It sounded as though Daniel was oblivious to Imogen’s distrust of him, but Caleb wasn’t about to enlighten him. And being the sort of person who prided himself on accurately reading people, Caleb was certain there was no cheating going on. He’d even probed Jason on the way to the bar and had come up with nothing. Either Daniel was good at keeping a lid on it—which meant that no amount of questioning would turn up anything—or, as was more likely the case, Imogen had let her past fuel her paranoia.
“I’d be happy with a little less drama on the family front,” Caleb said. He tossed back the rest of his beer and set the glass down with a loud thunk. “They could make a shitty soap opera out of my family.”
“Mine, too.” Daniel nodded. “As they say, you can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.”
“Wise words.” He contemplated ordering another drink, but this whole conversation had left him itching to get home so he could see Imogen. And that had nothing to do with the current company. “We should do this again. Drinks, I mean.”
“Absolutely.” Daniel beamed and stuck out his hand in an awkward, overly formal way that made Caleb smile. “Name the date.”
Caleb bid him farewell and headed out of the bar. Jogging down a short flight of stairs, he came to the path that flanked the Yarra River. It was still light and bright, the sky tinged with orange and gold on the horizon. Two men ran past him, and a group of teenage girls walked in the other direction, laughing and playing with their phones.
Despite all the issues with his family, Caleb was strangely at peace. Daniel’s words had struck him deeply.
You can pick your friends but you can’t pick your family.
It was time to let go of his anger over his father’s actions. Nothing would ever change the old man’s views; nothing would ever elevate Caleb’s status from the lowly rung of unwanted second son. But what he could control was the people he surrounded himself with. And right now, he wanted to surround himself with Imogen. Wholly and completely.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CALEB ROUNDED THE corner and headed up the path to his apartment building when he spotted the best thing he’d seen all day: Imogen in a pair of faded jeans with a rip over one knee and a black top that clung to her sexy curves.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in jeans before, Ms. Hargrove,” he teased.
“Miss Hargrove.” She fiddled with the end of her long gold braid. “Single and loving it, remember?”
This time he couldn’t smirk at the joke. He didn’t want Imogen to be single and loving it—he wanted her to be his.
His.
The word hissed in his mind, like a warning. Seeing her here—dressed down and bare-faced and looking more beautiful than ever—waiting for him, ready to come upstairs, had his body buzzing. Normally he’d blame it on the beers, allow himself to think that something else was responsible for that addictive feeling. But it was all her.
You can choose your friends...
He could choose more than that. He could choose her. And he didn’t want to stop at friendship.
“Welcome to Casa Allbrook.” He swiped his key card over the security pad and led her inside.
The building was one of his father’s earlier creations—it wasn’t sleekly modern like the newer towers, but Caleb enjoyed the slightly outdated charm. Plus, the apartments were bigger and he liked the fact that he was less likely to bump into any of his father’s cronies here. They’d all taken up residence in the fancier buildings.
They headed to the elevator and Caleb hit the button for the top floor.
“Penthouse, huh?” Imogen said with a nod. “I should have guessed.”
It didn’t sound like a compliment. Without responding, he observed her. Imogen wasn’t the greatest at hiding her feelings, no matter how hard she tried. But he enjoyed that—her body was responsive and communicative, and she spoke clearly through her actions and inactions. It was comforting to know where he stood.
But now the language wasn’t positive. She picked at a frayed patch on her jeans, her pale pink nail polish chipped around the jagged edge of her thumb where she’d no doubt been chewing on it. He got the impression her lack of makeup and the plain clothes were meant to be a signal, too. A warning. Her appearance told him this wasn’t a date.
When the elevator stopped and the doors slid open, she practically leaped out. “You’re awfully skittish tonight,” he said.
The plush carpeted hallway muffled their footsteps as they walked to his front door, which was one of only two on the top floor. The silence amplified the tension between them.
“I’m not skittish,” she said. “But I don’t want to make any mistakes.”
Ah, so he was on the money. She definitely didn’t want him to think this was a date. Caleb shoved his key into the lock and let them in. Usually he felt a sense of relief in coming home—because this was a space where he didn’t have to worry about what anyone else thought. He could be himself. But now he’d caught Imogen’s tension, and the feeling sat uncomfortably on him.
“Any mistakes or any more mistakes?” He shrugged out of his suit jacket and walked through to the bedroom so he could hang it up. Imogen’s footsteps sounded cautious and slow behind him. She stopped at the edge of his bedroom, not daring to set foot inside.
“Any more.” She cleared her throat. “The other day in the office, we shouldn’t have... It was unprofessional.”
“Life’s more exciting when you’re a bit unprofessional.” He slid open the mirror door to his wardrobe and hung his jacket up.
“Is everything organised by colour?” she asked. “I’m not sure why that surprises me so much.”
