Книга - Breaking the Boss’s Rules

Breaking the Boss’s Rules
Nina Milne


Rule #1 – Never mix business with pleasureImogen Lorrimer’s temporary new boss, Joe McIntyre, is known for his dating rules. She knows he’s completely wrong for her, so why does he insist on appearing in her dreams… naked?As they jet off to a business trip in Paris and a wedding on the sun-drenched shores of the Algarve, maybe it’s time to see if Imo can tempt him to break those infamous rules?












Perhaps he should end this interview here and now.


He’d opened his mouth to do just that when she opened her eyes, gave a little wriggle in the chair, and—wham!

An image zig-zagged across his brain—a picture of Imogen Lorrimer, standing up to wriggle her way right out of that navy skirt, shrug off the jacket and slowly unbutton the pearl buttons of her white shirt. Before shaking that dark hair free so it tumbled to her shoulders, then sitting back down on that damn red chair and crossing her legs.

A hoarse noise rasped from his throat. What the hell …? Why? Where on earth had that come from?

It was time to get a grip on this interview—and the conversation. A sigh escaped her and for a second his gaze focused on her lips. Hell, this was not good. ‘Never Mix Business and Pleasure’ was a non-negotiable rule.




Dear Reader (#ulink_6448862a-11ae-594e-960c-32c9cb929536)


I so enjoyed writing this book—hey, Montmartre, Paris, and a yurt in the Algarve … what’s not to enjoy?

But most of all I loved writing about Imo and Joe—they became totally real to me even while they drove me nuts as they fought the idea of love all the way.

Imo wanted to play it safe and Joe wanted to play by the rules. So when the sparks began to fly in the bedroom and out they—and I—were thrown in at the deep end.

I hope you enjoy seeing what they did about it!

Nina xx


NINA MILNE has always dreamt of writing for Mills & Boon


—ever since as a child she discovered stacks of Mills & Boon


books ‘hidden’ in the airing cupboard. She graduated from playing libraries to reading the books, and has now realised her dream of writing them.

Along the way she found a happy-ever-after of her own, accumulating a superhero of a husband, three gorgeous children, a cat with character and a real library … well, lots of bookshelves.

Before achieving her dream of working from home creating happy-ever-afters whilst studiously avoiding any form of actual housework, Nina put in time as both an accountant and a recruitment consultant. She figures the lack of romance in her previous jobs is now balancing out.

After a childhood spent in Peterlee (UK), Rye (USA), Winchester (UK) and Paris (France), Nina now lives in Brighton (UK), and has vowed never to move again!! Unless, of course, she runs out of bookshelves. Though there is always the airing cupboard.






Breaking

the Boss’s Rules

Nina Milne







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my parents, for believing in me.




Table of Contents


Cover (#ub791a60d-1fa8-53af-80ef-bc1383d8824d)

Excerpt (#uccf9de12-2c49-57c8-97dc-468b5d6abfe3)

Dear Reader (#ulink_be31ef15-6997-5535-99b6-467578ea53ec)

About the Author (#uab3a58ed-4a8b-5021-a0af-af21fe54b2f4)

Title Page (#u5f758a6f-ea70-536d-a743-1d631ab52944)

Dedication (#u40b0b239-63ac-5953-8fd8-6e2c4a5f941f)

PROLOGUE (#ulink_615bb73d-c23b-533e-ab19-84b8996e6bd6)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a192a82a-01cb-5381-a230-9fb9622a815b)

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_7e6d3224-bc53-53e0-8c14-085120f0fff4)

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_d94f107d-6d0d-5470-bb73-b389c74f8a89)

CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)




PROLOGUE (#ulink_222ef483-fc64-5749-9565-55c038188145)


Dear Diary

My name is Imogen Lorrimer and my life is in a less than stellar place right now.

For a start there is every possibility that my temporary new boss is about to fire me. His name is Joe McIntyre and, just to really mess with my head, he has taken to appearing in my dreams.

Naked.

Last night was particularly erotic. I won’t go into detail, but we were in his office and let’s just say various positions were involved … as were varying bits of office furniture … glass-topped desk, red swivel chair…

Obviously I know this is thoroughly unprofessional and utterly inappropriate.

In my defence he is gorgeous.

Think sexy rumpled hair—dark brown, a tiny bit long, with a few bits that stick up. Think chocolate—the expensive kind—brown eyes. Think a strong but not too dominant nose. A long face, with a sculpted jaw and clearly defined chin. Oh, and a body to die for—Joe McIntyre is a long, lean fighting machine.

Problem is, however much I appreciate the man in my dreams, the real live clothed version of Joe McIntyre is a ruthless corporate killing machine. He is a troubleshooter who has been called in to overhaul Langley Interior Design and we are all in danger of losing our jobs.

In fact there is every chance he will fire me on the spot tomorrow—especially given my recent screw-up.

I cannot let that happen. I cannot afford to lose my job. Not on top of everything else.

To be specific I am:

Homeless—my scumbag boyfriend, Steve, of three years has just dumped me for his ex—Simone—and thrown me out of the flat we shared. So I am currently living with my BFF—and, whilst I love Mel like the sister I never had, I can only sleep on her pull-out bed for so long. I think I’m cramping her style.

Heartbroken—Steve ticked all the boxes on my ‘What I am looking for in a Man’ list. I thought he was The One.

Broke—I blew my savings on a romantic holiday for Steve and me. And, unbelievable though this may sound, he is now taking Simone. How humiliating is that?

It’s no wonder that I am fantasising in my dreams. My real life sucks.

Time for some ice cream, methinks!

Imogen x




CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_e444b536-641a-5e98-997d-77ecc9ec0511)


JOE MCINTYRE LEANT back in the state-of-the-art office chair and picked up the CV from the glass-topped desk.

Imogen Lorrimer. Peter Langley’s PA for the past five years.

She of the raven-black hair and wide grey-blue eyes.

Faint irritation twanged Joe’s nerves; her looks were irrelevant. ‘No Mixing Business and Pleasure’. That was an absolute rule. Along with ‘One Night Only’ and ‘Never Look Back’. From The Joe McIntyre Book of Relationships. Short, sweet and easy to use.

Joe gusted out a sigh as his eyes zoned back to his emails. Leila again. Shame the manual didn’t tell him how to deal with a blast-from-the-past ex-girlfriend from a time he’d rather forget. But this was not the time to open that can of worms—his guilt was still bad enough that he had agreed to attend her wedding, but there was no need to think further about it. Right now he needed to think about this interview.

Imogen Lorrimer had snagged the edge of his vision the moment she’d entered the boardroom two days before, when he’d called an initial meeting of all Langley staff. He’d nodded impatiently at her to be seated and been further arrested by the tint of her eye colour as she’d perched on her chair and aimed a fleeting glance at him from under the straight line of her black fringe. For a fraction of a second he’d faltered in his speech, stopped in his tracks by eyes of a shade that was neither blue nor grey but somewhere in between.

Since then he’d stared at her more than once as she scuttled past him in the corridor, dark head down, clearly reluctant to initiate visual contact.

But he was used to people being nervous around him. After all he was a troubleshooter; people knew he had the power to fire them. A power he used where necessary—had in fact already used that morning. So if firing Imogen Lorrimer would benefit Langley Interior Designs he wouldn’t hesitate. However attractive he found her.

As if on cue there was a knock at the open office door and Joe looked up.

Further annoyance nipped his chest at the realisation that he had braced himself as if for impact. Imogen Lorrimer was nothing more than an employee he needed to evaluate. There was no need for this disconcerting awareness of her.

