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‘Joe.’
‘Sorry to interrupt.’
His voice was cool and formal—the tone one you’d use with someone you’d just met and were thoroughly indifferent about. Not someone you’d tangled the sheets with just hours previously.
‘That’s fine. It’s probably good—I’d lost track of time.’
Feeling at a sudden disadvantage, she scrambled to her feet, clutched the sketchbook to her chest. The dreaded leaden feeling returned with a vengeance at the look in his brown eyes—cold with a hint of wariness. She took in his clothes—despite the blaze of the midday sun he wore a crisp white shirt and a lightweight jacket over chinos.
‘Didn’t pack your Hawaiian shorts?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘So when are you hitting the waves?’
‘That’s what I came to tell you.’ His voice was even, his features unreadable except for the tension in his jaw. ‘I’ll have to take a rain check—I have to leave. Now. I’ve changed my flight but you should stay here—finish the class, soak up some rays.’
‘Why do you have to leave?’ Please tell me there’s an emergency. Nothing life-threatening but a genuine valid reason for you to go. ‘A work crisis? Do the twins need you?’
‘Is that what you want me to say?’
Hell, yeah. Right now Imogen wanted to dig a hole in the sun-scorched sand and bury her head deep, deep down. But she wouldn’t do that—that was what she’d done with Steve: refused to see the truth, painted an illusory fictitious relationship world.
‘I want you to say the truth.’
‘The truth is that after last night I think it’s best to cut this interlude short.’
Anger imploded in her: a molten core of volcanic rage. ‘Really? That’s what you think? Jeez, Joe. What happened to respect? To what you said last night about respecting me? Is this how you show it? Slinking off after sleeping with me? Wham-bam, thank you, ma’am?’
Joe flinched, his mouth set in a grim line.
‘That’s not how it was. It’s not how it is.’
‘Then tell me how it is.’
‘I don’t know, goddammit.’ He rammed his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. ‘I’m not sure what happens after a second one-night stand. It’s a situation I’ve managed to avoid for the past seven years.’
Freaking fabulous. What was she? The flu?
‘So this is your answer. Hell, Joe, I’m surprised you even bothered to come out here to tell me you were going. I’d have worked it out soon enough.’
‘I didn’t want to do that. I don’t want us to end badly.’
‘Then don’t go. Don’t run away.’
Joe’s guts twisted. Anger at himself pounded his temples. Imogen was hurt; he could see it in the way she hugged that sketchbook to her like some sort of magical shield.
Of course she’s hurting, dumb-arse. Your behaviour puts you up for the Schmuck of the Year award.
He should never have let this situation happen. Yet last night he hadn’t given Rule Two a thought. Not one. Everything had been obliterated by his need for Imogen—his need to possess her, hold her and savour every centimetre of her. To gaze at the stars and dream.
Madness.
Even looking at her now—so graceful, standing so tall, her eyes challenging—his hands were desperate to break free from his pockets and hold her. The simple sundress she wore exposed her sun-kissed shoulders and the curve of her toned bare arms. So beautiful his heart ached. The sooner he got on that plane the better. And it would be Rule Three all the way. ‘No Looking Back’.
‘I’m not running away. It’s more of a strategic retreat.’
Her lips didn’t so much as quiver, and he knew himself the words weren’t funny—even if there was an element of truth in them. He knew with a bone-deep certainty that he couldn’t spend another night with Imogen.
