Page 45 of The Couple Behind the Headlines

From where he could well yell a goodbye and go.

Letting out a deep sigh, she flopped back, nibbled on her lip and wished she had the guts to just come out and say it. Because frankly, why shouldn’t she? The worst he could do was say no, and what did she have to lose? A potential fling, and what was such a big deal about that anyway?

Oh, sod it, she thought, sitting up suddenly and leaping to her feet. Since when was she such a wimp? She’d go in there, tell him what she wanted and do her damnedest to ensure that he couldn’t say no.

Wrapping the duvet around her and holding her head high, Imogen wandered into the sitting room to see Jack rummaging around for his shoes.

‘I’d better make a move,’ he muttered.

‘Of course,’ she said, letting the duvet slip a little as he glanced up at her. ‘The markets won’t wait for you.’

Jack’s gaze dropped to her cleavage and he stopped what he was doing, the glint in his eye suddenly gleaming fiercely. ‘Which is unfortunate,’ he murmured, walking over to her, grasping the top of the duvet and pulling her towards him.

The searing kiss gave her the encouragement and lack of inhibition she needed. ‘So what would you say to doing this again some time?’ she murmured giddily when he finally lifted his head.

Jack grinned. ‘I’d say I’m free on Wednesday if you are.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

AND that was how it had been ever since.

Jack grated lime zest into a bowl and wondered if he ought to be worried. Not about the fact that he and Imogen arranged their dates from one to the next—that was the way he liked it, the way he’d always liked it. No. It was the fact that there had been so many of them that was so unsettling. Six weeks of them to be exact, which was five weeks more than usual, and he couldn’t see an end in sight. Strangely, he didn’t seem to want to.

As if all that wasn’t disconcerting enough, he thought, squeezing the lime juice and adding it to the bowl, here he was at home. In his kitchen, cooking. For her. And not for the first time.

He spooned a dollop of fromage frais into the lime, sprinkled a teaspoon of sugar on top and gave it a stir. In the six weeks of random dates, which, as they happened two or three times a week, hadn’t been quite as random as he’d have liked, he and Imogen had stayed in as much as they’d gone out. Sometimes she cooked for him, on other occasions he for her. They’d joked that her kitchen had never been so well used, and that his fridge, used to housing nothing but beer and milk, had never been so well stocked.

But actually it wasn’t much of a joking matter, was it? he reflected, filling a pan with water and sticking it on the hob. Because if he’d been on the outside looking in, he’d have described the whole thing as domesticated. Cosy. Something that looked suspiciously like the beginnings of an affair. Or even a relationship.

And that definitely was worrying.

As much as he might tell himself he didn’t do relationships, he had the unsettling feeling that he was getting used to Imogen. Getting used to having her around.

Jack poured himself a glass of wine, then walked into his study, sat in his chair and stared out at the darkening London skyline, his brow furrowed. What was it about her that he found so appealing? OK, so she was undeniably gorgeous and incredible in bed, but that combination—while rare—he’d come across before. So it had to be more than that.

Was it her wickedly dry wit? The way her eyes sparkled with passion and admiration when she talked about the work the trust did? Or the honesty with which she regarded her place within it?

Was it her ability to laugh at herself? The biting, self-deprecating humour she used to deflect the barbs of others? Or was it the warmth and affection with which she spoke of her family?

Jack frowned and pressed the rim of the glass to his chin. Whatever it was, it held him weirdly enthralled.

So far they’d lived entirely for the present. They never discussed the past or the future. They didn’t talk about hopes and dreams or anything remotely personal. As if by some kind of unspoken agreement they kept things light, their conversation sticking to how their days had been, when they were going to meet up next and what they were going to do when they did. Besides, they spent so much of their time together in bed, there hadn’t exactly been a lot of time for chatting.

Which had suited him perfectly initially.

But now …

Now he found himself wanting to know more. He wanted to know about her past. Her plans for the future. What her hopes and dreams were and what she wanted out of life. He wanted to find out what had happened with that stalker and then personally go and hunt him down and string him up. Swiftly followed by everyone who’d criticised and mocked her over the years.

Basically, he thought, he just wanted more of everything.

He stilled, and his fingers tightening around the bowl of the glass, his blood chilling because wanting more of everything hadn’t been in the plan. It had never been in the plan. It simply wasn’t an option, and to ensure it never happened Jack had taken the precaution of building up defences so high, so impenetrable that he’d been sure they were unbreachable.

But somehow Imogen, with her warm smile and disconcertingly penetrating gazes, had sneaked straight past them, he realised with a start. And as a result, after a lifetime of denial, she’d got him hoping for things he’d never dreamed he’d be able to have.

On the increasingly frequent occasions he thought of Luke and Emily and their little family unit, he now found himself responding, not with heartfelt relief that it would never happen to him, but with an extremely unfamiliar and deeply unsettling pang of envy.

He kept thinking about that exhausting but entertaining weekend with Daisy and wondering ‘what if?’. Which invariably led him to go over the conversation he and Imogen had had about his upbringing.

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