For a second she hesitated in the doorway, and despite himself his pulse-rate kicked up a notch.

Ridiculous. In her severely cut navy suit, with her dark hair pulled back into a sleek bun, she looked the epitome of professionalism. The least he could do was pretend to be the same. Which meant he had to stop checking her out.

‘Come in.’ He rose to his feet and she walked stiffly across the floor, exuding nervous tension.

‘Mr McIntyre,’ she said, her voice high and breathy.

‘Joe’s fine.’ Sitting down, he nodded at the chair opposite him. ‘Have a seat.’

Surely a simple enough instruction. But apparently not. Astonishment rose his brows as Imogen twitched, stared at the red swivel chair for a few seconds, glanced at him, and then back at the chair. Her strangled gargle turned into an unconvincing cough.

Joe rubbed the back of his neck and studied the apparently hypnotic object. As might be expected in an interior designer’s office, it was impressive. Red leather, stylish design, functional, comfortable, eye-catching.

But still just a chair.

Yet Imogen continued to regard it, her cheeks now the same shade as the leather.

Impatience caused him to drum his fingers on the desk and the sound seemed to rally her. Swivelling on her sensible navy blue pumps, she stared down at the glass desk-top, closed her eyes as though in pain, and then hauled in an audible breath.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked. ‘Something wrong with the chair?’

‘Of course not. I’m sorry,’ she said as she lowered herself downwards onto the edge of the chair and clasped her hands onto her lap.

‘If it’s not the chair then it must be me,’ he said. ‘I get that you may be a bit nervous. But don’t worry. I don’t bite.’

Stricken blue eyes met his as she gripped the arms of the chair as though it were a rollercoaster. ‘Good to know,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Um … I’m not usually this nervous. It’s just … obviously … well …’ Pressing her glossy lips together tightly, she closed her eyes.

Exasperation surged through him. This was the woman Peter Langley had described as ‘a mainstay of the company’. It was no bloody wonder Langley was in trouble. Perhaps he should end this interview here and now.

He’d opened his mouth to do just that when she opened her eyes, gave a little wriggle in the chair, and—wham!

An image zigzagged across his brain—a picture of Imogen Lorrimer, standing up to wriggle her way right out of that navy skirt, shrug off the jacket and slowly unbutton the pearl buttons of her white shirt. Before shaking that dark hair free so it tumbled to her shoulders, then sitting back down on that damn red chair and crossing her legs.

A hoarse noise rasped from his throat. What the hell …? Why? Where on earth had that come from?

It was time to get a grip of this interview—and the conversation. A sigh escaped her and for a second his gaze focused on her lips. Hell, this was not good. ‘Never Mix Business and Pleasure’ was a non-negotiable rule. His work ethic was sacrosanct—the thought of jeopardising his reputation and ruining his business the way his father had done was enough to bring him out in hives.

So this awareness had to be nixed—no matter how inexplicably tempting Imogen Lorrimer was. His libido needed an ice bath or a night of fun. Preferably the latter—a nice, relaxed, laid-back evening with a woman unconnected to any client. Someone who could provide a no-strings-attached night of pleasure.

In the meantime he needed to concentrate on the matter in hand.

What had Imogen said last? Before she’d frozen into perpetual silence.

‘It’s just … obviously … what?’ he growled.

Imogen caught her bottom lip in her teeth and bit down hard; with any luck the pain would recall her common sense. If it were logistically possible to boot herself around the room she would, and her fingers tingled with the urge to slap herself upside the head.

Enough.

She had had enough of herself.

It was imperative that she keep her job. For herself, but also because if she were here she could do everything in her power to make sure this man didn’t shut Langley down.

Peter and Harry Langley had been more than good to her—the least she could do was try to ensure this corporate killing machine didn’t chew up their company and spit it out.

Instead of sitting here squirming in embarrassed silence over last night’s encounter with a fantasy Joe McIntyre.

Time to channel New Imogen, who fantasised over gazillions of hot men and didn’t bat an eyelid.

She moistened her lips and attempted a smile.

Brown eyes locked with hers and for a heartbeat something flickered in their depths. A spark, an awareness—a look that made her skin sizzle. The sort of look that Dream Joe excelled in.

Then it was gone. Doused almost instantly and replaced by definitive annoyance, amplified by a scowl that etched his forehead with the sort of formidable frown that Real Joe no doubt held a first-class degree in.

Straightening her shoulders, she forced herself to meet his exasperated gaze. ‘I apologise, Joe. The past few weeks have been difficult and the result was an attack of nerves. I’m fine now, and I’d appreciate it if we could start again.’

‘Let’s do that.’ His words were emphatic as he gestured to her CV. ‘You’ve been Peter’s PA for five years—ever since you came out of college. He speaks very highly of you, so why so nervous?’

OK. Here goes.

There was no hiding the fact that she’d screwed up and, given that Joe had been on the premises for two days, there was little doubt he already knew about it. So it was bite the proverbial bullet time.

‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the Anderson project?’

‘Yes, I have.’

Stick to the facts, Imogen.

‘Then you know I made a pretty monumental mistake.’ Her stomach clenched as she relived the sheer horror. ‘I ordered the wrong fabric. Yards and yards of it. I didn’t realise I’d done that. The team went ahead and used it and the client ended up with truly hideous mustard-coloured curtains and coverings throughout his mansion instead of the royal gold theme we had promised him.’

A shudder racked her body as she adhered her feet in the thick carpet to prevent herself from swivelling in a twist of sheer discomfort on the chair. ‘Mistake’ was not supposed to be in the Imogen Lorrimer dictionary. To err was inexcusable; her mother had drummed that into her over and over.

‘It was awful. Even worse than …’ She pressed her lips together.

His eyes flickered to rest on her mouth and a spark ignited in the pit of her tummy.

‘Even worse than what?’ he demanded.

Nice one, Imogen. Now no doubt Joe was imagining a string of ditzy disasters in her wake.

Tendrils of hair wisped around her face as she shook her head, sacrificing the perfection of her bun for the sake of vehemence. ‘It doesn’t matter. Honestly. It’s nothing to do with work. Just a childhood memory.’

Joe raised his dark eyebrows, positively radiating scepticism. ‘You’re telling me that you have a childhood disaster that competes with a professional debacle like that?’

He didn’t believe her.

‘Yes,’ she said biting back her groan at the realisation she would have to tell him. She couldn’t risk him assuming she was a total mess-up. ‘I was ten and I came home with the worst possible report you could imagine.’

Imogen could still feel the smooth edges of the booklet in her hand; her tummy rolled in remembered fear and sadness. Keep it light, Imogen.

‘Having lied through my teeth all term that I’d been doing brilliantly, I’d pretty much convinced myself I was a genius—so I was almost as upset to discover I wasn’t as my mum was.’

The look of raw disappointment on Eva Lorrimer’s face was one that she would never forget, never get used to, no matter how many times she saw it.

‘Anyway …’ Imogen brushed the side of her temple in an attempt to sweep away the memory. ‘I had the exact same hollow, sinking, leaden feeling when I saw the mustard debacle.’

Joe’s brown eyes rested on her face with an indecipherable expression; he was probably thinking she was some sort of fruit loop.

‘But the point about the Andersen project is that it was a one-off. I have never made a mistake like that before and I can assure you that I never will again.’

Whilst she had no intention of excusing herself, seeing as the word ‘excuse’ also failed to feature in her vocabulary, she had messed up the day after Steve had literally thrown her onto the street so his ex-girlfriend could move back in. She’d reeled into work, still swaying in disbelief and humiliation. Not that she had any intention of sharing that with Joe; she doubted it would make any difference if she did. She suspected Joe didn’t hold much truck with personal issues affecting work.

