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.’
Despite the tension in him one corner of his mouth hitched up. ‘Don’t be. I actually found the whole thing hugely entertaining.’
Imogen blinked in surprise and not a little pique. Entertaining? That was not what she’d been expecting. ‘I’m delighted you enjoyed the show,’ she said tartly.
Jack raised an eyebrow and grinned, then twisted round to lean one shoulder against the wall, far too close for her peace of mind. ‘You don’t really behave like that with every man you’re pleased to see, do you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Good.’
‘I was just a little—ah—jumpy.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
She ignored that and sought refuge in manners. ‘Anyway, thank you for coming to my rescue.’
‘It was my pleasure. I’m glad I was able to help out. Why the jumpiness?’
Imogen tried come up with a suitable explanation but it was tough when she only had a variety of unsuitable ones to choose from.
She could attribute her nerves to the awkwardness that had hit her when she’d first laid eyes on Max and Connie. But that had disappeared the minute she’d seen Jack. From then on her jumpiness had been firstly down to the feel of his body against hers and the corresponding desire that had swept through her and wiped out every scrap of self-possession she had, and then the sense of connection she’d had when their eyes had met over the realisation that Max could well have bought Jack’s painting.
But as she had no intention of giving him the pleasure of knowing how jumpy he made her, she was going to have to explain about Max and Connie. Which wouldn’t exactly put her in a good light, but then given the nature of their acquaintance to date she doubted she could sink any lower in his estimation.
‘If you must know,’ she said, straightening her spine against the wall and ignoring the twinge she felt at the notion of sinking lower in his estimation, ‘I used to go out with Max.’
She turned her head in time to see Jack’s eyebrows shoot up and a flicker of something flare in the depths of his eyes. ‘I see.’
Hmm. Intriguing. What had that been? Disappointment? Anger? Jealousy? Imogen’s heart fluttered for a second and then she told herself not to be so absurd, because why would he be any of those things?
When he didn’t say anything else, she shifted round to face him and folded her arms across her chest. ‘What?’ she asked, jutting her chin up partly in response to the frown creasing his forehead and partly because she was annoyed with herself for actually wanting him to be jealous.
‘I must say I’m surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, for one thing, he has abysmal taste in art.’
At the memory of how dazed she’d felt when her gaze had locked with his and they’d just stared at each other while coming to the same conclusion her heart gave a little lurch. ‘Did he really buy your painting, do you think?’ she said.
Jack shrugged the shoulder that wasn’t propped against the wall. ‘I had a phone call from the gallery the morning after the show, and apparently someone bought it, so it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility.’
A tiny smile tugged at her lips. ‘Oh, dear, poor Max.’
From the way Jack grunted, she guessed he didn’t share the sentiment.
‘So what’s the other thing?’ she asked.
He arched one dark eyebrow. ‘What other thing?’
‘You said “for one thing”, which would imply there’s another.’
‘He’s a jerk.’
Imogen frowned, faintly put out that Jack had deduced in five minutes what it had taken her the last two months to figure out. ‘Well, yes, but he was my jerk. Now he’s Connie’s jerk and that hurts.’
‘Why? I’d have thought you’d be glad to be rid of him.’
‘Oh, I am. Now.’ She bit her lip. ‘But I wasn’t for a long time.’
‘What happened?’
Imogen sighed and decided that she had nothing to lose by telling him. ‘We went out together for about a year. I thought everything was going fabulously, until one weekend a couple of months ago when I got home from staying with my parents and found a note, telling me he was leaving me to shack up with Connie.’
His jaw tightened. ‘Like I said, he’s a jerk. And she’s not much better.’
‘She was my best friend. My best friend. How could she?’ Imogen frowned and shook her head at her own naiveté. ‘I thought I knew her inside out. We grew up together. Started at the same school on the same day. Hung out all the time in the holidays. That sort of thing. It’s the ultimate betrayal.’
‘It sounds like you’re more upset at the loss of a friend than a boyfriend.’
Imogen snapped her gaze up to find him looking at her thoughtfully. Maybe he had a point. Connie’s betrayal