by Nina Milne
Now it turned out he believed she had engineered that kiss because she was a gold-digger, a spy or a cheat. Good grief—if she wasn’t so furious she’d laugh. Because one thing she knew: Joe had been just as much into that kiss as she had.
‘I think you’re forgetting something, here. That you kissed me!’
‘Imogen …’
‘Just leave it, Joe.’ She shoved the car door open, nearly tumbling the chauffeur over as he waited to open the door for her, and set off across the car park, her rage spiking further as she marched, feet pounding the tarmac, and realised he wasn’t damn well even going to follow her.
Fine.
Anger heated her veins, seethed and simmered as her brain formulated a plan.
She’d show him. She’d show him exactly what he was missing. There wasn’t a cat’s chance in hell she’d seduce him, but she was damn well going to make him wish she would.
Sanity tried to point out that maybe Joe had been a little misled by the fib she’d told Richard. But that wasn’t the point! He could just have asked her before jumping to such insulting, stupid conclusions.
An hour later Imogen stared at her reflection, relieved that rage still buoyed her because she knew otherwise there was no way in heaven or hell she would be able to carry this off.
The dress was … outrageous. In a good way. It managed to scream seduction whilst hollering elegance. Black see-through gauze featured, fluttering to mid-thigh and covering her chest, whilst allowing tantalising glimpses of the black corset-like bit underneath. Shells striped the dress in a fun, flirty line, and the whole look was complemented by the strappiest high-heeled shoes imaginable. Delicate leather lines crisscrossed her feet, cool and seductive against her skin.
‘C’est magnifique!’ the sales assistant exclaimed, clapping her hands together.
‘Merci bien.’
To her own surprise she didn’t feel even a smidgeon of self-consciousness as she walked through the mall. Instead she fizzed with a sheer intoxicating vitality, every sense heightened and fuelled by the attention she garnered.
Joe was leaning back against the limo, arms folded, the breadth of his shoulders somehow accentuated by the length of the car. His white shirt had been swapped for a black one, with the top button undone to reveal a triangle of tanned skin that tantalised her gaze. He was intent on his phone screen, and a frown slashed his forehead.
Anticipation whispered in her stomach as she neared him and he looked up. The temptation to punch the air at his expression nearly overwhelmed her but she restrained it. Instead she savoured every second of his dropped jaw, every shade of heat that glittered in his brown eyes as they swept over her, lingering in appreciation as he stepped towards her.
Her brain gave out conflicting orders—step towards him, move backwards, turn and run. Grinding her molars, she adhered her stilettoed feet to the tarmac of the car park and faced him. He was so close she could smell the tang of masculinity, the scent of arousal. Her muscles ached with a need to reach out and touch him, to trace a finger along that V of skin, to unbutton his shirt and …
No! The plan was to show him what he was missing—not to offer herself up on a plate, thereby confirming all his insulting, overbearing assumptions.
‘You ready for the restaurant?’ she asked, keeping her voice casual with a supreme effort of will. ‘I figure it will be pretty upmarket, so I want to look my best. You never know. As you’re not available I may get lucky and find some loaded French sex god to seduce instead.’
She slapped her palm to her forehead.
‘Oh, yes. I forgot. I’m not here with some cunning plan to seduce anyone. I’m here to work. To come up with a proposal for Richard and Crystal.’
Joe stepped backwards, leant against the car and raised his eyebrows. ‘You can hardly blame me for jumping to the conclusions I did.’
‘Wrong. I can totally blame you. You could have asked first. You know—like, Imogen, I’m a bit confused. Who is Steve?’
‘OK.’ Folding his arms, he met her gaze. ‘Imogen, I’m a bit confused. Who is Steve?’
‘I told you. He is my ex-boyfriend. I am a free agent, and that kiss earlier wasn’t about me being out to get anything or me being unfaithful to anyone.’
‘So what was it about?’
‘You tell me.’