Panic churned in her stomach. The Langleys wouldn’t want Joe to fire her. But Peter was in the midst of a breakdown and Harry was stable but still in Intensive Care after his heart attack; neither of them was in a position to worry about her.

Leaning forward, she gripped the edge of the desk. ‘I’m good at my job,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’ll do anything I can to help keep this company going until Peter and Harry are back.’

Including fighting this man every step of the way if he tried to tear apart what the Langley brothers had built up.

For a second his gaze dropped, and his frown deepened before he gave a curt nod.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s move on. According to Peter this is a list of current projects and obligations.’ He pushed a piece of typewritten paper across the desk. ‘He doesn’t seem very sure it’s complete and he referred me to you.’

Imogen looked down at the list and tried to focus on the words and not on Joe’s hand. On his strong, capable fingers, the light smattering of hair, the sturdy wrists that for some reason she wanted so desperately to touch. Those hands that in her dreams had wrought such incredible magic.

Grinding her molars, she tugged the paper towards her. ‘I’ll check this against my organiser.’ She bent at the waist to pick up her briefcase. And frowned. Had that strange choking noise been Joe? As she sat up she glanced at him and clocked a slash of colour on his cheekbones.

Focus.

Imogen looked at the paper and then back at her organiser. ‘The only thing not on here is the annual Interior Design awards ceremony. It’s being held this Wednesday. Peter and Graham Forrester were meant to attend.’ She frowned. ‘Could be Peter forgot. Or he’s changed his mind because the client can’t make it. Or he’s too embarrassed to face everyone.’

Joe’s forehead had creased in a frown and his fingers beat a tattoo on the desk—and there she was, staring at those fingers again.

‘Tell me more about it.’

‘It’s a pretty prestigious event. We won in the luxury category for the interior of an apartment we did for Richard Harvey the IT billionaire. He commissioned us to create a love nest for his seventh wife.’

Joe’s brows hiked towards his hairline as he whistled. ‘Seven? The man must be a glutton for punishment.’

‘He’s a romantic,’ Imogen said. ‘You’ve got to admire that kind of persistence.’

‘No.’

‘No, what?’

‘No, I don’t have to admire it. It’s delusional. Sometimes dreams have to be abandoned because they aren’t possible.’

Easy for him to say—it was impossible to imagine a lean, mean corporate machine having any dreams.

‘Some dreams,’ she agreed. ‘But not all. I truly believe that if you persevere and try and you’re willing to compromise there is a person out there for everyone.’

After all, she had no intention of giving up finding a man to match her tick list just because she and Steve had gone pear-shaped.

‘Richard has just had to try harder than most. And,’ she added, seeing the derisory quirk to his lips, ‘he and Crystal are very happy—in fact they are in Paris, celebrating their meetiversary.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘The day they met a year ago. Richard has whisked her off to Paris for a romantic getaway. That’s why they can’t attend the awards. I hope Richard and Crystal get to celebrate decades of meetiversaries.’

‘Good for you. I hope to show Richard that we value the award we won for decorating his apartment. So, tell me more about the project. Who worked on it?’

‘Peter, Graham and me. Peter often lets me get involved with the design side of things as well as the admin stuff.’

Joe’s brown eyes assessed her expression and his fingers continued to drum on the desk-top. ‘How involved were you on the project?

‘I designed both bathrooms.’

‘Could you show me?’

‘Sure.’

Trepidation twisted her nerves even as she tried to sound calm. Maybe Joe would use this to make his final decision on her job. Or was it something else? There was something unnerving about his gaze; she could almost hear the whir and tick of his brain.

‘I’ll get the folder.’

Once she’d pulled the relevant portfolio from the filing cabinet at the back of the room she walked back to the desk.

Placing the folder carefully on the glass top, she leaned over to tug the elastic at the corner. Whoosh—an unwary breath and she had inhaled a lungful of Joe: sandalwood, and something that made her want to nuzzle into his neck.

No can do. Newsflash, Imogen: this is not a dream—it’s for real.

She needed to breathe shallowly and focus—not on the way an errant curl of brown hair had squiggled onto the nape of his neck but on demonstrating her design talent.

‘The spec was to create something unique to make Crystal feel special.’

‘Tough gig.’

‘I enjoyed it.’

Back then she’d been living in Cloud Cuckoo Land, absolutely sure that Steve was about to propose to her, and throwing herself into the spirit of the project had been easy. She had enjoyed liaising with Richard over the plan and ideas—loved the fact that the flat was to be a wedding surprise for his wife.

‘These are the bathrooms.’

She pointed to the sketches and watched as he flipped through the pages.

‘These are good,’ he said.

His words vibrated with sincerity and she felt her lips curve up in a smile, his approval warming her chest.

‘Thank you. The hammock bath is fab—big enough for two and perfect for the wet room.’

Imogen and Joe, lying naked in the bath … Just keep talking.

‘I went for something more opulent for the second bathroom. All fluted pillars and marble. With a wooden hot tub, complete with a table in the middle for champagne.’

Her breath caught in her throat. Imogen and Joe, playing naked footsie … Move on, move on.

‘And this was my pièce de résistance. I managed to source sheets threaded with twenty-two-carat gold for the bedroom.’

Oh, hell. Time to stop talking.

Closing the folder, she moved around the desk, willing her feet not to scurry back to the dratted chair.

‘Anyway, Graham can take you through the rest of the project.’

‘Not possible.’

‘Why not?’ Imogen studied Joe’s bland expression and the penny clanged from on high. ‘Have you sacked Graham?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Graham no longer works for Langley.’

‘But … you can’t do that.’ Outrage smacked her mouth open and self-disgust ran her veins. How could she possibly fantasise over a man who could be so callous?

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I think you’ll find I can.’

‘Graham Forrester is one of the best interior designers in London. He’s Peter’s protégé. Why would you get rid of him?’

‘That is not your concern.’

Her hands clenched into fists of self-annoyance. She’d let herself relax, been pleased that he had approved of her work. Taken her eye off the fact that he had the power to take Langley apart.

‘Graham is my friend and my colleague. I went to his wedding last month. He needs this job. So of course it’s my concern. And it’s not only me who will say that. Everyone will be concerned. We’re like a family here.’

‘And that’s a good thing, is it?’ His tone was dry, yet the words held amusement.

Anger burned behind her ribs. ‘Yes, it is.’ A wave of her hand in the air emphasised her point. ‘We’re the interior design version of The Waltons. And sacking Graham is the equivalent of killing off John-Boy.’

His lips quirked upwards for a second and frustration stoked the flames of her ire. He could at least take her seriously.

‘You have to reconsider.’

The smirk vanished as his lips thinned into a line. ‘Not happening, Imogen.’

‘Then I’ll …’

‘Then you’ll what?’ he asked. ‘I think you may need to consider whether your loyalty lies with Graham Forrester or with Langley.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘It’s friendly advice.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, he surveyed her for a moment. ‘Peter described you as an important part of the company—if you walk out to support Graham, or undermine my position so I’m forced to let you go, the company will lose out.’

Dammit, she couldn’t let Peter and Harry down—however much she wanted to tell him to shove his job up his backside. If she were still here maybe she could do something to prevent further disaster … though Lord knew what. Plus, on a practical note, she couldn’t add unemployment to her list of woes.

‘I’ll stay. But for the record I totally disagree with you letting Graham go.’

‘Your concerns are noted. Now, I need you to reinstate Langley’s presence at the awards ceremony. We’re going.’

