she asked herself yet again, stamping her feet in an effort to inject a degree of heat into her body and scouring the shadowy, empty street for a taxi. Jack might be everything she detested in a man—well, aside from his considerable physical attributes, of course—but that was no excuse. She was never rude.
Imogen winced with shame as her words flew back into her head. What had she been thinking? OK, so she’d barely been thinking at all, let alone rationally, but that was no excuse, either.
Not that there was anything she could do about it now. She couldn’t rewind time and she could hardly go back and apologise, could she? An apology—even assuming he’d be willing to listen—would lead to conversation and undoubtedly a request for an explanation, and she really didn’t want to go into the reason for her temporary mental meltdown.
No. All she could do was hope that Jack had written her off as bonkers, slope off home, open a bottle of wine and forget all about the entire excruciating afternoon.
If her brother and his family had been around she’d have invited herself over for supper and let herself be plied with wine and sympathy, clambered all over by her niece and nephew, and maybe let herself not feel quite so lonely and messed up for a while. But unfortunately they were skiing in the Alps.
And yes, there were a couple of parties that she’d been invited to, but having to dodge the inevitable loaded questions about the newly betrothed couple didn’t appeal in the slightest.
The worst thing was that with the defection of Connie she no longer had the sort of girlfriend she could call up and drown her sorrows with. Not for the first time, Imogen asked herself how it was possible to feel so alone in a vast city like London, where she knew loads of people and there was always something going on.
Pushing that thought aside before she became even more maudlin, she hauled her spirits up. Home—a cosy mews house in Chelsea—wasn’t such a bad option, she thought dryly, spying the yellow light of a cruising taxi and throwing her arm up to hail it. It had always been something of a haven, a place to shut herself away from the occasional unpleasantness of life. A scathing newspaper report, a deliberately awful paparazzi photo, a lousy boyfriend … She’d licked her wounds there many times, and would probably do so many times in the future.
Tonight she’d run a bath, pour herself a glass of wine, light a few candles and relax. She might even allow herself to contemplate the press-free and purposeful life she’d have in the States if her application to study there was accepted.
She watched the taxi execute a U-turn and pull up at the pavement where she was standing, and chewed on her lip as a flicker of optimism flared into life inside her.
Yes, that was what she’d do, she thought, leaning forwards to give the taxi driver her address and then reaching for the door handle. She’d package everything that had happened this afternoon and stuff it in the cupboard called Denial, and wallow in that blissful daydream. And then she’d—
‘Just a minute.’
At the sound of the deep, dry voice behind her and the sudden scorching heat of the hand covering hers, Imogen jumped, and then, as her back brushed against him, froze. Her heart leapt into her throat. Pure terror shot through her and as her head went fuzzy she automatically jerked her elbow back. Up and hard.
She heard a growl of surprise, of pain, and with adrenalin whipping through her veins she snapped round. Instinctively, braced herself.
And crashed back to reality as she clapped eyes on the man who’d sneaked up on her.
Oh, dear.
As all the adrenalin and energy drained away, Imogen bit her lip and grimaced. Jack was almost doubled up, one hand planted on the window of the taxi, the other clutching his stomach as he gasped for breath.
‘What on earth did you do that for?’ he said when he was finally able to speak.
‘It was an automatic reaction. You startled me. Sorry.’
‘Remind me never to do that again,’ he muttered and, with a wince, straightened. Which brought him almost as close as he’d been when he’d crept up on her in the first place.
A shiver that this time had nothing to do with the cold or fear or adrenalin scuttled down Imogen’s spine, and she sighed. So much for hoping that Jack might decide to write her off and forget what she said. It was stupid of her to think he would. To think that anyone would. ‘Did you want something?’ she said, blinking with what she hoped looked like innocence.
‘You walked off in the middle of our conversation,’ said Jack, rubbing his ribs and glowering at her. ‘That wasn’t very polite.’
‘As far as I was concerned,’ she said, lifting her chin and giving him a cool smile, while determinedly ignoring the stab of guilt that she might have hurt him, ‘it was over.’
‘I’m sure you think so,’ he said, clearly disagreeing.
Actually, maybe it was no bad thing he’d followed her, because now would be an excellent time to apologise. She could clean the slate, clear her conscience and draw a line under their brief but surprisingly turbulent acquaintance. And then she could nip into the taxi and disappear into the night and put an end to what had been a day she hoped never to repeat.
‘OK, look,’ she said, making herself keep eye contact, while groping behind her for the door handle. ‘I apologise for the whole victim-devouring-comment thing. It was uncalled for. I’m sorry.’
He frowned. ‘What prompted it?’
Imogen swallowed. No way was she going to go into the frightening cocktail of emotion that had surged through her and obliterated every shred of common sense. Instead, she recalled the ‘skipping straight to dessert’ remark, and raised her eyebrows. ‘You have to ask?’
‘I wouldn’t if I didn’t.’
‘I don’t do dessert.’
‘Ever?’
‘For the time being.’
His mouth curved into a faint smile. ‘Don’t tell me you’re sweet enough.’
Imogen rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please.’
‘I thought not.’ He paused. Then frowned as the smile faded. ‘Nevertheless, that was quite an overreaction.’
Very probably. ‘For which I apologise. Again.’ She stopped, tilted her head as she waited for some kind of response. Which appeared to be a long time coming. ‘You could do the gentlemanly thing and accept it,’ she said archly.
‘What makes you think I’m a gentleman?’
Imogen shrugged and ignored the way her body hummed with anticipation at the idea of Jack being very ungentlemanly indeed. ‘Suit yourself,’ she said with as much indifference as she could muster, which wasn’t a lot. ‘As delightful as it’s been to have this little chat, I have somewhere to be. So if there’s nothing else, I’ll say goodnight.’
‘Nothing else?’ he murmured, fixing her with a hypnotising glance as the frown disappeared and his lips curved into that lethal smile. ‘Imogen, darling, we’ve barely begun.’
Imogen swallowed as she stared up at him, her heart suddenly thumping with something other than anticipation and her mouth going dry. ‘Well, I guess it’s possible we’ll bump into each other again.’ Although given that they hadn’t to date it didn’t seem likely. Which was something of a relief because she had the feeling that too much of Jack would be so dangerous to her health he ought to come with a government warning. ‘But for now, goodnight.’
Suddenly desperate to get away, she flashed him a quick smile, yanked on the handle and pulled the door open. She clambered in and turned to close the door behind her, but to her dismay saw that Jack had planted one hand on the edge and the other on the taxi, and was showing no signs of getting out of the way.
‘What?’ she muttered, catching the determined