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‘Yes, I understand.’
Her words pulled a nerve taut. Years ago, after his parents’ death, that had been his exact decision. With two grief-stricken sisters to look after and a company to try and sort out—responsibilities that had surpassed his own dreams—he’d drawn a line under his surfing career. He’d taken his board out one last time—and the memory of the cool breeze, the tang of salt, the roll of the waves was etched on his soul in its significance.
‘But I don’t agree.’
He rose to his feet and looked down at her. Lord knew he did know how she felt—maybe that was why he was reacting so strongly to Imogen’s decision. But he’d had no choice. His sisters were his priority—that was an absolute, and he had no regrets as to his decision. But this … this was different, and he wished—so wished—there was some way to show Imogen that.
‘Your talent—your art—is a fundamental part of you that you’re shutting down.’
‘Maybe. But by shutting it down I get to be the person I want to be.’ Her lips curved into a small smile. ‘It’s truly lovely of you to care, and I appreciate it, Joe, but I made this decision long ago—it’s the sensible option. And I’m all about the sensible.’
Turning, she picked up the abandoned mascara wand and leant forward to peer at her ref lection.
Only she wasn’t ‘all about the sensible’. He’d seen Imogen Lorrimer at her least sensible and she’d been vibrant and alive and happy.
It’s truly lovely of you to care.
Her words echoed round his brain and set off alarm bells. Caring was not on his agenda. Time to back off—Imogen’s life was hers. He’d had his say and now it was time to join the Sensible Club.
‘Have it your way,’ he said.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IMOGEN SWALLOWED PAST the gnarl of emotion in her throat; she didn’t even know Leila or Howard, and yet the sight of them repeating their vows had tears prickling the backs of her eyelids.
In a gown that clung
to her in diaphanous folds of ivory and lace Leila radiated bridal joy—her smile could probably illuminate the whole of the Algarve. But it wasn’t that which touched Imogen most—it was the way Howard looked at his bride. Such love, such adoration, such pride that it was little wonder Imogen’s chest ached.
Hollywood, eat your heart out. Imogen, get a grip.
Maybe she was overreacting like this because the setting was so damn movie-like: the golden sand, the lap of waves and the glow of the setting sun that streaked flames of orange across the dusky sky.
What she needed to remember was that this was a moment of time—not a happy-ever-after. Look at her parents: she had pored over their wedding photos as a child, in an attempt to work out how such rosy happiness could have evaporated into screaming and bitterness.
Her parents’ dreams had crumbled to dust, their radiance no more than sex and foolish hope. Proof-positive that a marriage based on lust did not work—a marriage between two incompatible people did not work. But a marriage based on a tick-list would. Imogen was sure of it.
There was a collective gasp as Howard lifted his wife’s veil and kissed her. As Leila slid one slender arm around his neck Imogen cast a surreptitious look at Joe. Did he mind? Was he revisiting the past, wondering what would have happened if Leila had agreed to marry him all those years ago?
Surely not. He didn’t look like a man harbouring thoughts of the past—if anything he looked faintly bored. Unless, of course, it was all a façade—Joe was hardly a man to wear his heart on the sleeve of his grey suit, and that was even assuming he had one.
‘You OK?’ she asked under cover of the applause that had broken out as Howard and Leila continued their lip-lock.
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘You loved her once—whatever your reasons, you wanted to commit a lifetime to her.’
Broad shoulders hitched. ‘I’m happy for her—happy that she is happy. That the damage I did has been mitigated. No more than that.’ He glanced around. ‘Come on. It’s the receiving line. So don’t forget to turn on the adoring look.’
‘I think you’ve forgotten something.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a two-way street. You have to look adoringly at me too.’
And she had to remember that this was fake. Needed to dismiss the wistfulness that wisped through her brain at the thought that Leila and Simone got the real McCoy version of the adoring look and she was stuck with the false one.
Joe raised his eyebrows, a small smile playing on his lips, and all thoughts of wistfulness blew away, to be replaced by far more dangerous memories of the havoc those lips could cause.