‘What?’ Imogen stared at him. ‘You can’t possibly mean to go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it will look odd for Graham not to be there. And you being there is hardly going to send out a good message; it’s advertising that Langley is in trouble.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s acknowledging that Langley is in trouble and showing we’re doing something about it. The head in the sand approach doesn’t work.’

The words stung; she knew damn well from personal experience that the head in the sand approach didn’t work. ‘My head is quite firmly above ground, thank you.’

‘Good. Then listen carefully. Whether you believe it or not, I am good at my job. Me being at these awards will reassure everyone that Langley is back on its feet and ready to roll.’ He leant back and smiled a smile utterly devoid of mirth. ‘So we’re going. You and me.’

Say what? Imogen stared at him, her chin aiming for her knees.

Joe nodded. ‘You worked on the project, you liaised with the client—it makes sense.’




CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_b780839c-b554-533d-b0aa-3e3e38840cc0)


IMOGEN PACED HER best friend’s lounge, striding over the brightly flowered rug, past the camp bed she was currently spending her nights on, to the big bay-fronted window and back again. ‘Makes sense!’ She narrowed her eyes at Mel and snorted. ‘Makes sense, my …’

Mel shifted backwards on the overstuffed sofa, curled her legs under her and rummaged in her make-up bag. ‘Imo, hun … You need to calm down. Joe is in charge and you have no choice.’ Holding up two lipsticks, she tilted her blonde head to one side in consideration. ‘It may even be fun.’

‘Fun?’ Imogen stared at her, a flicker of guilt igniting as her tummy did a loop-the-loop of anticipation. ‘Fun to spend two hours working late with Joe and then going to an awards ceremony with Joe. That’s not fun. It’s purgatory.’

Mel raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. ‘Imo! Imo! Imo! Methinks you protest too much. Methinks you fancy the boxers off the man.’

There was that fire of guilt again. How could she be so shallow as to have the hots for such an arrogant, ruthless bastard?

‘Youthinks wrong,’ Imogen said flatly. ‘And why are you looking at me like that?’

‘A) Because you couldn’t lie your way out of a paper bag and B) because I’m hoping you aren’t planning to go to the awards ceremony looking like that.’

Imogen looked down at herself. ‘What’s wrong with this? I wore this to a big client dinner with Steve a few months ago.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Imogen, sweetie. That dress is dull. It’s grey and it’s shapeless and it’s boring. It’s how Steve liked you to dress because he was terrified you would run off—like Simone did.’

‘That’s not true. I chose this dress because …’ She trailed off. ‘Anyway, it will have to do. In fact with any luck no one will notice me. I mean, it’s wrong to go to the awards ceremony when Graham did most of the work.’

Mel frowned. ‘It sounds to me like you did your fair share. Plus, Graham can’t go because he doesn’t work for Langley any more. Plus, you said that Joe said he would still be credited.’

‘Humph …’ Damn man had an answer to everything.

‘So you are going to this ceremony to display to the world that Langley is alive and flourishing. If you go dressed like that everyone will think Langley is on its last legs and you’ve bought a dress for the funeral.’

‘Ha-ha!’ Imogen exhaled a sigh as she contemplated her best friend’s words. Mel knew all there was to know about clothes, and she had a point. ‘OK. How about my little black dress with …?’

‘It’s more big black bin-bag, Imo. I have a way better idea. You can borrow one of my dresses.’

‘Um … Mel. You know me. I really, really don’t want to be …’

‘The focus of attention? Yes, you do. And I’ve got the perfect outfit. Wait here a second.’

Imogen exhaled a puff of air—of course she wanted to do the right thing for Langley, but she knew Mel, and her friend’s fashion taste was nothing like hers. Imogen’s taste was more …

More what? In a moment of horror she realised she didn’t know. In all her twenty-six years she’d always dressed to please others.

Eva Lorrimer had had very firm ideas about what a young girl should wear, and at her insistence Imogen had obediently donned plain long skirts and frilly tops. It had seemed the least she could do to make her mum a little bit happy. Plus, anything for a quiet life—right?

Then Steve … Well, was Mel right? Had she let him dictate what she wore? Steve had always said he hated women who flaunted or flirted when they were in a relationship. He had told her how Simone had always done exactly that. So she’d worked out what he approved of and what he liked and taken care to shop accordingly. Because it had made her happy to make him happy. Plus, anything for a quiet life—right?

Mel waltzed back into the room. ‘What do you think?’

Imogen stared at the dress Mel was holding up. If you could even call it a dress. For the life of her she couldn’t work out how she would get into it, or where all the lacy frou-frou would go, or even how it could even be decent. The only thing that was clear was the colour—bright, vibrant and sassy.

‘It’s very … red.’

OK. It wasn’t what she would choose. But if she had the choice between something in her wardrobe chosen by her mum or Steve and something chosen by Mel, right now she was going with Mel’s choice.

‘I’ll wear it.’

Mel blinked. ‘Really? I was prepared for battle.’

‘Nope. No battle. Though you may have to help me work out how to put it on.’

‘I’ll do better than that—I’ll lend you shoes and do your make-up as well.’

‘Perfect. Thanks, sweetie. You’re a star.’

Surprise mixed with a froth of anticipation as to what this New Imogen would look like.

An hour later and she knew.

Staring at the image that looked back at her from the mirror, she blinked, disbelief nearly making her rub her eyes before taking another gander. Her mother would keel over in a faint, Steve’s lips would purse in disapproval—and Imogen didn’t care. She looked…. visible.

‘You look gorgeous. You look hot. Joe McIntyre won’t know what’s hit him.’

‘I’m not doing this for Joe.’

Liar, liar, pants most definitely on fire.

Squashing the voice, she gave her head a small shake. The butterflies currently completing an assault course in her tummy were nothing to do with Joe.

‘I’m doing it for Langley.’

Mel dimpled at her. ‘You keep telling yourself that, Imo,’ she said soothingly. ‘Have fun!’

Joe glanced around the office and gusted out a sigh. Not that there was anything to complain about in the surroundings; he’d sat in far worse than this mecca to interior design and it hadn’t bothered him. The problem was that wherever he was sitting he’d never had this level of anticipation twisting his gut.

Irritation stamped on his chest. Anticipation had no place here. The awards ceremony would go better for Langley if Imogen Lorrimer were there. She had worked on the Richard Harvey project, knew many of the people who would be there, so it made sense for her to attend.

Joe snorted and picked up his cup of coffee. Listen to himself. Anyone would think he was justifying his decision because he had an ulterior motive in taking Imogen. When of course he didn’t. Or that he was looking forward to taking Imogen. Which was ridiculous. The woman couldn’t stand him, and he had the definitive suspicion that she was planning some sort of rearguard action against him in the hope that he’d change his mind about Graham Forrester.

She was probably running a Bring Back John-Boy Campaign.

Yet in the past two days he had more than once, more than twice, more than … too many times … found himself looking for Imogen or noticing her when there’d been no need to. Caught by the turn of her head or a waft of her delicate flowery perfume.

Exasperation surfaced again and he quelled it. Just because her appearance had somehow got under his guard it didn’t mean there was a problem. He knew all too well the associated perils of letting personal issues into the boardroom. That was what his father had done and the result had been a spiral of disaster—a mess bequeathed to Joe to sort out.

So there was no problem. All he had to do was recall the grim horror of working out that his family firm was bankrupt and corrupt. Remember the faces of the people he’d been forced to let go, the clients whose money had been embezzled.

Enough. The lesson was learnt.

