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Rocking back on his heels, he swept a final glance around the tent and rubbed the back of his neck.
‘I guess you need to change, so I’ll leave you to it.’
Fresh air—that was what he needed. Fresh air and exercise. Perhaps if he walked a very, very long way he’d walk off the desire that urged him to turn round, rip open the door of the yurt and throw Imogen down onto the bed. Walk off the desire.
Master plan, McIntyre. But it was the only one he had …
It didn’t work worth a damn.
An hour later, as he approached the yurt, anticipation unfurled in his chest. And when he stepped into the pink canvas bubble he stopped in his tracks. Because Imogen looked so beautiful she robbed his lungs of air. Her dark hair rode her shoulders in sleek glossy waves; a floaty floral dress gave her beauty an ethereal edge.
She rose from the dressing table and faced him, her lips tilted in an almost shy smile as she spread out her arms and gave a twirl, the orange and red flowers of the dress vibrant as they swirled around her.
‘Do you think this is all right?’ she asked. ‘I chose it myself—no help from Mel, no ulterior motive. Just because I like it. But now I’m worried that it’s not glam enough.’
‘I don’t think that’s a problem,’ he managed. Though his blood pressure might be approaching the turreted roof.
‘You sure?’
‘One hundred per cent. You look beautiful. I promise.’
Silence enveloped them; awareness hummed in the air. Time to distract himself.
Keeping his movements casual, he headed for the sofa and picked up a leatherbound folder.
‘That must be the itinerary Luis mentioned,’ Imogen said, her voice slightly high as she sat down.
‘Yup.’ He stared down at the words and forced his brain to make sense of them. ‘So, as we know, after the ceremony there’s a Bond-themed party on a yacht. We’ll need to take a change of clothes with us. Then tomorrow there are various activities we can do. Leila and Howard will have left for their honeymoon, but they want all their guests to stay and have fun.’
‘Activities?’ Imogen looked up and there was genuine enthusiasm on her face as she no doubt worked out a way to avoid his company for the day. ‘That sounds like a great idea. What sort of activities?’
Joe scanned the list. ‘Sightseeing, beach yoga, surfing and …’
‘And what?’
‘There’s an art class run by Michael Mallory, who is a lecturer at on
e of London’s top art colleges. You should do that.’
Imogen narrowed her eyes. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘No. I’ve seen how talented you are—seems a shame for it to go to waste.’
‘That is not your decision to make.’
‘Agreed … But I just don’t get why you are being so damn stubborn about this.’
For a second unease pricked his conscience. Why did it matter so much to him? Hell, it was way better to have this conversation right now than dwell on all the other things they could do in the Yurt of Love.
‘Now is as good a time as any for you to tell me. No excuses—no need to nap.’
‘I did need a nap.’
‘Rubbish! No one sleeps with their body completely still and radiating tension. You were ducking out of a proper explanation of why you refused to go along with my report and help out on Richard’s apartment. And please spare me the I can’t do any art because I need to move crap.’
‘It’s the truth.’ One defiant swivel and she presented her back to him, leaning forward to pick up a lipstick and peer into the heart-shaped gilded mirror. ‘So I’ll give the lesson a miss.’
‘Shame.’ Joe leant against the cushioned back rest and picked up the folder again. ‘“Michael Mallory: esteemed lecturer and mentor to Justin Kinley, Myra Olsten and Becca Farringham, all of whom exploded on to the art scene after graduation. Michael has planned an intense day in which you will learn how to express your artistic instincts and find your own definite artistic voice. This kind of near one-on-one tuition is an incredible chance to learn from a master and—”‘
