Free The Couple Behind the Headlines by Lucy King Page B

‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends, darling?’
Imogen blinked. ‘What? Oh. Yes. Of course. Jack, this is Max Llewellyn.’ Her smile faltered and it made Jack wonder if friends was quite the word. ‘And Connie Nicholson.’
‘Jack Taylor,’ he said, nodding briefly and shaking their hands in turn.
Something about Max made his hackles shoot up. Made him take an instant dislike to the man even though he couldn’t for the life of him work out why. Maybe it was the fact that he was altogether too smooth. His teeth were too white, his hair too perfectly coiffured, his nails too manicured.
‘Max and Connie are engaged,’ Imogen said with a tightness that confirmed his earlier suspicion that whatever the three of them were they weren’t friends.
‘Congratulations,’ said Jack.
‘Thanks,’ said Connie, her wide smile fading as she shot a quick glance at Imogen, whose own smile was now so brittle it looked as if it might be about to shatter.
An awkward kind of lull fell, during which no one apart from Jack looked at anyone else. As long seconds passed, the strained silence worsened and he sensed Imogen’s anxiety grow.
Deciding that, as fascinating as the dynamics of this group were, someone needed to do something to ease the situation, Jack was just about to lob in a polite but inane comment about the weather when Imogen pulled herself together and did the job for him.
‘Well, isn’t this nice?’ she said brightly.
‘Delightful,’ Jack murmured, thinking nice was not the word.
‘I must say,’ said Connie enthusiastically, clearly overcompensating for the palpable tension vibrating around their little group, ‘your events department has done an excellent job.’
He followed her gaze as it skipped around the tastefully lavish Valentine’s Day decorations that adorned both the lobby and, from what he could see through the giant half-open doors, the ballroom.
‘And so it should have with tickets costing four figures each.’ Imogen let out a laugh that sounded high and false, and, to his ears, verged on hysterical. ‘You see the rose petals?’ she said, waving a hand in the direction of the petal-strewn floor. ‘Damask. Flown in from Morocco, would you believe? All two hundred thousand of them. And the candles? Bought from the same people that supply Westminster Abbey. And let’s not forget the casino. I understand the croupiers have been specially brought in from Monte Carlo. You must try it later. There’s roulette, not of the Russian kind, luckily, ha-ha-ha.’
‘Are you a gambling man?’ Jack said, cutting into Imogen’s rapidly spiralling-out-of-control rambling, not because he wasthe slightest bit interested in Max’s gambling habits, but because he thought she might thank him later.
‘No.’ Max laughed and Jack inwardly winced. The man sounded like a horse neighing. ‘Far too risky. Modern art’s more my thing.’
Idiot. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. In fact, I recently picked something new up.’ He waited, evidently expecting to be asked all about it, and when no one did, went on, ‘Well, when I say I , I mean I instructed my man to buy it on my behalf, of course, haw-haw-haw. Very exclusive. Very exciting.’
‘I’m sure,’ Jack muttered, fervently hoping that whatever Imogen’s relationship was with this pompous prat, it wasn’t close.
‘Cost me a bomb, naturally, but I always think you can never put a price on truly great art, don’t you?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Connie, loyally picking up the conversational thread. ‘Apparently, it’s supposed to represent man’s fight against the injustice of capitalism, but personally I can’t see it. I just like the colours.’
Jack stilled as a horrible thought darted across his mind. No. It couldn’t be …
But with the way Imogen was tensing at his side, apparently it just possibly could. He glanced down at her to find out if she’d come to the same conclusion he had and at the same time