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Stunned, she turned, her widened gaze colliding with his—all blue fire. Then the solemnity in his face shattered and he smiled—a full-blown, toe-curling, bone-melting blaze of a smile. It felt as if splotches of crimson heat were being stamped all over her body. So much for not being red-faced when she met her new boss. It was going to take at least half an hour for her to cool down after exiting the lift. But this guy was irresistible, and she smiled back.
Nodding, she stated the only thing in her head that she could share publicly. ‘I’m really embarrassed.’ She was also really attracted.
‘Hey,’ he joked, ‘I was wearing less.’
‘Yes.’ Her smile broadened as the lift doors slid open. The comeback bubbled out of her, filled with sassy spark, just as she stepped out. ‘That suited you, too.’
She met his eyes with a lift of her brow, beyond trying to hide the attraction now.
‘I’d like to …’ He glanced at his watch, spread his hands and shrugged. ‘But I have to—’
‘I’m late for something, too.’ Imogen smiled as she closed the conversation. Another time, another place, maybe they’d have talked more, flirted, had some fun?
Imogen hadn’t done that in … well, ever. But honestly just the idea of it, the almost-but-not-quite nature of their encounter, was enough to put a little jolt of pleasure in her day. But now real life had to be attended to—she had a meeting to survive and a career to keep on track.
She walked down the corridor, conscious that he was only half a pace behind her. She stopped as she came to a suite of meeting rooms. He stopped right beside her. For a moment they stood, both reading the sign on the first door.
‘We’re heading to the same meeting,’ he said flatly.
Was the dismay that she was feeling reflected in his face?
He blinked, and in that minuscule moment his whole demeanour changed. He withdrew, and his eyes—those windows to anything personal, to that wild heat—veiled as he became completely professional.
He opened the door. ‘After you.’ And he ushered her in.
She didn’t answer verbally—couldn’t as she hobbled as far to the back of the room as she could. Oh, no. He had an American accent. He couldn’t possibly be …
‘Sorry I’m a little late, everyone. I’ve been sightseeing.’
She turned and looked to where he’d walked in and instantly taken command. Sightseeing? Right.
‘And it took me a bit longer to get changed than I thought it would.’
A smile flashed—charming, but remote rather than hot. Of course it had taken him longer. One of his new employees had tried to burst into his room when he was taking a shower.
‘My name’s Ryan Taylor. Please call me Ryan.’
Imogen closed her eyes as he confirmed the worst. Not for the first time in her life she wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole. Opening them, she saw the impossible hadn’t happened, and she was stuck in what could only be one of the most embarrassing situations of her existence.
She wished she’d done even a smidge of homework—then she would have known, could have been prepared. But as she’d spent every moment outside of work these last three months studying for the two accountancy papers the company was sponsoring her for, she’d hardly had time to breathe—determined to get as high a grade as she could to prove to them and to herself that she was worth it.
All that she’d known about Ryan Taylor was that he was going to oversee the change in management and steer Mackenzie Forrest into a supposedly bright new future.
And now she knew how magnificent he looked all but naked.
CHAPTER TWO
IMOGEN kept her weight on one leg as the other suddenly pounded with pain. Silly how just a stupid scrape could hurt so much. She hoped the bandage she’d fashioned would hold. Hoped this would be a sit-down meeting. Hoped she wouldn’t have to say anything—because she was still puffing, adrenalin still zinging around her body courtesy of her haste, her accident and her encounter with—Oh, hell—she’d practically had her tongue hanging out as she’d ogled him all over, like some sex-starved spinster. Okay, so she was a sex-starved spinster. That didn’t mean she wanted her new boss to know all about it!
She caught him looking at her intently, a frown causing the faintest of lines on his brow. She looked away, wishing to be swallowed whole once more, and heard him address the room again.
‘Please take a seat everyone. This is an informal get-together. A chance to meet and talk through any issues or questions you may have before I start in my official capacity tomorrow. I’ll talk for a bit, and then you can ask some questions, and then we’ll have coffee—okay?’
Great.
She moved to a seat near the back. Tried to avoid Shona’s concerned look, but clearly failed, as her line manager came and took the seat next to hers. Imogen was never late. She was never flustered. And yet here she was—late and flustered and wearing a whole new outfit.
‘What happened? You left ages ago,’ the older woman said in an undertone as everyone found seats.