Caleb’s image was the one area where he could exercise control. The wardrobe was custom fit to cater to his every need. Shirts hung in a gradient from white through blue through bolder patterns all the way to the dark shades. His suits were hung in a similar manner from the palest grey to the inkiest black. A lone navy suit—which he’d barely worn since it made him look too much like this brother—hung at the end next to his tuxedo. Even his shoes were arranged by colour and style, all housed with shoe trees so they’d keep their shape.
Not a single item was ever out of place.
“You should see my sock drawer,” he quipped.
Suddenly, having Imogen in his space was like being part of an exhibition. He’d never thought about how much his place showed the real him—the guy who was organised, who lined his books up alphabetically, who liked order and was neat as a pin. It was the part of him he’d hidden in the office, preferring a charmingly chaotic front, with clashing colours and a sly grin because it was a better mask than anything else at his disposal.
He did everything he could not to be like his brother and father. To divert people from understanding the real reason he was a black sheep in his own family. He made it look like he was a playboy and a party animal and a natural born charmer. It was the perfect disguise and the reason he’d never be respected while he worked for his dad.
A double-edged sword.
“We should talk about your meeting with Daniel,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “That’s why I’m here.”
More barriers. Imogen was working overtime to draw a line between them, to push him away. Was she scared her willpower wouldn’t hold up?
“Sure.” He nodded. “What would you like to drink?”
“Water, please.”
After he’d poured her a glass and made a gin for himself, they settled on the soft, worn-in leather couch that faced the windows running the length of the apartment. Outside, the city shimmered. Imogen seated herself as far away from his as the furniture would allow.
“This is the best spot in the whole house.” He took a sip of his drink.
“Should I be afraid to sit on this couch?” she asked drily. “You clean it between women, right
?”
The barb stuck hard in his chest. Maybe it was because his guard was down, maybe it was because of his chat with Daniel, or maybe it was the deep regret that her poor opinion of him was partially his fault...and he was done taking it on the chin.
“Actually, I prefer to fuck on the balcony. I’ve got a thing for voyeurism in case you hadn’t noticed.” His tone was granite-hard.
Imogen blinked, her bottom lip rolling between her teeth. “That was unnecessary.”
He swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the ice cubes and wedge of lime bob up and down. “I’m not the guy you think I am,” he said eventually. “Just like I know you’re not the uptight, Prim Miss Hargrove you try to be in the office.”
“It’s not a front.”
“Isn’t it? The night we went out I saw something different. I saw it in your office, too.” He rubbed his thumb over a chip in the rim of his glass, feeling the sharp edge catch his skin. “You change when you stop trying to hold on to that image. All the hardness and the sarcasm and the walls melt away. You...transform.”
Her eyes were wide, the olive green irises made even more vivid by the tinge of red around them. How did he miss that earlier?
“I’m not pretending to be someone else. This is me. I’m sorry if you find it boring, but there’s no treasure waiting to be discovered.” She swallowed. “No matter what you thought you saw that night.”
“I know what I saw.” He set his glass onto a coaster on the coffee table. “You might not think you’re hiding, but you are. And you’ve done such a good job that you’ve even fooled yourself.”
“No, you’re right.” She rolled her eyes. “You absolutely know more about me than I know about myself. How silly of me.”
“This is what I’m talking about. The second anything gets real you shut down.”
“The second anything gets real,” she scoffed. “Spare me. I know what this is, Caleb. I’m not some deluded bimbo who thinks you’ll change thanks to the magical powers of my cha-cha.”
“Pussy,” he corrected.
She gritted her teeth. “This isn’t a game.”
“Then why are you turning it into one?”
“I’m not!” She threw her hand in the air. “You were the one who took what was supposed to be a simple date and turned it into...”
“The best sex of your life?”
She rubbed a hand over her face. A groove deepened in the middle of her forehead. “Yes.”
He raised a brow. “I’m sorry?”
“No, I’m sorry. I should have known better than to put myself in a position to be tempted.” She huffed. “You’re like a really good pizza. I know I shouldn’t want it and I know it’s really freaking bad for me. But does that stop me wanting to nibble on a slice? No, because I’m an idiot with no willpower.”
That was a lot to take in. She wanted him but didn’t think she should—why? Because of his reputation? Because she was worried it might affect her career? Because she thought he’d hurt her?
“I’ve never met anyone who tries so hard to resist their feelings before.”
“Yes, I know everyone falls all over themselves to get in your pants...or to get you into their pants.” She scrunched up her nose. “You know what I mean.”
“People tend to either love me or hate me. There isn’t a lot of in-between.” His lip pulled up on one side. “I’m polarising like that.”
* * *
Was it possible to be on both sides at once? Her body was wholly in the oh God, yes, yes, yes! side of things, while her brain was already detailing an exit strategy. Being pulled in two directions at once wasn’t a comfortable situation. But the worst thing of all was that her heart was starting to side with her lady bits. Which was a problem.
That was how her heart got battered and bruised and broken last time.
Caleb sat on the other side of the couch, his arm slung along the back like he was about to be photographed for a magazine. The sleeves of his baby blue shirt were rolled up and his open collar revealed a slim triangle of skin. His suit pants perfectly hugged his thighs, the hems pulled up enough that she could see which socks he’d put on that day. Sky blue with majestic-looking ducks. Business mallards.
