Although, if she was being totally honest, this wasn’t the most unpleasant situation she could have landed herself in. Held captive by a man with a deep, sexy voice and hands that were made to roam a woman’s curves? Not bad at all. But she had the niggling sense that something was off—there was something about the man that had her intuition all fired up. He sounded familiar, and also like he was trying to disguise his voice by using that growly, cha-cha-melting whisper.
Focus, Hargrove. This isn’t a mission to reclaim your mojo. Priority number one is escaping without getting arrested.
But she couldn’t leave without her phone because it would give her identity away. If she could convince the man to hand it over, she could hightail it out of the ball without anyone knowing her name.
“My arms are getting tired,” she said. “And we appear to be at an impasse. I have nothing to offer other than a promise to delete the photos I took.”
“That goes without saying,” he said. “Not that anyone would be interested in them.”
“Then what’s with the indignant act? Are you trying to see what you can get out of me?” She huffed. “Don’t even answer that. I already know what you’re going to say.”
He grinned. But Mr. Sexy Mask Man wasn’t budging an inch. And speaking of inches...
Every little movement made her acutely aware of his rock-hard erection rubbing against her inner thigh. Holy smokes. Either the guy was hung like a donkey or he kept a zucchini in his pants. And thanks to prolonged involuntary celibacy, Imogen’s body was celebrating the sexual contact. How long had it been? Twelve months? More? She absolutely could have pulled free of his grip, but there wasn’t a cell in her body that wanted to.
That’s pathetic. You know that, right?
True. But it had been too smurfing long since she’d felt the spark of physical excitement, or that delicious throb of arousal between her legs. Sure, she was a serious, career-focused woman. And sure, she wasn’t going to jump into bed with any random guy for the sake of satisfying carnal need. But man, was this guy hitting all her hot buttons right now.
It wouldn’t hurt to revel in the friction a little more. She shifted her hips, brushing her sex along the hard ridge of him as subtly as she could. But she had to dent her bottom lip with her teeth to keep a moan of pleasure in. Every nerve ending in her body was sparking like New Year’s Eve fireworks.
“What if I gave you a kiss in exchange for my phone?” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. But it wasn’t a terrible idea—a kiss in exchange for walking away free of consequence.
A kiss she would most absolutely enjoy.
“A kiss, huh?” His smile turned wolfish. Hungry. “Sounds fair to me.”
“You have to let me go first. I don’t kiss men who’ve got a hold on me—literally or figuratively.”
The masked man immediately released her. He’d been holding her so gently there wasn’t even a sign that his fingers had been wrapped around her wrists. She’d be able to pretend it never happened. Though something told her she wouldn’t forget it anytime soon.
“Okay, ground rules for this kiss.” She sucked in a breath. “It’s a kiss, nothing more. You try to pin me down again and I’ll knee you where it hurts. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Adrenaline pumped through Imogen’s veins, giving her body a jittery, overstimulated feel. Everything was sensitive—from her nose sucking in the scent of his cologne mixed with the grass beneath them to her palms pressing against his muscled chest. Even the cotton beneath her fingertips was sublime.
“Do you want a countdown?” he asked. “I’ll start with three.”
She placed one hand by his head, the blades of grass tickling her skin. Music floated softly from the ball, the garden otherwise peaceful and quiet. Luckily for Imogen, no one could hear the blood fizzing in her veins.
“Two.”
Leaning forward, she angled her head over his, her lips parting in anticipation. There was a slight scent of alcohol on his breath, but it was richly pleasant. His lips were curved and full, and his jaw was freshly shaven and smooth.
“One.”
She closed the remaining distance and pressed against him, fusing them from the lips all the way down. Heat enveloped her as she melted into him, her thighs softening as she rested on her forearms. His tongue greeted hers, gently at first, probing and tentative. But it only took a second for the kiss to turn wild.
Then his hands were at her back—one sliding up to cup her head and the other sliding down to press her hard against him. The kiss was confident, possessive. She groaned into him, eyes fluttering. He flexed beneath her, rolling his hips up to meet the tender space between her legs. Rubbing...no, grinding. It was sensual and basal and more than a little dirty. The kind of kiss that a girl like her never seemed to get.
“Christ,” he muttered, his lips at her neck. Nipping. Scraping.
He was marking her and it was the hottest thing she’d ever experienced. He’d turned her body into a live flame and she was burning, consuming. Turning to ash.
“You’re so fucking hot,” he growled against her neck.
His words were like a drug. She revelled in the contradiction of it all—in the hard ridge of him pressing against her and the soft glide of his tongue over her skin. In the delicate brush of his lips and the firm grip of his hand sliding up her thigh. In his hard groan and subtle swish of her dress as he shoved it to one side. He was stripping her defences down, peeling back the protective layer she wore like permanent armour, and whipping her into a frenzy.
Imogen ached. Her whole body pulsed with electric energy and she wanted nothing more than to let him roll her onto her back so he could shove her skirt higher and bury himself between her legs.
A kiss. Nothing more.
