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CHAPTER FOUR
NOW WHAT?
Soon enough she’d be able to boil a kettle on her cheeks—not that a kettle would be easy to come by in a sex shop.
This was the stuff of nightmares; they couldn’t just have found a street full of museums, could they? Or artists sketching people? Oh, no! Or this couldn’t have happened when she was with Mel. Or on her own. With anyone other than Joe McIntyre.
Her nerves jangled with irritation as he looked round with an interest he didn’t even bother to hide before turning his gaze back on her.
Damn the blush that still burnt her cheeks, and damn her prudish upbringing that had left her believing that sex was something dangerous.
Not that she blamed her mother; Eva Lorrimer had fallen prey to lust and then fallen pregnant—an event that had thoroughly derailed her life. She’d ended up married to a penniless artist she’d had nothing in common with—a man she’d considered beneath her socially and intellectually whom she had never forgiven. Any more than she’d forgiven herself.
Little wonder she’d drummed into Imogen the need never to let herself be dazzled by looks or taken in by ‘the physical side of things’. Her mother would have hustled her out with here, hands over her eyes. But Eva wasn’t here.
Plus it was ridiculous, really—this insane feeling of awkwardness. Looking round, it was more than clear to her that no one else was embarrassed. Couples strolled with their arms wrapped round each other’s waists, stopping to look into windows. A group of women whose pink bunny rabbit outfits indicated that they were without doubt on a hen party laughed raucously, the noise carrying on the afternoon air. Chic single women, debonair single men, groups of chatting tourists all smiled, sauntered on completely at ease. Whereas she stood here like some prim and proper maiden from Victorian times.
The amused look that Joe gave her didn’t help one bit, ruffling her self-annoyance into a desire to … to … to what? Kick him. Very mature, Imo.
‘I take it you didn’t plan on visiting this particular bit of the district.’
‘No.’
‘Come on, then. I think if we double back down that alleyway there we should hit a different type of shop and then it shouldn’t be difficult to find the Sacré Coeur.’
Imogen hauled in a breath and stiffened her spine. ‘Now that we’re here I think we should check one out.’
Joe’s brown eyes glittered with surprise and something else—perhaps a flash of discomfort. Ha! Maybe he wasn’t as man-of-the-world as he appeared to be.
‘You sure?’
Double ha! She was right. His body was ever so slightly rigid and his voice had a hint of clenched jaw and gritted teeth about it.
So now she knew that he was feeling awkward too, the sensible thing to do would be to get the hell off this street.
Sensible.
The word grated on her soul.
She was sick of being sensible. She had oh, so sensibly picked an oh, so sensible man—using her über-sensible tick list—and look where it had got her. Well, stuff it. Sensible Imogen could take a hike
. Not for ever, but just for a while. Temporary New Imogen was going to take over and things were going to be different.
The unfamiliar spark of rebellion took hold and took over her vocal cords.
‘Of course I’m sure. Why shouldn’t I be? There’s nothing wrong in having an interest. A healthy interest in … you know …’ Imogen closed her eyes in silent despair. Had she said that?
‘I do know,’ he said, and suddenly the atmosphere thickened. The buzz of French chatter, the sound of the church bells all dimmed. Everything faded and all Imogen was aware of was the look in Joe’s eyes as he stepped towards her. So close that she could smell that tantalising male aroma, the underlying sandalwood. So close that if she lifted a hand she would be able to place her fingers on the width of his chest and feel the beat of his heart.
Whoa!
They both stepped back at exactly the same second and Imogen gave a slightly shaky laugh, horribly aware that her legs were feeling more than a touch jellified.
Joe rubbed the back of his neck and his face was neutralised, all emotion cleared. ‘Lead the way,’ he said.
Joe knew this was a bad idea; he was having enough issues keeping his attraction for Imogen leashed. Entering through the portals of a sex shop with her probably wasn’t going to help—not so much because of the merchandise but more because he sensed that Imogen was bubbling with … something. She had been all day and certainly was now; there was undoubtedly an emotional maelstrom brewing and he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be caught up in its wake.
‘This one,’ Imogen said, pointing towards a large well-lit store that looked like an emporium or even a supermarket.
