The Duke Takes a Bride (Entitled Book 2) (6 page)

“Carter?”

“Yes, sir.”

Another voice. Goodness. How many bodyguards did this man have?

“Call the office and tell Miss Lamb to settle the account at once with Mr.−”

“Garcia,” the new manager supplied. “Joey Garcia.” Not Andy nor Manny.

“That’s settled then,” His Grace pronounced. Imogen felt him pivoting with a fluid motion to continue his deed of rescuing germ-ridden, unwashed, and broke damsels in distress.

“Hey, wait a minute−” Joey Garcia protested.

“For the love of God,” His Grace uttered, “this is getting to be so tedious! Carter,” he bit out, “deal with it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hey−” Joey Garcia’s protest was drowned out by the sound of a drill boring a hole in the pavement outside.

The air out of the building was pleasantly cool. Imogen felt the blast of sunshine on her face and scrunched her eyelids tighter. She could hear a car door being opened and then she was deposited inside plush, luxurious leather seats, Dora pajamas, lanky, greasy hair and all. This was the longest, most realistic dream ever.

“Are you cold?” His voice reminded her of rich, dark chocolate. The muted interiors walled off the everyday, pedestrian sounds outside.

She nodded, shivering from the blast of the air-conditioning unit and also his voice. She felt him moving beside her and then the touch of something soft that smelled like him descending all around her. Her eyes popped open in surprise. She saw he had laid his coat on top of her.

“Shall we wait for Hopkins, sir?” the driver asked respectfully.

“It might take him a while to gather Miss Adams-Chudley’s things.” He flicked his wrist and pushed a sleeve cuff up to glance at a thin silver wristwatch. “He can get in the other car. Let’s be off.”

“No, wait!”

A brow cocked questioningly at her outburst. Imogen almost forgot what she had been about to say, tempted to trace with her fingertip that bold slant of dulled gold raised intriguingly.
How did he do it
, she wondered, trying it herself. All she managed was a squint.

“Imogen?” he prompted when it seemed she had indeed forgotten her train of thought.

What had she been about to say? Something about her things, about waiting− “I can’t leave Clark in the apartment!” she gasped, finally remembering.

“Clark?” The name was uttered with confusion. “You were quite alone in the apartment. With your door
unlocked
.” This was said with heavy emphasis, though Imogen couldn’t really fathom why dream Julian was concerned about locked doors. Imaginary people should not be concerned about earth-bound matters, right?

“Is he a boyfriend?”

Why did he sound incredulous at the thought of her having a boyfriend? Did he think her so pathetic that after a single sexual encounter with him, she had spent all of their years apart still pining for him? That she was still hung up on him?

Yep. Pitiful. No need to let him know.

Imogen shook her head and started growing dizzy again. She stopped midway just as he was saying with some degree of consternation, “Does he know you’re sick? He’s not much of a boyfriend if he left you to manage on your own while you’re ill−”

“Clark is a goldfish!” And she hadn’t fed him since yesterday. And his water needed to be changed! And ouch, the pinch that she gave herself felt painfully real!

That seemed to stump him. “A goldfish?” He sounded like she had been keeping an alien life form in her apartment.

“The one that lives in a bowl?” she prompted agitatedly, hoping Clark was still alive. It was a gift from Stella’s, her flatmate’s, ex, and even though the relationship hadn’t lasted longer than the goldfish’s expected life span in a small bowl, Imogen had grown very fond of the little swimmer. And she didn’t want the little fellow expiring on her watch.

“Let me guess.” His light green eyes were mocking. “It’s colored gold?”

Why did people always assume a goldfish was gold? Well, come to think of it, she did too, before Clark. “No! Actually, he’s black.”

“A black goldfish?”

“Clark is black because,” she paused, then her eyes grew wide. “He is a
Black Moor
variety of goldfish. Black Moor and the Duke of Blackmoore. Isn’t it a cute coincidence?” she giggled inanely. The flu was making her loopy.

“Very cute, indeed,” he replied dryly, but she thought she detected a hint of amusement in the way his lip lifted at a corner.

“Wait ‘til you see him. You’re going to love him,” she grinned weakly. “Wait here. I won’t be gone but for a few minutes.” She grabbed the door handle woozily, more to steady herself rather than to open the car door, just as Julian put a hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice was ominous.