Imogen had indeed left in plenty of time, intending to call in at a shop on the way to get a quick sandwich. The humiliating accident on Victoria Street had ended that idea. ‘I fell.’
‘You okay? You were all red a minute ago, and now you’re all pale.’
Imogen nodded. ‘Just feel like a dork.’
‘Hence the new outfit?’ Shona was smiling.
‘Complete with grazes.’ Imogen held up her palm, just thrilled that someone found it amusing—and Shona only knew half the story.
Her mentor chuckled now. ‘The colour suits you.’
Imogen searched out Ryan as Shona echoed his words. Surely he couldn’t have heard the comment? But when his gaze intercepted hers the sardonic tinge in his eyes suggested he had.
He was too young. He was far, far too young. Was he even thirty? Even if he was, he was too young to be taking control of Edinburgh’s premier department store. Yes, Mr Mackenzie had been ancient, but this guy was too young and too good-looking.
He talked to a couple of her co-workers who were already seated, asked their names. He’d obviously done his homework because he could match the name with the job position immediately. He moved around the room, learning faces with names as he went. Frozen, she watched as he came closer—until he was right there, by Shona and her. Saw his lips twitch that little bit as he looked her over—very quickly, so quickly you almost wouldn’t have noticed. But she was hypersensitive, and very, very focused on him.
He shook hands with Shona, nodding, as they’d already met. All too soon it was her turn. His eyes didn’t waver from hers, and there was almost a smile in them.
She took in a deep breath, determined not to reveal wobbly voice syndrome. ‘I’m Imogen Hall.’
‘Imogen.’ He repeated, clearly turning through the personnel files in his head. ‘You’re the—’
‘Accounts administrator—yes, Mr Taylor.’ She couldn’t call him Ryan. Ryan was too intimate. It made her think of his naked dripping torso and his muscle definition and … Mr Taylor it had to be.
‘Accounts,’ he drawled, very softly, the veil lifting for a moment and showing her that dry humour again. ‘As in number-crunching?’
‘That’s right.’ She nodded. She was Shona’s second-in-command trainee, and had been given too good an opportunity to lose it now.
‘Well …’ His teeth flashed as he murmured, only loud enough for her to hear, ‘I guess your work should make for interesting reading.’
Her cheeks were on fire, and she went on defence. ‘Ordinarily I’m good with numbers. Just not when stressed … I wasn’t thinking straight.’
‘We’ll have to take care not to stress you out, then, won’t we?’ His eyes lasered through her. ‘Imogen.’
Mortified by the fact that she’d been having fantasies about a stranger who was in reality her new boss, she couldn’t return his oh-so-polite smile, couldn’t register the slight emphasis on her name, couldn’t match his intensity any more. She ducked her head. He didn’t seem at all uncomfortable about having met one of his new employees while almost starkers … about having flirted with her so boldly … and having her flirt right back. Oh, no. He probably thought she was hopeless at her job. An all boobs, brainless bit of fluff. Wasn’t that what George and all his family had thought?
‘I always like to sit at the back of a meeting, too.’ He stepped away and took the chair two along from Imogen.
The rat. Surely he knew she wanted to get away from him?
Of course he did. Because for one second before he began his well-prepared speech, there was an unholy grin on his face. One she’d seen before—in the hall, as he’d glanced down her body.
Pen in hand, she stared at the complimentary hotel stationery in front of her as Ryan smoothly talked through his vision for the store. Now she was even more apprehensive about the change. Things had been going well for her at Mackenzie Forrest. She wanted to be able to continue the study course that Mr Mac had agreed to. She could only hope that the staff development programme wouldn’t be dropped now that the famous Edinburgh department store had been bought out by the American company owned by the exclusive and reclusive Taylor clan.
Mr Mac had stressed how pleased he was the store was being taken on by a family, rather than a publicly held company. Imogen was cynical about that—family-run didn’t always equate with family values or high morals and a decent work ethic. In her experience family-run meant keeping things close, protecting the family at the expense of the company. Blood was thicker than water—even if it was bad blood.
Imogen Hall. Ordinarily good with numbers. Ordinarily looking gorgeous. Ryan tried to marshal his thoughts, but all his mind was interested in focusing on was that glimpse of one very scarlet bra and the luscious breast it had contained.