She forced herself to pull back, terrified if she didn’t put the brakes on she’d be drunk on lust and unable to stop. Unable to resist turning a kiss into something more. Into everything more. Without a word, she slipped her hand into his jacket and pulled out her phone.
Rocking back on her heels, she grabbed a fistful of her dress and carefully got to her feet. She might have been happy to crash tackle the man, but she didn’t want to accidentally impale him with a heel. He didn’t move. His lips were slack, chest rising and falling with quickened breath.
I know how you feel, buddy.
Oh boy. That was a kiss to render all other kisses useless. Poor specimens of kisses. Sorry excuses for kisses. So pale in comparison to this kiss that she felt like she’d never been kissed before.
Imogen scooped up her bag from where it had fallen and stashed her phone safely away. But what now? Was she supposed to say something? She resisted the urge to ask for his name and number. The quicker she got out of the ball the better, and the less risk of her getting in trouble.
Then she could get back to what mattered—finding out whether Daniel was cheating on her sister. Staying at the ball would be too risky now. For all she knew, this man would go back on his word and turn her in. Or use her weakened position to blackmail something more than a kiss...which actually didn’t sound so terrible. And that meant it was definitely time to go.
“Well...” she said, her voice ragged and frayed as the ends of her nerves. “That was...”
“Fucking brilliant?” he offered. “Or would that be smurfing brilliant in your case?”
A smile tugged at her lips. “Yes, smurfing brilliant.”
She slipped the chain strap of her evening bag over one shoulder and turned to leave, but something compelled her to look back. A piece of information had set off an alarm in her head—but through the thick haze of arousal she couldn’t quite process it. Something was wrong, and her mind whirred.
Then she saw it.
The blood drained from her face so quickly the world swayed beneath her heels. She pressed a hand to her stoma
ch, hoping to hell the champagne she’d downed wouldn’t come rushing back up. But this was bad...very bad.
Colossally, insurmountably, cataclysmically bad.
The masked man rose to a sitting position, causing his tuxedo pants to pull a few inches farther up his leg. Dinosaur socks. T. Rexes to be precise. Almost identical to the red ones she’d seen that day of the archive room incident. But this time they had a blue background.
Maybe it’s a coincidence? Cheesy novelty socks might be some high-fashion menswear trend that you’re unaware of?
However, the stone sitting in the pit of her stomach would not be relieved. His voice had stirred something in her, but he’d definitely been disguising it. Tricking her. She knew the socks and she knew the man. And now she knew that he tasted like heaven and was as well-endowed as the rumours had indicated.
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God...
She opened her mouth to speak, but her voice had turned to dust. Instead, she spun around and raced back toward the ball.
CHAPTER SIX
IMOGEN SPENT THE remainder of the weekend trying to determine the best way to prevent Monday from rolling around. But Monday was a tricky beast. No matter how hard you hung on to Sunday, Monday would always make an appearance.
She arrived at work early, hoping to make it to the executive floor undetected so she could hide out in her office. Would Domino’s deliver directly to her desk? She could acquire a blanket and make a fort. Or push some furniture against the door and barricade herself in.
“You’re an adult. You can handle this.” She dropped into her desk chair and emptied her lungs in a long, slow whoosh. “It’s not like he knows it was you.”
Her disguise had been perfect, and all he knew was that she was after someone named Daniel.
What if he recognised your voice?
That had to be a long shot...right?
And the kiss, while wild and reckless, shouldn’t bear any consequences. Outwardly, anyway. Inwardly...well, her brain had turned into Pornhub overnight. That was two strikes now. Two instances of crossing a line previously marked “No. Nope. No way in Hell. Do not proceed under any circumstances.” If she made one more wrong move, who knew where that might lead?
“Let’s be real. You know where you want it to lead,” she muttered to herself.
And that was a big smurfing problem.
Falling for a guy like Caleb wasn’t inviting trouble—it was courting it, seducing it and taking it to bed. And Imogen wasn’t about to take trouble to bed, no matter what her lady parts were saying.
“Stop thinking about beds.” She sipped her flat white. Nothing. Her taste buds had tapped out and not even a coffee from her favourite café could help.
Caleb had officially broken her.
Shaking off the stressful thoughts, she ran through the CEO’s calendar and started compiling all the documents, briefing notes and travel arrangements that he needed. The process calmed her. When there was order, Imogen’s mind wasn’t such a chaotic mess.
After printing and binding Gerald’s “day book,” she headed to his office. His receptionist, Mary, waved her through.
Gerald was the kind of CEO who picked his team with great care—which was a nice way of saying that he had zero tolerance for idiots. Mary was the “face” of the CEO’s office, playing gatekeeper for him and the boardroom. Imogen worked more on the business side of things, organising his documents and taking minutes during his leadership meetings. The three of them made a tight-knit, effective team.
It was everything she’d hoped for when she started out as a temp. Hard work and keeping her nose clean had helped her rise to the top. She couldn’t ruin that now by getting entangled with the CEO’s least favourite son.
Imogen knocked softly before pushing the door open to find Gerald discussing business with Jason and Caleb. He waved her in but continued talking. She sat at the table by the window and waited for them to finish. It gave her a moment to observe the three men; the Allbrook family had an interesting dynamic.