“I can’t leave Clark all alone in the apartment! No one is going to feed him.” Just thinking about walking up those flights of stairs already made her breathless in a way that had nothing to do with the man beside her.

“Don’t you have a flatmate who can take care of him while you’re gone?”

“Stella is on a location shoot. I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

“Is Hopkins back yet?” Julian addressed the driver.

“No, sir. There has been no activity in the other vehicle.”

Imogen saw him frown. And then she heard him sigh. A great, put-upon sigh. “I’ll get the little fellow. Just stay put and rest.”

She nodded and slumped back against the seat in relief. Clark would be in safe hands.

And in case this wasn’t a dream and she had really made a fool of herself in front of Julian, she could go kill herself later when she felt better. It took only a few seconds before she went out like a light.

“
S
he is a bit dehydrated
, but that is to be expected.” Dr. Lukas Martin, partner and head of the Life Sciences Division at Creatus Ventures, flopped on the grey sofa in the living room of Julian’s penthouse apartment. He had an electric blue stethoscope dangling from his neck and reached for the tumbler of whiskey on the glass coffee table before taking a sip. “Just give her plenty of fluids, acetaminophen, and rest. Not this kind of fluid, though,” he winked, holding the alcoholic drink up high. “Supportive treatment is all what is usually needed for young, healthy patients like her.”

“I really appreciate you making a house call, Lukas,” Julian lifted his gaze from the fishbowl on the coffee table and addressed the brilliant man several years his junior. “Especially since you aren’t practicing anymore.”

Lukas flashed a lopsided smile, his spectacles glinting from the late afternoon sun filtering through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows. He reached for a gadget on the coffee table, pushed a button, and watched the windows turn opaque. “Don’t worry about it, Jules. I’ll just bill you astronomically for my services,” he retorted jauntily. He peered into the fishbowl that had been preoccupying his business partner. “That’s one damned ugly goldfish you’ve got there, man.”

The fish wiggled slowly away from Lukas’ inspection, as if insulted.

“You know this is a goldfish?”

Lukas shrugged. “Not all goldfish are ‘gold.’” This was said with air finger quote action.

“I think I missed that particular National Geographic episode,” Julian said acerbically. Now that he had spent some considerable time getting to know Clark, he could make out the faint, white gold tones on his belly amidst all the black.

Julian had the unenviable task of holding the goldfish bowl all the way home to Blakely Towers. Hopkins had driven the other car and Carter had to be left behind to arrange the overdue rental for the apartment. His pants and silk tie had been splashed from the sloshing water inside the bowl. Normally, Jenkins’ Formula 1 style of driving didn’t bother him but today, it did. It didn’t help his balancing act that he had to have his other hand glued to his mobile, canceling and rearranging meetings. Beside him, oblivious to the inconvenience she and Clark were subjecting him to, Imogen slept fitfully. She kept mumbling what sounded like, “No hospitals.”

“Lukas, meet Clark, the goldfish of
Black Moor
,” Julian introduced, deadpan.

The significance was lost on Lukas. Really, geniuses had such trouble detecting droll, self-deprecating humor. Maybe Julian should have winked and nudged the young man.

“I never really took a liking to the Dragon Eye variety like this fellow here with the telescope eyes,” Lukas mused.

Julian glanced at Clark’s protruding bug eyes.

“No offense, man.” Lukas was staring into space, so he couldn’t be sure which of them he was addressing, the fish or Julian.

Julian decided he could speak for them both. “None taken,” he assured the young doctor.

“I’m more of a shubunkin type of man, myself,” Lukas muttered. “You have to see their metallic and transparent scales. Just beautiful.” His eyes glazed in rhapsody. “Had one myself when I was a kid until my sister’s cat ate it.” He blinked and was back to the real world. “Well, I’m off.” Lukas stood up, stretching his lean and gangly frame. “I’ll come around again and visit the patient. Just call me if you have any concerns.” He paused, as if debating his words. “I’m sorry to hear about your brother, but I’m happy to hear he’s recovering well.”

“The bastard is lucky he’s still alive,” Julian bit out tightly, then remembered himself. “Thanks for dropping by, mate. Appreciate it.”

“By the way,” Lukas said as Julian showed him to the door, “you have to get that goldfish a bigger tank. He won’t last long in that bowl.”

Julian nodded.