Not ideal. Not when he was meeting the team he was to lead for the first time and she was one of the players. He had to soothe their concerns. Mackenzie Forrest was an Edinburgh institution. Loyal customers, loyal workers. Locally owned since its inception, it had now been taken over by his family—and he knew the idea of foreign ownership hadn’t been entirely welcomed.
‘Taylors is a family-run business.’ He saw the flash of cynicism on her face and it derailed his thoughts again. Why was she so defensive? Surely not the parochial thing? That was no Scottish accent she’d spoken with.
He got back on course, but his blood pumped faster. It was a real shame she was an employee. He could kick himself now for his comment on what colour suited her in the elevator. If he’d known, he’d never have said anything.
It had taken a decade of hard work for Ryan to gain the respect of not just his family but outsiders as well. Being one of the East Coast Taylors had many advantages, but it came with disadvantages, too. Being the ‘spare heir’, he knew people had preconceptions and misconceptions about him and his ability to actually do the work. Precisely why he’d stayed out of the family business and done his own thing on the continent. But now his brother and his sisters had asked for his help—and both they and he knew he had more than the required credentials for the job. They needed his expertise and it was on his terms. But he’d just muffed it with one of his new staff.
He had no intention of getting a reputation for being a Lothario boss. He always kept his flings outside of the office environment. It was easier that way. And he had no problem meeting women. He had more of a problem getting to know them—and with them being able to see through the Taylor mystique to the reality of him beneath. Hence flings. Not relationships. Never a relationship.
So he was just going to have to work hard and jettison this attack of the lusts. Because he had no time for it here. But he couldn’t stop his attention sliding, watching as she sat absently clicking and unclicking her pen. Her green eyes accented by the depth of colour in her shirt. Her curves subtly hinted at by the way the soft material sat over them. And all he could see then was her lying back, siren-like in her scarlet underwear, eyes gleaming through heavy lids, a smile on her lips. A smile like that smile she’d given him as they’d stepped out of the elevator—suddenly confident, suddenly sassy, and so enticing.
He looked down at the table and extracted some self-control from deep within. He was going to have to work hard. Very, very hard.
Imogen decided to exit as soon as she could. It was sickening. Even Shona, Mr Mac’s number one for the best part of thirty years, was smiling. Half an hour in the guy’s company and he’d won over the most hardened cynic. Although really, why should she be surprised? It had only taken a split second for her to want to fall at his feet. But there could be no fraternising here—no sycophantic chats with the boss. Not when she’d seen him almost naked. Because that was how she still saw him.
Her face flamed as his image slid into frame again. Frustrated, she focused on those looks. He was way too young for this kind of position. She worked up anger. Most likely nepotism all the way. He’d probably come in and ruin it for all of them. Just as George had ruined it for her back home in New Zealand at Bailey & Co. Sleeping with her boss had been stupid. Trusting a man who’d had everything too easy had been devastating.
Ryan Taylor looked up, saw she was glaring at him. One brow lifted slightly, as if to ask, What’s your beef?
You are, buddy, she mentally tossed back, with a wide American accent in mind. But he kept his focus on her, and then she got kind of distracted … Goodness, his eyes were blue. Electric. And right now they were honed in on her.
Someone was talking. It seemed he was listening, because she saw his mouth move and heard some kind of noise, but she couldn’t have deciphered any sensible conversation. She was lost in the intensity of that look—in the blue skies that were his eyes. It was as if she was in freefall, flying—almost floating—waiting, still waiting, for the parachute to open …
It wasn’t in any hurry. She blinked. Maybe she’d just clunk back to earth in a heap.
But she’d been there, done that. And been left bruised and broken. She looked away, realising her grazes were throbbing again. No. One gorgeous heir to an empire was not going to throw her off-course.
CHAPTER THREE
IMOGEN got to work early the next day, wanting to be lodged in place behind her desk before anyone else and thus able to avoid comment on her aching limp. Then she couldn’t resist doing what she hadn’t contemplated or even had time for until now. She opened up the Internet. Typed in his name. Added ‘department store’ to narrow the search. There were still a zillion hits. She read a few headers.
‘The Taylor quartet …’ That was a spread in some flash American society mag. Mainly about his elder brother, but he and his sisters had got more than a mention, too. There were photos of them all at some swanky-looking party, with people too beautiful to be real.