His heated gaze swept over her body and then he straightened up, the glint in his eyes doused. ‘It was a moment of insanity,’ he said. ‘And I apologise. For being so unprofessional. How about we put the whole episode behind us and move forward? Truce?’
What could she say? His voice was sincere, his gaze direct. ‘Truce,’ she agreed.
The twitch of his lips was a surprise as he gestured towards her. ‘I take it that dress was chosen with the express purpose of torturing me?’
‘Absolutely. Is it working?’
‘Yes.’
Why, oh, why did he have to smile? A devastating smile sinful enough to make her hair curl. Oh, God. Perhaps this whole idea hadn’t been so brilliant after all—especially as Joe wasn’t playing the part she’d allotted him. Her tummy churned as she tried to work out what the hell was going on. Wondered if Joe had any idea either.
He opened the limo door for her and she slid inside, pulling her stomach muscles in so as not to so much as brush against him before scooting all the way across the leather seat.
Clamping her knees together, she shoved away the realisation that short and see-through, whilst effective, was also … well, short and see-through. From somewhere she had to muster the light sabre of professionalism. Hadn’t she said she was here to work? Now would be an excellent moment to do exactly that.
‘So,’ she said. ‘What do you think about Richard’s idea of a two-page proposal?’
‘I think you were right. Richard Harvey is a touch eccentric. But his idea has its merits. We’ll have a quick decision for the minimum outlay of time.’ He paused. ‘I do realise he’s thrown you in at the deep end, though. I’m thinking about calling Belinda off a project so that she can come and look at the apartment.’
Joe’s words were as effective as a bucket of ice, dousing elation in reality. How stupid was she? It hadn’t even occurred to her that she wouldn’t be the one to put together the proposal. Forget stupid and substitute nonsensical. Her job at Langley was as a PA—sure, she’d dabbled in interior design, but Belinda had proper qualifications and expertise and was the obvious choice to go up against Graham.
Richard had asked for her presence, but he hadn’t specified that Imogen worked on the proposal. She was just a point of contact and she should have realised that herself. If she hadn’t been too busy living in some sort of fantasyland.
All too aware of Joe’s gaze on her face, she looked out of the window, not wanting him to read the hurt or the sheer embarrassment that was no doubt etched there, relieved when the limo pulled to a stop.
‘I’ll text Belinda from the restaurant.’
It was all for the best. Did she really want the responsibility of going up against Graham? Having to face Peter’s disappointment and the knowledge that she’d let Langley down if or rather when she didn’t succeed? Far better to stay ensconced in her comfort zone.
‘She’s perfect for the proposal.’
Tension pounded Joe’s temples as he followed Imogen into the restaurant and nodded automatically at the maître d’, who swooped towards them majestically, his gold-braided jacket a perfect fit with all the grandeur of the baroque theme.
Not that Joe cared about the gold and gilt that abounded, or the ornate mirrors on the stone walls, or even the wrought-iron chandeliers that glinted with the ambience of wealth.
Right now he was too busy questioning the swirl and whirl of emotions that Imogen had unleashed inside him. Anger at himself rebounded against a small and unfamiliar sense of panic. There was the ever growing problem of their attraction, not helped by the tantalising torment of her dress. But worse than that was the way his chest had panged at the qui
ckly veiled hurt in her eyes when he’d suggested Belinda.
Realising that the maître d’ still hovered, he shook the thought away. ‘We have a reservation. Made by Richard Harvey,’ he said.
The maître d’ smiled his dignified approval and gestured to a black-suited waiter with a gold tie. ‘This is Marcel. He will look after your table. Marcel, please take Miss Lorrimer and her companion to the table Mr Harvey requested for them.’
Joe gave in to temptation and placed his palm on the small of Imogen’s back to steer her, his flesh tingling with warmth and an unexpected sense of possession. Just what he needed—more unfamiliar emotions that didn’t make sense.
He eyed the table and further misgivings tingled his already frazzled nerve-endings. The table was … The word intimate sprang to mind. The kind of table for lovers, not colleagues—the type where you sat at adjacent angles so your knees pressed together, so it was easy to place your hand on your partner’s thigh, indulge in a little footsie. The handy pillar would allow or even encourage canoodling.