“Don’t forget the board meeting on Monday,” Lukas called over his shoulder, giving him a cocky salute before disappearing down the corridor, whistling.

All the partners of Creatus Ventures from the U.S., the U.K., and Hong Kong were going to be present. Thus his current visit to California.

After making sure that Gray was on the mend, Julian left London amidst his stepmother Olga’s accusations that he was an unfeeling son of a bitch like his deceased father, leaving his wounded baby brother behind. He didn’t bother to point out that Olga herself was in San Francisco while Gray was in the hospital.

Julian decided to take a shower, running the things he needed to do on his visit to California through his mind. He was in the middle of investigating a start-up company in Menlo Park that had developed software to help children with learning differences, and it appeared promising. He had set the meeting for tomorrow and was set to fly out, but it seemed he might have to reschedule, unless he could get Mrs. Nero, his transient housekeeper, to do some babysitting and nursing duties for him tomorrow. It was hell of an inconvenience, but Julian wasn’t the type to complain. If his money, status, or connections could not resolve an issue immediately, then it was no use bemoaning the fact. Sooner or later, the aforementioned addressed them anyway.

By the time he had finished with his shower, evening had descended on Los Angeles. He fixed himself a drink from his mini-bar, remembered the deadly effects of the combination of alcohol and jetlag, and chucked it. He decided to check on the third ingredient – Imogen.

Uncomfortable was an understatement about how Julian felt having her in his penthouse again. He had dreaded, and conflictingly anticipated, running into her again after that night two years ago. She had repeatedly turned down Maggie’s invitations to go out with them whenever he was in L.A. Maggie said it was because Imogen was busy. Julian didn’t press further, not wanting to arouse his sister’s suspicion about his interest in her friend. Maggie eventually left on another dig, this time lasting months, and Julian never had the chance to see Imogen again.

Which was as it should be.

He had no right wondering if their chemistry that night had been just a fluke. If it was all due to jetlag or alcohol…or it was really something else. Something he shied away from examining. It would’ve been pointless, after all. He had been engaged to another woman. And so he had locked away the memory of that night in a compartment. Convinced himself he had given it so much weight because of how ugly it turned out in the end. How unresolved.

But sometimes, a laugh, the color of a stranger’s hair, or the freckles in an unknown woman’s shoulder would remind him of Imogen. And of how good it felt to be with her, how good it was to be inside her.

Back off, Walkden.

Julian willed his unease about Imogen’s presence to go away. She was sick and she needed someone to look after her. Not lust after her.

He was crossing the living room when he gave a start at finding a shadowy figure seated on the sofa.

“Fuck!” He flicked on the light switch and he saw it was Imogen, scrunching her eyes close at the sudden illumination. The motion sensors should have detected her. Could they be faulty?

“I’m sorry,” she croaked, gingerly fluttering her eyelids open. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s quite alright,” Julian lied, trying to calm his racing heart. The jetlag must be making him jumpy, he reasoned.

He seated himself on a post-modern chair close to the corner of the sofa where she sat. He had sold all the previous furnishings in a fit of dissatisfaction with the all-white scheme. He had given the interior designer carte blanche and now regretted her taste in furniture. He would have to refurbish again and this chair had to go ASAP. The angle was uncomfortable, the fiberglass seat sans cushion was a pain on his ducal ass, and there was only one leg supporting his six-foot frame.

“You should be in bed resting.” Her face was pale and her big brown eyes red-rimmed. She didn’t look very much different from the little girl who had tried to be unobtrusive following him around Trennery Court. He recalled that she always carried a satchel, which contained a sketchbook.

“I wanted to check on Clark.” She appeared sheepish. He noticed she had changed out of her pajamas and into an old shirt and some kind of stretch pants. Her feet were bare and her toenails were painted some kind of sparkly pink.

“What’s with the name?”

She leaned down near the coffee table and peered inside the bowl, frowning. Julian studiously averted his eyes from her neckline.

“Stella named it. She says like his namesake Clark Kent, he’s in disguise. A lot of people don’t know he’s really a goldfish.”

“His secret is out then,” Julian said with a wry twist of his lips “at least with me.”

Imogen nodded gravely. “I trust you to guard his secret identity with your life.”

“I give you my word.” He discarded the flippancy. “Maggie was worried when she couldn’t reach you.”

