Scandal In The Spotlight: The Couple Behind the Headlines / Redemption of a Hollywood Starlet / The Price of Fame

As she’d suspected there was a lot to go through, but after hours of poring over the links she’d discovered, among many other things, that, thirdly, their short-term goals might actually be compatible.

From what she’d gleaned Jack wasn’t big on relationships, and, given that she would hopefully be on her way to the States in the autumn, neither was she. But she would definitely be up for a string of dates or a brief fling or anything else he might be able to offer. It would be thrilling and exciting, and exactly what she needed before she embarked on the next stage of her life.

The only fly in the ointment was the fourth conclusion she’d come to. That wanting a fling with Jack was all very well, but as he’d shown no signs of intending to see her again, things didn’t look hugely promising on that front.

After they’d filled the couple of hours he had free yesterday most satisfactorily, Jack had dropped her home. He’d given her a searing kiss, rather perfunctorily muttered he’d be in touch, and then sped off.

Which did leave her in a bit of a quandary, because how could she engage in a fling with him if he didn’t in fact ever call?

Still pondering the problem that had been occupying her mind all day, Imogen climbed out of the bath, dried herself off, then pulled on her favourite leggings and top. She’d figure something out, she thought firmly, padding into the sitting room. She had a medley of eighties’ music blaring out of her iPod and a roaring fire in the grate. She had a chicken roasting in the oven and a glass of wine waiting for her on the coffee table, and a whole relaxing Sunday evening in which to come up with a way to firstly get in touch with him and secondly persuade him to agree to a fling.

With all that for inspiration, how could she fail?

What he was doing here, thought Jack, frowning up at the bank of windows that ran along the length of Imogen’s first floor and shoving his hands through his hair, he had no idea.

He hadn’t planned on dropping by. Quite apart from the fact that he’d decided it would be a good idea to leave it for a while before seeing her again and to give himself time to reestablish his equilibrium and fortify his self-control before she could destroy it totally, after the weekend he’d had he’d intended to drive straight home and crash into bed.

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—’

Taking a couple of quick long steps towards her, Jack wrapped one arm around her waist, buried the other in her hair and put a stop to the torrent of words with his mouth.

As he kissed her, hot and hard, he felt her melt against him, heard her moan, and the sound of it sent desire rocketing through him. She sighed against his lips, tilted her hips and pressed herself closer, and Jack thought he’d better stop before he lost all control.

Reluctantly lifting his head, he drew back and stared down at her. Her cheeks were pink, her eyes glazed and her lips red and swollen and she looked so desirable he told himself that, whatever the initial reason for it, his decision to detour via here was the best move he’d ever made.

‘Thank you,’ she breathed.

‘What for?’