His computer pinged to indicate the arrival of an email; one glance at the screen and he groaned. Another email from Leila. Every instinct jumped up and down—he was no expert on the intricacies of relationships, but he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t normal for an ex to suddenly surface after seven years, invite him to her wedding and then email him regularly to give him advice he hadn’t asked for.

Resisting the urge to thump his head on the desk, he looked up as the door rebounded off its hinges and Imogen entered.

No. She didn’t enter. It was more of a storm … A vivid red tornado of gorgeous anger headed straight towards him and slammed her palms down on the glass desk-top.

‘Something wrong?’ Joe asked, trying and failing to ignore the sleek curtain of hair that fell straight and true round her face and down past her shoulders to the plunging V of her dress. Surely there was more V than material?

Continuing his look downward, he took in the cinchedin waist and the flouncy skirt that hit a good few centimetres above the knee. Her legs were endless, long and toned, and ended in a pair of sparkly peep-toe sandals.

Stop looking. Before you have a coronary.

He tugged his gaze upward to meet a fulminating pair of grey-blue eyes.

‘Yes, there is something wrong.’

Her breath came in pants and Joe clenched his jaw, nearly crossing his eyes in an attempt to remain focused on her face.

‘I know I shouldn’t say anything. I know I shouldn’t put my job on the line. But I’ve just come from seeing Harry and Peter in the hospital and they told me that you’ve got rid of Maisey in Accounts and Lucas in Admin. How could you? It’s wrong.’

The fury vibrating in her voice touched a chord in him, aroused an answering anger to accompany the frustration and self-annoyance already brewing in his gut.

‘No, Imogen, it isn’t wrong. It’s unfortunate. Streamlining Langley is the only way for the company to survive. I’d rather a few people suffer than the whole company collapse.’

She huffed out air and shook her head, black hair shimmering. ‘But don’t you care?’ she asked. ‘It’s like these people are just numbers to you.’

The near distaste in her eyes made affront claw down his chest. ‘I do my very best to minimise the number of people I let go and I certainly don’t take any pleasure in it.’

She stood back from the desk and slammed her hands on her hips. ‘You don’t seem to feel any pain either.’

Her words made him pause; sudden discomfort jabbed his nerves. It was an unease he dismissed; feeling pain sucked, and it didn’t change a damn thing. This he knew. Hell, he had the whole wardrobe to prove it. So if he’d hardened himself it was a good thing—a business decision that made him better at his job.

Aware of curiosity dancing with anger across Imogen’s delicate features, he shrugged. ‘Me sitting around crying into my coffee isn’t going to enable me to make sensible executive decisions. I can’t let sentiment interfere with my job.’

‘But what if your executive choices hurt someone else?’

‘I don’t make choices to hurt people.’

‘That doesn’t mean they don’t get hurt. Look at Graham. I happen to know he has a large mortgage, his wife is pregnant, and now you’ve made the choice to snatch his job from under his feet. Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘No.’ To his further exasperation he appeared to be speaking through clenched teeth. ‘The bottom line is I do the best for the company as whole. Overall, people benefit.’

‘Have you ever watched Star Trek?’

Star Trek? Joe blinked. ‘Yes, I have. My sisters are avid fans.’ Repeats of the show had been a godsend in the devastating months after their parents’ death; Tammy and Holly had spent hours glued to the screen. Blocking out impossible reality with impossible fiction.

‘Joe? Are you listening to me?’

‘For now. But only because I am fascinated to see what pointy-eared aliens and transporters have to do with anything?’

‘You know how it works—they say they believe in sacrificing the few for the many. But they don’t really mean it—somehow in real life they end up knowing that it’s wrong and they go back to rescue one person, risking everyone, and everything is OK.’

Was she for real? ‘The fatal flaw in your reasoning is right there. Star Trek isn’t real life. It’s fiction.’

‘I get that—but the principle is sound.’

‘No. The principle sucks. If you run around trying to please everyone, refusing to make tough choices, then I can tell you exactly what happens. Everyone suffers.’ He’d got another wardrobe to prove that. ‘In real life Kirk would go down, and so would the Enterprise.’

‘That is so …’

‘Realistic?’

‘Cynical,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t understand why you can’t see reason. The main reason Langley is in difficulties is because of Harry’s ill health. He’s the one who understands finance. Peter doesn’t. Once Harry’s on his feet everything will go back to normal. Surely you should be taking that into consideration? Trying to think of some way to salvage everyone’s jobs.’

The jut of her chin, the flash of her eyes indicated how serious she was, and although he had no doubt his decisions were correct, it occurred to him that it was a long, long time since anyone had questioned him, let alone locked phasers with him. Apart from his sisters, anyway …

It was kind of … exhilarating.

Even more worrying, his chest had warmed with admiration: Imogen was speaking out for others with a passion that made him think of a completely different type of passion. His fingers itched with the desire to bury themselves in the gloss of her dark hair and angle her face so that he could kiss her into his way of thinking.

For the love of Mike … This was so off the business plan he might as well file for bankruptcy right now.

Curving his fingers firmly round the edge of his desk, he adhered his feet to the plush carpet and forced calm to his vocal cords. ‘My job is to make sure that Harry has a viable company to come back to. I am not out to destroy Langley. That’s not how I operate.’

‘That’s not what your reputation says.’

Disbelief clouded her blue eyes with grey and the disdain in her expression caused renewed affront to band round his chest.

‘Imogen, there are some companies that even I can’t salvage. But if you study my track record you will see that most of the companies I go to sort out get sorted out. Not shut down. My reputation is that I’m tough. I’ll make the unpopular decisions no one wants to make because they let sentiment and friendship cloud their perspective. I don’t.’

A small frown creased her brow. ‘So you’re telling me you’re cold and heartless but you get results?’

‘Yes. Peter and Harry wouldn’t be able to let Graham go. I can. They, you and Captain Kirk may not like my methods, but I will save Langley.’

Annoyance at the whole conversation hit him—talk about getting overheated. Who did he think he was? The corporate version of the Lone Ranger? He’d spent the better part of the past half an hour justifying his actions, and he was damned if he knew why. Anyone would think he cared about her opinion of him.

‘Now, can you please sit down so we can get some work done?’

At least that way the bottom half of her would be obscured from sight and his blood pressure would stay on the chart.

Imogen dropped down onto the chair. Joe’s words were ringing in her head—and there was no doubting his sincerity. So, whilst she saw him as the villain of the piece he saw himself as the hero.

She chewed her bottom lip—was there any chance that he was right? Then she remembered Harry Langley’s pale face, blending in with the colour of his hospital pillow. His slurred voice shaking with impotent anger as he vowed to put things right.

She thought of the size of Graham’s mortgage, his pride that his wife could be a stay-at-home mum if she wanted … of Maisey’s tears when she’d phoned her on the way here from the hospital …

All those people suffering because of the man sitting opposite her.

Yet a worm of doubt wriggled into her psyche. His deep voice had been genuine when he’d spoken of the necessity of his cuts, the bigger picture, his desire to save Langley.

But, hell, that didn’t mean she had to like him. Nonetheless …

‘Imogen.’

His impatient growl broke into her reverie.

‘Did you hear a word I said?’

‘Sorry. I was thinking it must be hard to always be seen as the villain,’ she replied.

‘Doesn’t bother me.’ A quizzical curve tilted his lip. ‘You starting to feel sorry for me now?’

‘Of course not.’

The idea was laughable; Joe McIntyre didn’t need sympathy. He needed to be shaken into common sense and out of her dreams.

