Page 41 of The Couple Behind the Headlines

So why had he made the detour to see if Imogen was home? Why was he so pleased to see her lights on? And why when he’d pulled over and parked outside had his pulse started racing like a teenager’s on a first date?

Jack gave his head a quick shake, then rubbed a hand over his face and stifled a yawn. Did it really matter? He opened the door and levered himself out of the car. Was there really any need to make a big deal over it? Of course there wasn’t. After thirty-six hours in the company of a three-year-old girl he simply felt like a while in the company of a twenty-eight-year-old one and there was nothing odd about that.

Nor was there anything odd about the unsteadiness of his hand as he jabbed a finger at the doorbell. That was simply down to chronic sleep deprivation and an unexpectedly tough weekend.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans and listened to the echo of the bell ringing upstairs. A couple of minutes later he heard the sound of footsteps heading to the door and his pulse sped up.

There was a pause while Imogen presumably checked him out through the spyhole, then the click of the lock and the sliding of the chain. The door swung open, and when he looked down at her, standing there with tousled hair, glowing cheeks, sparkling eyes and a wide, dazzling smile, Jack knew exactly why he’d come.

‘Hi,’ she said with a breathlessness he hoped came from pleasure at seeing him and not from skipping down the stairs.

‘Hi,’ he said a little hoarsely.

‘What are you doing here?’

Jack cleared his throat. ‘I was passing. On my way home.’

‘Thank God for that.’

Her grin widened beguilingly and for a second his mind went blank. ‘What?’

She waved a hand vaguely. ‘Oh, nothing. I was hoping for a distraction, that’s all.’

‘From what?’

‘Ah, just a little problem I was grappling with. Most unsuccessfully. But it doesn’t matter any more. Come in.’

‘Thanks.’

She held the door wide open and stood back. ‘Go straight up and turn right.’

Jack brushed past her, followed her instructions and found himself in the sitting room, which was so warm and calm and relaxing that his exhaustion seeped right away.

Soft light from the lamps dotted around the room spilled over a pair of squishy-looking sofas and a battered leather armchair, all positioned round a low glass coffee table that was piled high with magazines, books and trinkets. A fire blazed in the fireplace, either side of which were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with books, files and photos.

As a strange sense of contentment settled over him, Jack took off his coat and dropped it on one of the sofas, then turned. Imogen stood in the doorway, watching him with an expression that flickered between pleasure and longing, and wariness and uncertainty.

‘You look wiped out,’ she said.

‘You look gorgeous.’

An eyebrow arched in disbelief as she glanced down at what she was wearing. ‘In this?’

‘In that.’ Whatever it was—and it could hardly be called glamorous—it hugged every beautiful curve of her body. ‘You look very strokeable.’

She smiled and his hands began to itch with the need to reach out and show her exactly what he meant. ‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she asked.

‘I’d better not. I’m driving.’

‘I see.’ Her smile faded and she seemed to deflate right in front of him. But suddenly she lifted her chin up and pulled her shoulders back. ‘You could stay,’ she said quickly, her cheeks going bright red. ‘For supper, I mean. And whatever …’

Supper and whatever sounded like heaven. ‘Thank you.’

‘Great.’ She gave him a wonky kind of half smile but she didn’t look away. Didn’t turn away, either. ‘I’ll just go and get that wine, then, and—ah—check on the chicken.’

Which was, presumably, her cue to leave. But to his fascination and to her obvious consternation she didn’t appear to be going anywhere. Her eyes didn’t leave his. And as she continued to hold his gaze Jack heard her breathing shallow and felt a reciprocal quickening of his pulse.

Wondering if it would be entirely inappropriate to stride over, haul her into his arms and drag her to the floor, he saw her blink. Then sweep the tip of her tongue over her lips before letting out a tinkling little laugh. ‘It’s not fancy or anything,’ she said, her words tripping over each other so fast it occurred to him that she was nervous. ‘Just a roast. I often do them on the Sundays I’m around. Chicken, this time, obviously, otherwise why would I have said I’d better check on the chicken? And some vegetables. Carrots and leeks, from what I can remember. Oh, and potatoes, of—’

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