He suddenly remembered that the gleaming candlelit table had been originally intended for Steve and Imogen.
Bloody wonderful.
Marcel seated them and then beamed. ‘Mr Harvey has made a selection for you, but he’s asked me to tell you first in case you have any allergies.’
Joe allowed the list of exquisite dishes to wash over him; the only relevant thing here was the length of the damn menu. They would be here for hours. On the other hand that might well be better than whatever Lovers’ Tryst had to hold.
Right now it was time to get a handle on the situation, get a grip of said handle and start steering. Whatever the menu, this was a business dinner.
‘That sounds fine. But I’ll stick to water rather than wine.’
‘It sounds incredible,’ Imogen interpolated. ‘Please make sure that you let Mr Harvey know how much we appreciate all this. And water for me as well, please.’
The waiter bowed, turned and glided across the restaurant floor, leaving them alone. No, not alone. Yet despite the fact that the restaurant was full, and the hum and buzz of conversation filled the air, Joe had the ridiculous impression that he and Imogen were in their own private space.
Imogen darted a glance at him and then reached down for her bag. ‘I’ll try Belinda now.’
‘Is that what you want to do?’ he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
A frown creased her forehead as she moistened her lips. ‘It makes sense.’
As he forced himself not to linger on her glossy lips it occurred to him that nothing made sense—and that was the problem. She’d got him so damn distracted that he’d let the personal and the business line fuzz. Again. He couldn’t tell whether he wanted Belinda to come and look at the apartment because it was best for Langley or because Belinda would provide them with a chaperon. Didn’t know if he wanted to allow Imogen to do the proposal because that was the right thing for Langley or because he wanted to assuage the hurt that had flashed across her eyes.
Enough.
Time to apply logic.
‘I’m not sure it does,’ he said as he drummed his fingers on the snow-white tablecloth. ‘The impression I got was that Richard wants you to do it. I also believe that you understand how his mind works. We’re up against a time limit. And Belinda is flat-out on other projects.’
There was a pause as she looked down at the bread roll she was crumbling into tiny pieces. ‘But I’m a PA. I have no qualifications in interior design—or advertising and marketing.’
‘But this is coming up with a concept. Isn’t that exactly what you did for Richard’s bathrooms?’
‘Well, yes. But that was after we’d won the contract. And if Peter hadn’t liked my ideas he’d have nixed them. There’s a whole lot more riding on this.’
‘Is that what’s scaring you?’
Her fingers stilled, her head coming up as her eyes narrowed. ‘It was your idea to bring in Belinda.’
Joe shook his head. ‘I acknowledged that Richard was asking you to take on a lot and said I was thinking about bringing Belinda in. I haven’t made a decision.’
‘Oh.’
‘So, do you think you can pull this off?’
She hesitated, her features creased into worried lines as she manoeuvred the crumbs into a line. ‘It’s just such a big responsibility. What if I let you down?’
Watching the play of light over her features, he was gripped by the urge to reassure her, to tell her that of course she wouldn’t, to reach out and cup the delicate curve of her jaw.
Instead, ‘There are no guarantees, Imogen. It’s the risk you take. For what it’s worth, I think you have a better shot at it than Belinda.’
‘You do? You think I can pull this off?’
‘Yes.’
‘For real?’
‘For real.’
Her face lit up and her lips curved in a genuine smile that constricted his lungs.
‘I’ve seen your work and I’ve seen your rapport with Richard. I think that’s key. So, yes, I think you can do it. But if you feel more comfortable calling in Belinda that’s fine too.’
With a swoop of her hand she swept the crumbs into a small pile and nodded. ‘I’ll do it. And I’ll give it my very best shot. I promise.’
Joe lifted his glass as relief trickled over him—they were back in business. His gut told him that using Imogen was the right decision.
‘It’s a plan,’ he said.