‘Well, tonight we need to at least call a truce. You acting as though I am some sort of corporate monster will do more damage to Langley than I can. So you need to play nice.’

Wrinkling her nose in a way that she could only hope indicated distaste, she nodded. Instinct told her a truce with this man would be dangerous, but he was right: they could hardly attend the award ceremony sparring with each other.

‘As long as you know I am playing. As in pretending.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, his voice so dry it was practically parched. ‘Message received, loud and clear. The truce is temporary. Now, can we get on with it? I’ve ordered a taxi to take us to the hotel at seven, and I want to go through Peter’s client list with you before then.’

An hour later Imogen put her pen down. ‘I think that’s it,’ she said.

Flexing her shoulders, she looked across at him. Big mistake. Because now she couldn’t help but let her gaze linger on the breadth of his chest under the snowy-white dress shirt and the tantalising hint of bare skin on show where he hadn’t bothered doing up the top buttons.

Looking up, she caught a sudden predatory light in his brown eyes. A light that was extinguished almost before she could be sure it had been there, but yet sent a shiver through her body.

‘You’ve done a great job.’ Pulling at the sheaf of paper she’d scribbled on, he glanced down at her notes.

‘Thank you. I’ll type those up for you first thing tomorrow. The notes indicate what each project was, how many times they’ve used us, and a few personal bits about them. Not personal personal, but …’

Babble-babble-babble. One probably imagined look and she’d dissolved into gibberish.

‘Things that show I’m not delivering the same spiel to each client,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I need.’

He stared down at the paper and cleared his throat, as if searching for something else to say. Could he be feeling the same shimmer of tension she was?

‘So … according to this, you’ve done a lot of actual design work.’

‘Er … yes … I told you I help out.’

‘I didn’t realise how much. Why haven’t you put all the project work you’ve done on your CV? Or, for that matter, why haven’t you put things on a more formal footing? I’m sure Peter would agree to sponsor you so you could go to college.’

‘That’s not the way I want my career to go.’

It was a decision made long ago. What she prized above all else was security—a job she enjoyed, but not one that would rule her life. She’d seen first-hand the disastrous consequences of a job that became an obsession, and she wasn’t going there.

‘Why not? You’ve got real talent and great client liaison skills. Everyone I’ve spoken to so far has only had good things to say about you—even Mike Anderson.’ He nodded at the paper. ‘From everything you’ve written there, it seems clear they’ll all be the same.’

Imogen couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips as she savoured his words, absorbed them into her very being. ‘Everyone? Even Mike Anderson? For real?’

‘For real.’

He smiled back and, dear Lord above, what a smile it was. Instinct told her it rarely saw the light of day—and what a good thing that was for the female population. Because it was the genuine make-your-knees-go-weak article.

The moment stretched, the atmosphere thickening around them, blanketing them …

‘So what do you think?’ Joe asked.

‘About what?’ Focus, Imo.

‘Changing career? Within Langley if it remains a viable option. Or elsewhere.’

Forcing herself to truly concentrate on his question, she let the idea take hold. New Imogen Lorrimer—wearer of red dresses and trainee interior designer. Yeah, right. There was no version of Imogen who would leap out of her comfort zone like that.

And she was fine with that. More than fine. The whole point of a comfort zone was that it was comfortable.

‘Not for me, thank you. I’m very happy as I am.’

End of discussion; there was no need for this absurd urge to justify herself.

Glancing at her watch, she rose to her feet and pushed the chair backwards. ‘Look at the time. I need to get ready before the taxi gets here.’

An audible hitch of breath was her only answer, and she looked up from her watch to see dark brown eyes raking over her. Without her permission her body heated up further—a low, warm glow in her tummy to accompany the inexplicable feeling of disappointment at a decision she knew to be right.

‘You look pretty ready to me,’ he drawled.

Was he flirting with her? Was she dreaming?

An unfamiliar spark, no doubt ignited by the sheer effrontery of the dress, lit up a synapse in her brain. Hooking a lock of hair behind her ear, she fought the urge to flutter her eyelashes.

‘Is that a compliment?’

‘If you want.’

There was that look again—and this time she surely wasn’t imagining the smoulder. Even if she had no idea how to interpret it.

‘It’s also an observation.’

As he rose to his feet and picked up a black tie from the back of his chair Imogen gulped. Six foot plus of lean, honed muscle.

‘So,’ he continued, ‘seeing as you had a bathroom break a quarter of an hour ago, my guess is that you’re avoiding this discussion. True or false?’

Mesmerised, she watched his strong fingers deftly pull the tie round his neck before he turned and picked his jacket up.

‘False …’ she managed.

Right now she needed to get away from the pheromone onslaught—she wasn’t avoiding the discussion. Much …

‘If you say so.’ Slinging the jacket over his shoulder, he headed towards her. ‘And, Imogen? One more thing?’

‘Yes?’

Oh, hell—he was getting closer. Why weren’t her feet moving? Heading towards the door and the waiting taxi? Instead her ridiculous heels appeared superglued to the carpet as her heart pounded in her ribcage. A hint of his earthy scent tickled her nostrils, and still her stupid feet wouldn’t obey her brain’s commands.

His body was so warm … his eyes held hers in thrall. Hardly able to breathe, she clocked his hand rising, and as he touched her lower lip heat shot through her body.

A shadow fleeted across his face and he stepped backwards, his arm dropping to his side.

‘Don’t forget to smile,’ he said.




CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_8261aaf3-3e9d-546e-9c8e-da5fb20621a6)


IMOGEN DUCKED INTO a corner of the crowded room, needing a moment to breathe after an hour of smiling, socialising and being visible. The set-up was gorgeous—worthy of the five-star hotel where the event was being held. Glorious flower arrangements abounded, in varying shades of pink to fuchsia, layered with dark green foliage. Chandeliers glinted and black-suited waiters with pink ties appeared as if by magic with trays of canapés or a choice of pink champagne and sparkling grapefruit juice.

Surreptitiously she slipped one foot out of a peep-toe, six-inch heeled shoe. Flexing it with relief, she let her gaze unerringly sift through the crowds of beautiful professionals, slip over the fabulously decorated room, heady with the fragrance of the magnificent spring flower centre-pieces that adorned each table, and found the tall figure of Joe McIntyre.

If it really was Joe and not some sort of clone.

Because ever since they’d walked through the imposing doors of the hotel Joe had undergone some sort of transformation. It had been goodbye to her taxi companion, Mr Dark and Brooding, and hello Mr Suave as he networked the room, all professional charm and bonhomie, not a single frown in sight.

But worst of all had been his closeness, the small touches as he’d propelled her from person to person, dispensing confidence in Langley and an insider knowledge of interior design that was impressive.

Little surprise that he had gathered a gang of female groupies who were now hanging on to his every word adoringly.

‘What’s wrong, Imo? That’s a pretty hefty scowl. Contemplating the man who’ll bring Langley down?’

Shoving her foot back into her shoe, Imogen turned and plastered her best fake smile to her face. Great! The man she’d been avoiding all night: head of IMID, Langley’s chief competitor.

‘Evening, Ivan. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Bursting with health. Which is more than can be said for poor old Harry and Peter. How are they?’

Imogen’s skin crawled as Ivan Moreton’s grey eyes slid over her with almost reptilian interest. Ivan had no principles or scruples, and had engaged in so many underhand schemes to undercut and undermine Langley that she’d lost count.

His methods were unscrupulous, but legal. So to hear him stand there, full of spuriously concerned queries as to Peter and Harry made her blood sizzle. Especially when he looked as though he could barely stop himself from rubbing his hands together in glee.

