“Yes. For a smart guy, you’re really slow on the uptake.”
He grimaced at her observation; it had merit, in that moment. “Come with me.” He muttered, slamming a fifty-pound note on the bar and placing his hand around her elbow.
But Imogen didn’t move. “Come with you where?”
“We need to speak,” he muttered, his eyes scanning hers. “We have to talk about the baby, and your pregnancy and…”
“No,” she shook her head, and now he saw that what he’d taken to be nervousness was, more likely, fierce determination. “We don’t have to ‘talk’. I’m not here because I want anything from you.” She crossed her arms over her chest and his gaze was involuntarily drawn downwards, to the swell of cleavage he could glimpse above her collar, and the waist that was still neat and flat. “I’m sure that’s going to be your next insulting offer, but please, don’t suggest paying me money or anything as offensive as that. This is my baby, but I thought you should at least know. It doesn’t feel right that you could have a child wandering around and not at least be aware of it.”
“Wait a second.” He lifted his hand appeasingly, his expression inscrutable. “That’s hardly fair. You’ve blindsided me with this and now you want to just walk out of here?”
“Sound familiar?” She batted her long, curling lashes at him, a look of defiance spreading over her face.
“Hell,” he shook his head. “We slept together and I didn’t instantly remember you. So sue me. Let’s move past that. We have to talk.”
“What about?” She demanded, sipping her drink for something to do.
His eyes followed the movement, the delicate throat that knotted as she swallowed. Ghosts of that night floated out of his memory, haunting him, reminding him of fragments of the time they’d shared. But they were just tiny slithers, nothing substantial he could grab hold of.
“This. You. Everything.” He thrust a hand in his pocket, leaning his body slightly closer. “There’s a place around the corner. It’s quiet. We can speak privately. Will you have dinner with me? Let me get to grips with that before you disappear into thin air?”
“I have no intention of disappearing into thin air,” she promised him, her expression unknowingly haughty. “If I wanted to run away from you, and my responsibilities to this baby, then I wouldn’t be here right now.”
“Right,” he nodded, appreciating her honesty. “I’m glad you are. But I can hardly hear myself think in here.”
“Yeah, interesting choice of place to unwind,” she drawled, thinking longingly of the cozy lounge area of The Dragon’s Belly with its leather armchairs and low tables perfect for an afternoon of board games.
“It’s convenient,” he said. “Come on.” His hand in the small of her back was practical, but that knowledge didn’t stop the darts of awareness from pounding through her, zipping through her veins, firing her pulse and drying her mouth.
She shook free of him, indignant at the way he could so easily make her body respond. Then again, it had been like that from the moment he’d walked up to the bar, all disheveled gorgeousness with those low-slung jeans, navy blue sweater and air of dis
pleasure. Two drinks later and he’d moved beyond his bad mood and had devoted his attention to charming the pants off Imogen – literally, as had been the case.
And it hadn’t been difficult.
She’d been his, for a smile.
And maybe four hours?
It was a warm night, but she shivered as they stepped out of the bar. “Here.” He shrugged out of his coat but she shook her head.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re cold,” he drew his attention to her arms; they were covered in a fine sprinkle of goose bumps. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t appreciate it if he pointed out that her nipples were straining against the flimsy fabric of her shirt.
“I’ll live.”
He didn’t argue with her. He was hardly in any place to dictate anything to her. “This way.” He nodded down the street and began to move in the direction of the Italian restaurant he ate at more nights than not. She fell into step beside him and he tried to ignore the sweetness of her fragrance. Vanilla? Orange blossom? Something sweet yet understated, just like her.
Gianni was at the door of the restaurant, his portly form pinned by a bright green apron that showed the generous bulge of his stomach. “Ah, ciao, Theo!” The older man grinned, extending a hand to shake before turning to Imogen. “And con a bella donna, eh?”
“Si, si,” Theo nodded, for once, not in the mood to chat with the restaurateur. “We need a private table.”
“Ahhh,” Gianni’s eyes twinkled with mischief and misplaced ideas of seduction as he pushed the door inwards, holding it open and allowing them to pass. “Is perfect, no?” He nodded to the table by the window. While it was separated from other tables, it was hardly discreet.
“No,” Theo shook his head. “That one.”
He pointed to the booth at the back. There was a wall on one side and a fish tank on the other, bubbling with crustacean that had the misfortune of being bound for someone’s plate.