Maggie lived for the summers when the Adams-Chudley family visited Trennery Court. She had idolized her godfather, Imogen’s dad, a history professor and had loved his wife, Sarah, like her own mother. Maggie had even once contemplated being adopted by the Adams-Chudley family. It broke her heart when the family moved to the States, and Julian knew one of the reasons Maggie decided to study in California was to be near Imogen and her family. Maggie and Imogen were like sisters.

“Thank you for bringing both of us here. It was very kind of you.” Her fingers were plucking nervously on the corded edging of the sofa. Julian spotted the heightened color on her cheeks. Was she remembering what had happened between them in this room years ago?

Or was she feverish again? Damn, he didn’t even have a thermometer in the penthouse. He leaned forward to touch her forehead with his hand, but the precarious post-modern chair pitched him forward. He swore and his arms shot out to brace himself from the fall. It succeeded in trapping Imogen beneath him, her head slumped back against the sofa as she instinctively tried to get out of his path.

She drew back her hands against her chest, as if careful not to touch any part of him. He had her head in between his arms, which were resting against the couch’s headrest. One of his knees was bent outside her thigh. He had no choice but to look down. Her scent wafted up to him, a hint of something flowery. She had apparently showered, noting the damp strands of her hair. Up close, her brown eyes were fringed with dark, sooty lashes behind her black-rimmed spectacles. They seemed to be growing darker, pulling him in. He wrenched his gaze away only to land on her lips, which were moist, pink, and full. Had she kissed any other man since that last time she had
tasted
him?

He had a sudden vision of those lips latched to his nipple, and his cock hardened. Julian shot out of the couch like a cannonball in reverse. He had to remember this was Imogen, his sister’s best friend, who was under his care. Under no circumstance was he going to repeat that crazy incident between them two years ago.

“That chair is a safety hazard,” he said irritably, turning around to glare at the offensive piece of furniture. “It has to go.”

He had never had any reason to sit there before. He never entertained in the penthouse, so he had no occasion to use the living room. Hell, he didn’t even know how to operate the modern, sleek-looking fireplace by the wall. He didn’t bring his staff from the U.K. with him when he traveled, preferring to travel light. As for his press secretary, he used temps from Creatus Ventures whenever he needed something done.

“You’re not a fan of form over function?”

“I would prefer both.” He walked to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, keeping his distance. With a flick of the control, the windows turned transparent, allowing him a view of the Hollywood Hills. “Are you hungry?” He should have thought of that earlier.

She shook her head. “Not really. I’d really just rather have something to drink.”

“You should eat something. I’ll call the restaurant downstairs. We can have food sent up.”

“Oh no. I don’t want to be too much of a bother.”

“You are not being a bother,” he said firmly. “Besides, I have to eat, too.”

She again looked embarrassed. “In that case, dinner would be lovely. Thank you.” Her English accent was still present, but not as defined.

“You haven’t turned vegan or pescetarian by any chance?”

Imogen shook her head and winced, clutching a hand to her temple. “I’ll eat anything. What I meant was, I’m not into any kind of food diet,” she amended quickly. “As long as the pieces are not very big and hard
−
”

Julian tried to keep a straight face while his mind went to the gutter.

“−and it can slide down my throat easily−”

He shifted to adjust his pants surreptitiously.

“−I’ll be able to manage it,” she finished brightly.

Julian made some excuse about calling the restaurant and dashed the hell out of the living room. He placed the order to distract himself from his body’s reaction to Imogen. That last time two years ago was just a fluke, brought on by too much champagne and jetlag.
Just a fluke,
he chanted silently like a mantra. She wasn’t even his physical type. She looked like a bedraggled little urchin with her too-big eyes and thin frame. She was ill and for God’s sake, she was Maggie’s best friend.
That didn’t stop you before,
his inner voice taunted.

He sighed. Maybe it was time to call Lydia again while he was in California. She wouldn’t make any demands and wouldn’t read more to it than just plain sex. With Imogen, he knew without a doubt it would be bloody complicated. He scowled and dismissed his inappropriate thoughts and blamed it on the upheaval his broken engagement engendered.

He remained in his study, refusing to feel guilty about leaving Imogen alone in the living room. He checked his e-mails until the doorbell rang. He went into the living room and found Imogen asleep on the couch. After tipping the waiter generously and asking him to set up the food on the six-seater dining table, he gently woke her up. She stirred and blinked owlishly.

“The food is ready,” he said.