‘Firmly on the road to recovery, thank you, Ivan. I’ll be sure to tell them you were asking as a further incentive to get them back into the office.’

To wipe that smug smirk off your face.

‘If, of course, they have an office to return to,’ Ivan said, with a wave in Joe’s direction. ‘Could be that Mr McIntyre will have sold it off.’

‘Joe wouldn’t do that.’ Imogen clamped her lips together; had there been a note of hero-worship in her voice? Please, no …

Ivan’s eyebrows rose. ‘Don’t be deceived by those rugged looks, Imo. Joe McIntyre will do what it takes. Though even he makes mistakes. You see, Graham Forrester now works for me—and he’s one very angry designer. Imagine offering him a salary cut. Graham said he’s never been so insulted in his life.’

Imogen blinked as she tried to process that little snippet of information.

True, Graham couldn’t afford a salary cut—but Peter had given Graham his first break, shown faith in him, showered him in pay rises. Shouldn’t loyalty count for something? At least enough for Graham not to feel insulted and maybe not go straight to Langley’s biggest competitor?

Or perhaps everyone else in the world got it except her? Were all capable of making executive decisions without sentiment?

Imogen took a step backwards, uncomfortably aware that whilst she had been thinking Ivan had stepped straight into her personal space. Enough so that now the coolness of the wall touched the bare skin on her back. If he came any closer, so help her, she’d either punch him on the nose or—better yet—take a step forward and pinion him with her heel.

‘Joe won’t be selling off the offices because there will be no need to,’ she stated. ‘Langley is still alive and kicking—and hopefully we’ll be kicking your sorry behind for a long time to come.’

‘Dream on, Imo. But I like your style.’

His cigarette-infused breath, tinted with alcohol, hit her cheek and she turned her face away.

‘When I buy Langley out I’ll put in a special bid for you.’

Ewwww. No one would thank her for creating a scene, but enough was enough. Imogen lifted her foot.

‘Sounds like you need to be talking to me, Ivan.’

Imogen expelled a sigh of relief as she heard Joe’s drawl, and then she looked up and saw the glint of anger in his eyes. She spotted the set jaw and something thrilled inside her.

Get some perspective, Imo.

For a start she was quite capable of looking after herself, and had had a perfectly good self-defence plan. Plus, Ivan was planning a Langley buy-out—that was what she needed to be thinking about. Instead of going all gooey because Joe was being protective.

The interior designer spun round and held his hand out. ‘Joe. My friend. How are you doing? Imogen and I were just—’

‘I can see exactly what you were just doing, Ivan, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it again.’

Ivan’s grey eyes flicked from Imogen to Joe. ‘You calling dibs, my friend?’

Imogen gave a small gasp. Please let it have sounded like outrage, not hope.

‘No.’ Joe stepped forward, his lips curling in a smile that held no mirth whatsoever. ‘But if you want to talk about Langley deal with me. Not anyone else.’

The interior designer gave a toss of his dyed blond hair and stepped backwards. ‘I’ll do that. I’ll get my PA to call your PA and set something up. I’m very interested in a buy-out.’

With that he turned and walked away.

‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine.’ Imogen waved away his look of concern. ‘Ivan Moreton is a sleazebag, and if you hadn’t turned up he’d have been on his way to A&E with a stiletto through his foot.’

This time Joe’s smile was real, and Imogen’s stomach rollercoastered, all focus leaving the building.

‘It’s time for the presentations,’ Joe said.

So not the moment to discuss the impossibility of an IMID buy-out; plus, it would best to do that out of Ivan’s range.

‘I’ll text Richard.’

‘Why? What happened to the romantic Parisian getaway?’

‘Nothing. He wants to show his support so I’ve arranged for him to be video conferenced in.’

‘Great idea? Yours?’

There was that warmth again at his words … She needed to stop being so damn needy of people’s approval. Just because praise had been a rarity in her childhood it didn’t mean she had to overreact to it.

‘Thanks,’ she said, as coolly as she could, and quickly bent over her phone to hide the flush of pleasure that touched her cheeks.

A minute later her phone vibrated and she glanced down at it and blinked. Read the words again and gave a small whoop under her breath.

‘Good news?’

‘Yup. Look. That’s Richard. He and Crystal have bought a place in Paris and they want us to pitch for the job of doing it up.’ She continued reading. ‘He wants us—you and me—to meet him in Paris on Friday.’

Joe and Imogen off to Paris. Be still her beating heart.

Polite applause broke out around them as the first speaker mounted the podium.

‘That’s excellent news. You’d better book some tickets on the Eurostar, then.’

Was that all he had to say? Was she the only one all of a flutter here? Of course she was. After all she was the one with the dream problem.

Turning away from him, Imogen stared resolutely at the speaker and tried to focus on his words. For the rest of the evening she would focus on interior design. Not on the man sitting beside her.

‘Paris?’ A pyjama-clad Mel stared at her in sheer disbelief. ‘You are going to Paris with Joe McIntyre?’

‘Yes.’ Imogen snuggled back on the sofa and cradled her mug of hot chocolate. ‘Ironic, really. I practically begged Steve to take me there, but he wouldn’t. Said it held too many memories of Simone.’

She took a gulp of hot chocolate and pushed away memories of just how much time she had spent choosing a cruise that didn’t contain any locations holding any memories of Simone. There was real irony for you. Because right this minute now Steve and Simone were on that luxury cruise, paid for with her hard-earned money, creating new memories.

‘I’d rather go with someone hot like Joe than Steve,’ Mel said musingly.

‘That’s plain shallow,’ Imogen said. ‘Heat level isn’t everything in a man, you know. There are other attributes that are way more important.’

The sort of traits she looked for in a partner: kindness, stability, loyalty, security. More irony—how had she misjudged Steve so badly?

Mel shook her head, blonde curls bobbing. ‘Not if you’re on a jaunt to Paris.’

‘It’s not a jaunt. It’s a business trip. We’re not even staying overnight. Joe is out of the office tomorrow, I’m meeting him at St Pancras Station on Friday late morning, then we’re coming back straight after our meeting.’

‘Tchah! Why don’t you book the wrong tickets by “mistake”? Then you could end up staying in a romantic hotel and …’

‘I’d end up fired.’

Though for one stupid, insane moment her imagination had leapt in … She could see the hotel silhouetted on the Parisian horizon …

Imogen drained her mug. ‘I’m for bed.’

‘Oh!’ Mel gave a gasp. ‘I was so gobsmacked by Paris I forgot to tell you. Your mum called—she said it was urgent. Not that sort of urgent,’ she added hastily, seeing panic grip her friend as she imagined the worst. ‘But she did say you needed to ring her back, no matter what time it was.’

Imogen sighed. This wasn’t what she needed right now, but Eva Lorrimer hated being made to wait.

Grabbing her mobile phone from the floor, she dialled her mother. ‘Hey, Mum. It’s me.’

‘Finally.’

‘Sorry. The awards ceremony finished late.’

‘I only hope you going means you’ll keep your job, Imogen. You make sure you impress Joe McIntyre. Somehow. Good PAs are two a penny, and now you’ve managed to lose Steve you will need to support yourself and—’

‘Mum. Mel said it was urgent?’ Surely reciting all Imogen’s shortcomings couldn’t be classed as imperative at past midnight. Even by Eva’s standards.

‘It is urgent. Steve has proposed to Simone on that cruise he’s taken her on. They’re getting married.’

Breath whooshed out of her lungs; surely this was some sort of joke. ‘How do you know?’

‘Clarissa rang me with the news.’