‘Thank you …’
Leaning forward, she placed a hand on his forearm, her touch sparking awareness. A citrus burst of shampoo, a tendril of black hair tickled his nose as she placed her lips in a fleeting caress against his cheek.
‘For believing in me.’
CHAPTER SIX
BIG MISTAKE. FROM the second she slanted her body so close to his Imogen knew she might as well be juggling dynamite. His toned forearm tensed under her fingers and as her lips brushed the six o’clock stubble of his jaw need shivered through her.
The sensible thing to do would be to pull away, but the urge to nuzzle his skin, to take the opportunity to inhale that Joe scent, was nigh on overwhelming. Adrenalin swept through her tummy in a wave—this man wanted her as much as she wanted him, he believed in her, and he was so damn close that suddenly it seemed mad to fight this attraction. In this second she couldn’t even remember why they were.
His body stilled, and then with a murmured curse he pulled back. ‘Jeez, Imo. You are messing with my head.’ He shoved his hands through his hair and nodded towards the centre of the restaurant. ‘We’re in public—in Richard Harvey’s favourite restaurant. When Richard asks Marcel how we enjoyed our meal I’d like Marcel not to say we spent it in a clinch.’
Heat flushed her cheeks as she tried to quell the elation. She was messing with his head—who would have thought it? But …
‘You’re more than right. Here isn’t the place. But—’ She broke off as Marcel approached the table with a genial smile.
‘Here we have a selection of dishes. The amuse-bouches. Lemon, nuts, grapefruit and celery in a potato net. Haddock soufflé. And tuna in squid ink. Along with the best baguette in Paris.’
‘It looks fabulous, Marcel. Merci.’ Her words were spoken on automatic. Not even the scrumptious aroma that wafted up from the plate could distract her from the buzz her body radiated, the tingle of her lips where she’d brushed his cheek.
Once Marcel had gone, she met Joe’s gaze.
‘We have a problem,’ he said. ‘So I suggest we have a look round this apartment and then book separate rooms—preferably on separate floors—in a local hotel.’
‘What about Richard? Staying there is part of his plan.’
‘I’ll come up with a reason if he asks. I doubt he will. The important thing will be the proposal. Whatever it is going on with us, I think distance is the key solution.’
‘Or we give in to it.’
The words were blurted out without thought, spr
ing-boarded to her brain from her instincts.
His body stilled and then he shook his head. ‘No. Bad idea. We work together so that is not an option.’
‘I get that—and, hell, I’d normally agree. But in this case the business is done. You’ve already made a decision about the proposal. And I swear to you I will give it my all. I am excited about the opportunity to do this for Langley. But I’m not propositioning you out of gratitude or because I want anything else.’
‘So why are you propositioning me?’
‘Because I’ve never felt like this before. And once, Joe—just once in my life—I want to succumb to lust. To say sod the rules. Not to be sensible. For one night.’
Hell, it wasn’t too much to ask, was it? That for once she could ride the wave and not do the right thing? Sure, there was a part of her brain that was covering its eyes, unable to look, shocked by the sheer effrontery of this version of Imogen Lorrimer. But, damn it, she was going to ignore it.
‘That’s what you do, isn’t it? One-night stands?’
‘I thought they weren’t your thing.’ Joe picked his glass up and put it back down again, his eyes dark with desire.
Her lungs seemed to have forgotten how to function; breathing was problematic. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’
A moment’s pause during which his brown eyes bored into her expression. ‘You’re sure? One night? No strings? Because I can’t offer anything else, Imogen.’ He raised his hand before she could protest. ‘I don’t mean job-wise. I mean emotionally or time-wise. I don’t tick your boxes.’
‘One night is all I want as well, Joe. I’m not in the market for a relationship right now.’ She needed time to regroup, update her tick-list. ‘I’ve just come out of one. Plus—’ She broke off. There was no need to explain to Joe that she didn’t trust this whole insane attraction, that she would never risk letting it control her. That was the beauty of a one-night stand. ‘I promise you this is all about the sex.’