‘Harvard-educated … grew up in style in New York … holiday homes in Colorado, Italy and the Caribbean …’
She didn’t read any more. Didn’t need to. She knew the type well and she knew to steer clear. She’d worked hard to build her reputation at Mackenzie Forrest, and she knew how easily it could be ruined. Most of all she knew how fickle guys like Ryan were—guys born with not just a silver spoon in their mouths but with the whole damn canteen of cutlery. Those born into wealth and power grew up with decayed morals. They were always greedy for more. It was not a world Imogen could ever live in. George Bailey-Jones Jr had proved that. His family had added the exclamation mark.
Ryan Taylor’s family made the Bailey-Joneses look like nameless nobodies.
Unfortunately he arrived in the office in another made-to-mesmerise suit, his hair still damp from the shower as it had been the day before …
The way her belly squeezed at the sight of him was crazy. Plain crazy. The way her thoughts ran riot if she let them—seeing him naked, seeing her astride his hips with his chest spread before her, bending forward to press her mouth to his bronzed skin, feeling the muscles beneath …
Oh, she was one sick, sick woman. This kind of fever had to be broken. She watched as he coolly greeted everyone by name. He was too relaxed, too confident. And she knew he’d be unreliable.
‘Good morning, Mr Taylor.’ She got in first. Shona had always addressed Mr Mac formally. Imogen had thought it old-fashioned. Now it seemed like a really good idea. Distance—a good way of maintaining the employer-employee boundary. Because she could hardly say to him, Hey, I don’t usually wear a scarlet bra. It’s just that I was behind on my washing.
His eyebrows lifted fractionally. ‘Are you able to have the latest financials ready for me by lunchtime, Ms Hall?’
‘Certainly, Mr Taylor.’ She retreated farther behind her computer, hoping to hide the way she blushed as he spoke to her.
‘How’s your knee? Better?’
No retreat possible. He’d stepped right round her desk.
‘All better, thank you.’ She didn’t look up from her ferocious study of the screen. Determined not to let things get personal. Strictly professionally was how they’d interact.
‘That’s good to hear.’ His soft words went through her insides like a fork stirred through creamy mashed potato.
‘Is it just the current month you’re after, or last month’s as well?’ Think work. Think work. Not about being whipped into melting acquiescence by a deep American accent.
‘Just this month. I have the other data already.’
Thank heavens he left then—off to the shop floor with the duty manager to meet the front-line staff, before coming back and meeting with Shona for over an hour.
It was well before lunchtime when Imogen knocked on the frame of his open door. He glanced up from his desk. ‘Already?’
‘Yes.’ She didn’t look at him, focused on his desk, placing the report on it and walking straight out again.
‘Thank you.’
She felt the words like bullets in her back.
Less than an hour later, he stopped by her desk. ‘That report was excellent. Not a number out of place.’
Was he teasing her?
‘Think I can get you to do me another, with some projections for the next quarter?’
‘Of course, Mr Taylor.’ She tossed her head as he turned away, determined to reframe his opinion of her and prove her worth. ‘There’s nothing you can ask of me that I can’t do.’
He paused, and it was a miracle she didn’t combust as he assessed her with his blue fire eyes. ‘Ms Hall, you do like to set a challenge, don’t you?’
Three days later Ryan congratulated himself on surviving so far—every minute of every day had been arduous. It shouldn’t have been so bad. In fact, he should have been able to say that things were going better than he’d anticipated—the Christmas tills were ringing, the figures were stacking up, and the staff were all accommodating if not bordering on welcoming. All but one. And he wanted her to accommodate him in a way that was thoroughly inappropriate. So much for conquering the lust.
Theoretically, he should be over it. Every day this week she’d been dressed totally differently from that to-die-for green shirt and pants number at that first meeting. If anything she looked downright dowdy in the shapeless shirts and skirts she seemed so fond of. He couldn’t understand why she’d want to shroud herself in 1950s-schoolmarm-length skirts, and all he wanted to do was get her out of them. While the rest of the staff were looking festive, she looked funereal. Black, black and black was it. Drab and depressing it should have been. Except that on her the tone emphasised her pale skin, and made her eyes greener than genetically modified grass.
And then there was the fact that it wasn’t just her looks he was attracted to. In the open-plan space outside his office, she and Shona were nearest to his door. The door he couldn’t bring himself to close—not when he could hear her low-voiced humour. She didn’t mix much with the others—just sat quietly next to Shona, passing the time with occasional wry and dry comments that had him hovering ever closer, increasingly interested. Wishing she’d laugh like that with him.