Better and better—Imogen bit back a groan. Clarissa was Steve’s mother and one of Eva’s old schoolfriends. If you could call her a friend. No doubt she had rung up to gloat.

‘It’s all over social media too,’ Eva continued. ‘Simone even put out a message thanking you for providing such a wonderful setting.’

Excellent. Now she’d be a laughing stock to everyone who knew her. Humiliation swept over her in a wave of heat that made her skin clammy.

Eva gusted out a sigh. ‘That could have been you if you’d played your cards right. You could have a man to rely on—a man to support you and keep you secure. You should have done more to keep him, Imogen.’

Like what? She’d done everything she could think of to make Steve happy. Obviously she’d failed. Big-time. Steve himself had told her that she wasn’t enough for him.

But instead of the usual self-criticism a sudden spark of anger ignited in the pit of her stomach. The bastard had actually proposed to another woman on the cruise she had paid for using her hard-earned savings. What would he do next? Send her the bill for the engagement ring?

‘Actually, Mum, maybe I’m better off without him.’

‘Steve was the best thing that ever happened to you, Imogen. Yes, I’d have preferred a fast-track banking career for you, but the next best thing would have been marrying a man with one …’

As Eva’s voice droned on Imogen ground her molars and waited for the right moment to intercede.

‘Mum. I understand how you feel.’ That her daughter had let her down yet again. ‘But I’m exhausted. We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

Imogen disconnected the call and resisted the urge to bang her head against the wall.

Joe glanced at his watch, and then around the busy Victorian-style St Pancras station. Men and women tapped onto tablets, sipped at coffee or shopped in the boutiques. But there was no sign of Imogen. Where the hell was she?

Ah. There she was: striding across the crowded lounge, briefcase in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, dove-grey trouser suit, hair tugged up into a simple ponytail.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she stated as she came to a halt next to him.

Joe frowned; her tone indicated not so much as a hint of sincerity. In fact it pretty much dared him to comment. Imogen seemed … He glanced at her coffee cup as she tugged the lid off. Full. Yet she seemed wired—there was a pent-up energy in the tapping of her foot, an unnecessary force as she dropped her briefcase onto a chair.

‘No problem. We’ve still got three minutes till we need to board.’

‘Good.’ She took a gulp of coffee. ‘Then I have time to grab a pain au chocolat. Get myself in the mood.’

Because what she really needed right now was sugar on top of caffeine.

Joe swallowed the words. As a man who had brought up twin sisters, he knew exactly when it was best to keep his opinions to himself.

Clearly something had happened in the day and a half since he’d last seen her. But equally clearly Imogen’s private life was nothing to do with him.

So he was not going to ask her what was wrong; he was going to stick to business.

Focusing on her back, he followed Imogen through the departure lounge to the ticket barriers, where they were smiled through by a svelte member of Eurostar staff. They moved along the bustling platform and onto the train.

He waited until she’d tucked her briefcase next to her and sat down opposite him, her eyes still snapping out that ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe.

‘So, could you brief me on our meeting with Richard Harvey? Has he told you anything about the project at all?’

‘Nope. All I know is that it’s a place in Paris. He’s also said he’s giving Graham a chance to pitch for it as well, because it seems only fair.’ She frowned. ‘My guess is Graham got on the phone and guilted him into it with a sob story about how you had brutally thrown him out.’

Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought you agreed with him?’

‘I do, but …’ Her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug and her eyes sparked. ‘If you must know Graham rang me yesterday, and he was really vindictive. Not only about you but about Peter too—and that’s not fair. It’s not as though Peter sacked him. And even you offered him a reduced salary.’

‘You told me yourself about his mortgage and his wife; you can’t blame him for accepting a more lucrative offer and now being loyal to Ivan.’

‘I can blame whoever I like for whatever I like.’

Joe blinked at the sheer vehemence of her tone.

‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘Ivan is an out-and-out toad.’ The description brought a small quirk to his lips until she said, ‘And you aren’t going to let him buy out Langley, are you?’

Damn. He’d hoped she’d forgotten that, but maybe this was why she was on the warpath.

‘That’s not something I can discuss with you.’

‘But … you can’t be seriously thinking about it. It would kill Harry off.’

‘If a buy-out is offered I have to consider it.’

She opened her mouth as if to argue but inhaled deeply instead. ‘OK. Fine. Clearly you don’t have a better nature to appeal to, so tell me what I can do to help avert a buy-out.’ Her fingers encircled the plastic table’s edge and her nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Because I’d rather starve in a ditch than work for Ivan.’

He could hardly blame her; a sudden wave of aversion washed over him at the very thought. Irritation with himself clenched his jaw. If the buy-out was best for Langley that was the road he’d take. Full stop.

‘That will be your choice. My decision will be based on what’s best for Langley as a business.’

Eyes narrowed, she tapped a foot on the carriage floor. ‘If we win this Paris project will that make Langley safe from Ivan?’

‘Depends on the full extent of the project. But, yes, it would help.’

‘So you’re fully on board with going all out to win it? You haven’t already decided that the buy-out is the way to go?’

Joe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why didn’t she get that the decision was nothing to do with her?

‘Can we drop the subject of the buy-out and concentrate on winning the Richard Harvey project? What else can you tell me about Richard and this meeting that will help our pitch? Is he bringing wife number seven?’

‘Yes. I’ve told you her name is Crystal—and obviously don’t make a big deal of her being number seven.’

Joe snorted. ‘Well, gee, Imogen—thanks for the advice. My plan was to ask for a rundown of each and every wife along with a view of the wedding albums.’ He gusted out a sigh. ‘I’ll happily avoid the entire topic of marriage.’

Imogen shook her head. ‘Richard likes talking about marriage. Like I said, he’s incurably romantic—which I suppose is why he’s bought a place in Paris. As far as he is concerned he has finally fulfilled his dream—he’s found The One. So probably best not to share your “dreams should be abandoned” theory.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Even if I’m beginning to wonder if you’re right.’

‘Me? Right? Wonders will never cease.’ Curiosity won out over common sense. ‘What brought that on?’

Opening her mouth as if to answer, her gaze skittered away as she clearly thought better of it and shook her head. ‘You know, the daft dreams we have when we are young. I once thought I’d become an artist—had some stupid vision of myself in smock and beret, sketching on the streets of Paris or attending the Royal Academy, studying the masters in Italy, exhibiting in Rome—’ She broke off. ‘Absurd.’

Yet the look in her eyes, the vibrant depth of her tone, showed him that the dream had been real.

Lord knew he could empathise with giving up a dream. For a second he was transported back to a time when the world had truly been his oyster. He could smell the sea spray, taste the tang of salt in his mouth, feel the thump of exhilaration as he rode a wave. The incredible freedom, the knowledge that he would win the championships, would get sponsored, would …

Would end up dealing with bereavement, loss and responsibility.

Whoa. There was no point going there, and guilt pronged his chest because he had. The decisions he had made back then had been the right ones and he had no regrets about making them. His sisters had needed him and nothing else had mattered. Then or now.

Shaking off the past, Joe focused on Imogen—on the dark tendrils of hair that had escaped her ponytail and now framed her oval face. On the blue-grey of her eyes, the straight, pert nose and lush, full lips.

‘So what happened to those dreams?’ he asked quietly. Had they crashed and burned like his?

Picking up her cup, she rested her gaze on his mouth. ‘Common sense prevailed. Bills need to be paid … security needs to be ensured. Starving in a garret sounds very romantic, but in real life I like my food too much. So I ended up opting for a PA role. I’m more than happy with that.’





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