly as he’d intended, all traces of her idiotic jealousy and every drop of curiosity about his mother vanished in a wave of lust.

‘That dinner was agony,’ she mumbled when Jack broke for breath.

‘I’m sorry you got the wrong impression about Jessica,’ he muttered, trailing a series of hot kisses along her jaw.

Imogen shivered. ‘It wasn’t just that.’

He lifted his head to shoot her a quizzical glance before turning his attention to her ear lobe. ‘What else was it?’ he muttered.

‘I kept thinking about that broom cupboard.’

She felt his mouth curve into a slight smile against her skin. ‘You, too?’

Biting her lip to stop herself from whimpering, Imogen whispered, ‘How did you know about it?’

‘What?’

‘How did you know it was there?’

‘Sign on the door.’

‘Oh,’ she said on a shuddery sigh, her head falling back to allow him better access to her neck. ‘How did you know it would be unlocked?’

‘I didn’t. Just got lucky.’ He paused. Lifted his head and stared down at her, his brows drawing together in a faint frown. ‘That’s what you were thinking about? The extent of my knowledge of the whereabouts of hotel broom cupboards?’

‘A bit,’ Imogen said, bringing her head back up and fervently hoping he wasn’t going to ask her why, because having to explain would certainly kill the moment. So she gave him what she hoped was a mind-boggling smile and deliberately seductively said, ‘What about you?’

Which, judging by the glint that appeared in his eyes, worked beautifully. ‘Nothing so complicated,’ he murmured. ‘I simply kept wondering what might have happened if I hadn’t stopped.’

Imogen’s heart tripped at the heady realisation that they were as muh at the mercy of this as they were of each other and that just maybe he wasn’t completely out of her league. ‘Oh.’

‘Want to know what I came up with?’

Watching his eyes darken, she nodded, and then he was leaning forwards, pressing her into the back of the chair and murmuring into her ear.

As what he told her filtered into her brain, Imogen’s temperature shot so high she went dizzy. All she could think about was dragging him off and demanding he fulfil every one of the exotic scenarios he suggested.

‘So what do you think?’

Think? She could barely breathe. ‘Is some of that even anatomically possible?’ she managed shakily.

‘I have no idea. But we could have a hell of a lot of fun finding out.’

‘Well, as you know,’ she said gravely, ‘I’m all for fun.’

‘I was hoping you might say that.’ He stared down at her and the desire and need she saw in his eyes nearly brought her to her knees. ‘Are you done here?’

Definitely, yes. She nodded. ‘All done.’

‘Then let’s go.’