She had to stop the manic giggle rising up the back of her throat. What the hell was she even doing here? This was supposed to be the conclusion to a transaction. She’d fulfilled her end of the deal, now it was his turn to hand over the goods.
But the longer he stared at her with those incredible blue eyes—which perfectly matched his shirt, of course—the more pressure built behind her sternum. It was like a growing fireball—the larger it got, the more it consumed her. Despite her efforts, Caleb saw past her defenses. Like the fade-into-the-background monochrome outfits she wore to work, the sensible ponytail and boring shoes... Prim Miss Hargrove. It was no less a mask than the one she’d worn to the Carmina Ball, as much as she denied it out loud.
That way, if anyone rejected her they weren’t rejecting the real her. The Imogen who’d thrown caution to the wind by marrying the guy everyone warned her off, the same girl who’d gate-crashed an important event for the sake of her sister. The woman who let lust sweep her down a road of scorching-hot, semipublic sex.
“We’re supposed to be talking about Daniel,” she said. Her voice came out squeaky and unnatural.
“Getting too real again?” He raked a hand through his hair, his fingers driving rows through the thick strands. “I want to figure this out, Imogen. I want to know where we stand.”
“Where we stand?” She set the glass down for fear that she’d drop it with how her hands trembled. This was not what they were supposed to be discussing. “There is no we, Caleb.”
“Yes, there is. We are colleagues.” His stare burned right through her. “We are friends. We are incredibly attracted to one another.”
“We are?” Her breath hitched.
He knows all the right things to say—he knows your weaknesses and your sore spots. He knows how to press on them until you do what he wants. Don’t fall for it.
But she’d already started to fall—she had done the moment she’d crossed his path on her first day in the Allbrook office. The attraction had hit her like a bolt of lightning, frying her insides and hollowing her out so that she’d never ever be the same again. For the last five years she’d put on her armour, to shield against him. Against herself. Against anyone who might want to see her bleed.
Caleb shifted, closing the gap on the couch until he was next to her. The small distance between them crackled with electricity. The need to press her palms to his chest, to run her fingers along his jaw and trace the curve of his lips was like a lion’s roar in her head.
“We are.” He reached out and rubbed his finger along the strap of her top. “I know you’re fighting it, but your body tells me. Your eyes get dark, your lips get all pouty and kissable, and this bit—” he traced the line of her chest from her collarbone to the valley of her cleavage “—goes up and down, quicker and quicker. It’s exciting to see you come undone, Imogen. It makes me so fucking hard to see you stripped bare like that.”
But bare was bad. Bare meant vulnerable, and vulnerable was a hop, skip and jump away from broken.
“You’re just saying that,” she whispered. “You want something and you know all the right things to say. That’s not real.”
“Do you think I would have persisted after you shut me down if I only wanted a warm body?”
God, she wanted to believe him. She wanted to fall headfirst into this fantasy and stop doubting herself. Caleb slipped the strap off her shoulder. The drag of the fabric over skin caused her to shiver, anticipation building. Pressing. Demanding.
“I only shut you down because I thought you were teasing me,” she admitted. “I don’t seem like your type.”
“And what’s my type, huh?” His lips
came to her skin, sucking until blood rushed to the surface, sending goose bumps rippling across her arms and chest. They’d done so much more than this, but the talking combined with the gentle touches was a new level of intimacy.
She shivered. “Fun, sexy women.”
“Why do you think you’re not fun or sexy?”
It was impossible to keep the blood pumping up to her brain while he marked her neck with his lips and teeth. “You told me once I would fit in with the Golden Girls.”
He laughed. “To be fair, that was after you said I had the mental capacity of a drunk Teletubby.”
“I stand by it.” Her lip twitched.
“I don’t know how to appease you other than to say you’ve ruined me. I’ve wanted to find out what was under the suit and pearls from the second you set foot in the office and the deeper I dig, the more I want you.” He kissed along the top of her shoulder, his face burying into the crook of her neck. “I’m addicted. So don’t sell yourself short, because it’s bullshit and I’m not buying it.”
Her eyes fluttered shut and she concentrated on the feel of his lips against her hairline, on the hot whisper of breath along her skin, on the sneaky crawl of his fingertips along her thigh. Her boiling point was close and restraint fell through her fingers like water.
“It’s bordering on disgusting how you know exactly what to say.” Imogen shook her head. “You’re dangerous, Caleb Allbrook. And it scares me.”
“Don’t be scared.” His hand was higher now, sliding up the inside of her thigh. “I’m doing this because I want you in whatever form I can get. You want to toss a smile in my direction, I’ll take it. You want a verbal throw-down? I’m in.”
His fingers inched higher and she gasped. The slow build of anticipation amplified everything—from the sensation skittering over her skin like a pebble skipping across a pond, to the rush of need in her veins, to the chant of higher, higher, higher as she willed his hand to cup her sex.
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