“We need to consider the cost of such events,” Gerald said. “The reason we’ve been able to weather these hard times is because we’ve kept a firm grip on unnecessary spending.”
“A leadership retreat isn’t unnecessary,” Caleb said. “If we don’t invest in our team we’ll keep losing people. It looks bad to have another executive leave so soon after Joe.”
Gerald stood at his desk, his hands linked behind his back. He wore a dark navy double-breasted suit and a light blue tie. Jason’s outfit was identical except his suit had a more modern cut and the blue tie was shot through with white stripes. They were every bit the successful father and son duo, practically ready for a Forbes cover shoot.
In contrast, Caleb wore a light grey suit with a blue windowpane check, a hot-pink tie and a silver polka-dot pocket square that should have looked hideous, but somehow managed to appear stylish and bold. His blond hair was loosely styled, but she could tell it’d been a rough morning. He tended to run his hands through his hair a lot when he was stressed and the telltale flop of the lock at the front said he’d already played with it too much.
“Shouldn’t this be covered by our People and Culture budget?” Caleb asked. “We don’t have to go crazy, but we do need to show them we reward loyalty.”
“It sounds like we’re pandering to their egos,” Gerald scoffed.
“No, you’re valuing them. How is that a difficult concept? Doesn’t our HR team collect talent retention data? If we’re doing that with entry-level staff, why not with the people we’re paying five times as much?”
“They should stay with the company because this is the best place to work, not because we’re funding these wasteful events.”
“It’s worth considering,” Jason interjected. It wasn’t the first time Imogen had seen the elder Allbrook son playing peacemaker between his conservative father and creative younger brother—he was definitely the buffer in that relationship. “The cost to onboard one or two executives far outweighs what we would spend on a retreat. You might see it as pandering, but we can tie it to our new strategy rollout. Get them on board with where we want to take the company, give them ownership of the new direction.”
Gerald thought for a moment. “You have a point, Jason.”
Imogen cringed. It was like anything that came out of Caleb’s mouth was disregarded as fluff, but the second Jason chimed in the idea suddenly had merit. Given Caleb looked like he wanted to set fire to the office, he must have thought it, too.
“Put together a page with rough costs and benefits.” Gerald took a seat behind his desk. “I want it on my desk by the end of the day.”
Jason nodded and headed out of the office, his head bowed as he tapped at his phone. Caleb walked over to Imogen. The frustration he’d been exuding a moment ago had vanished, replaced by a wolfish smile.
“Come past my office when you’re done with the old man,” he said, his voice low.
“I’m busy. What do you need?” She pretended to inspect her compendium. “I’ll find one of the roaming assistants to help you.”
“I’m afraid you’re the only one who can help with this,” he said. His hand came to her shoulder and she bit down on her lip to keep from reacting. “And please don’t crash tackle me to the ground this time.”
Well, fudge.
* * *
Caleb popped the cufflinks on his shirt and rolled his sleeves back as he slumped into his leather desk chair. It felt like he’d been split in two.
On one hand he was livid at his father...again. His idea, which apparently had been a “waste of money,” was suddenly worthy of attention the second Jason got involved. No doubt the retreat would turn into another success for the golden child, while Caleb sat on the sidelines. Story of his fucking life.
But the other half of him was running on electric excitement. All week
end he’d thought about how to handle today—should he give Imogen the chance to fess up on her own? He hadn’t planned to drop it on her like that, but watching her sit at his father’s table in her prim grey suit, pearls around her neck, was a temptation impossible to ignore.
Besides, he needed something to focus on or else he’d storm back into the old man’s office and have it out with him once and for all.
There’s no point—nothing is going to change. You’ve tried and failed to make things right, so set yourself on cruise control and get back to enjoying the good things in life.
For years he’d assumed his relationship with his father would level out at some point. Become a little less...prickly. But time had the opposite effect and they’d drifted further apart. These days they swung from arguing to not talking, without any of the pleasant middle ground. His mother was constantly trying to bring them together—but Gerald never seemed interested, and so Caleb decided he wasn’t, either.
“Caleb?” His assistant, Mina, poked her head into his office. “Imogen is here to see you. She said you asked her to stop by.”
“Send her in.”
“Will do. Remember you’ve got a meeting with our advertising consultant at ten.” She gave him a pointed look.
Shit. He’d been putting this meeting off for weeks, because the guy had been trying to poach him. Apparently, Caleb had “an eye” for design, which was odd considering he’d only landed this marketing role as a consolation prize from Dear Old Dad. But the ad agency probably thought his business contacts would be worth something. Right now, though, he didn’t need that kind of temptation. Because as much as relations were strained with his father, this was still the family company.
“I need to move it.”
“Again?” She sighed. “He’ll think you want to drop the agency.”
“I don’t. Tell him something came up and I’ll shout him a drink on Friday.” He gave her a lopsided grin and she laughed, shaking her head. “Thank you.”
Mina disappeared and a second later Imogen walked through. “Door open or closed?” she asked.
Hard Deal Page 5