by Nina Milne
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 wor
ds 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
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 wor
king 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.