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Caleb bit back a smile as his father’s assistant walked alongside him, her pink lips set into a flat line. The woman always looked as though she’d sucked on a lemon. Logically, it wasn’t a visual that should turn him on but there was something about Imogen’s overly prim persona that got him all hot and bothered. And hard as a rock. Maybe it was because he suspected that beneath the boring shirt and single strand of pearls, there was a spitfire lurking.
He had a talent for seeing the reality that people tried desperately to conceal. And the fact that a woman as hot as Imogen chose to hide behind an outfit better suited to a funeral director made him curious as hell.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said.
“I can be your SOS. Message me if he turns out to be a foot shorter than his Tinder profile advertised.” He nudged her with his elbow as they waited for the elevator. “Or if he’s a close-talker. I know you hate those.”
“Who doesn’t hate a close-talker?” Her button nose wrinkled. “When I speak with someone, I don’t want to know what they had for lunch. Let alone experience it secondhand.”
The elevator opened. It was rammed, sardine-style. All his father’s obedient minions were clocking out at five-thirty on the dot. That tended to happen when Gerald Allbrook went off-site. Apparently, there’d been some shit storm with contract negotiations for a new residential tower on Collins street. The big man had stepped in, which wasn’t a good sign.
Not that Caleb should give a shit. He wasn’t going to have a hand in this company beyond his current puff position as head of marketing. It’d been a token gesture after making Jason managing director. AKA next in line. Jason was Prince William and Caleb was the redheaded kid who’d only ever sit on the throne if everyone else kicked the bucket.
“Who’s looking daydreamy now?” Imogen said as the elevator pinged at the next floor. Two more people squeezed in.
“I’m thinking about regaining my personal space,” he quipped.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. The elevator jerked to a stop again and Imogen glanced at the sweaty-looking man standing on her other side. Her nose was unfortunately armpit-height. Her head swung to Caleb and she sighed, shuffling closer.
“Good choice,” he whispered.
“You’ll never be a good choice,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Just the lesser of two evils.”
Ouch. Imogen had never bothered to hide the fact that she—like everyone else—viewed him as a layabout who was riding on the coattails of his family name, never to achieve anything of his own. But the upside of that meant he could do whatever the hell he wanted without pressure to perform like his prize show-pony brother.
“I love it when you play hard to get.”
“I know every other female in this office seems to be under the deluded impression that you’re God’s gift to cha-chas, but I’m not blinded by a pretty face.” She folded her arms across her chest.
He leaned closer as people streamed past him to get out at the ground floor. For once he was grateful that the archive rooms were shoved way down in the basement. “Cha-chas? Really?”
“I’m supposed to take language advice from a guy who wears novelty socks?” She shook her head. “How am I supposed to take you seriously when you wear tacos on your feet?”
He pulled up the leg of his designer suit pants to reveal a bright red sock with a T. Rex print. The socks were his “thing.” Plus, they had the added benefit of pissing off his father. The old man had strict requirements for his sons’ appearances. Even on “casual days,” where the whole damn company could wear denim, Caleb and Jason were supposed to suit up like penguins. So the funky socks were his way of giving the middle finger. And frankly, they were a talking point. A conversation starter. And Caleb liked talking to people.
“You know I only wear the tacos on Taco Tuesday.” He grinned. “Besides, how does my sense of fashion have anything to do with your inability to correctly name your body parts?”
“What do you want me to call it?” She turned her nose up but some of the bravado had disappeared. The pink flush in her cheeks didn’t match the defiant expression.
“How about you use the proper term?” They were alone in the elevator now, but Caleb continued to whisper as though there were people listening. “Pussy.”
Was it his imagination or did a tremor run through her? The pink turned from a sheer tint to bright splotches on her cheeks. “That’s highly inappropriate,” she spluttered. “And the proper term is vagina, not pussy.”
She blinked, as though surprised by her own words. Caleb grinned. “Did I succeed in getting the Prim Miss Hargrove to use a naughty word?”
“You’re a bad influence,” she said as the elevator came to its final stop. The doors slid open and she marched out ahead of him, her sensible low-heeled pumps click-clacking against the polished floor.
“You say that like it’s news.” He followed her, a step behind so he could watch her hips sway as she walked.
Her skirt wasn’t exactly tight fitting, but he knew for a fact that her shapely legs extended up to a pert backside. That beneath the crisp white shirt she hid a pair of perfect, bouncy breasts. That underneath all that spit and polish, the girl had a tattoo of a diamond on the side of her rib cage. He’d seen it once, during a team-building day when they’d been at a corporate retreat. She’d had on a basic black swimsuit that kept everything covered, but when she’d fallen off her paddleboard he’d caught a glimpse of it.
And ever since he’d been on a mission to find out more about Imogen Hargrove.
CHAPTER TWO (#u27465c54-0579-5814-9782-1841e0cc096a)
IMOGEN UNLOCKED THE door to the archive room and held it open for him, making a sweeping gesture with her hand as though she were leading him into a ballroom. “Now hurry up. It’s home time.”
Caleb chuckled to himself as he started hunting for the box of archived promotional materials. “You never did answer my question.”
“Which one?”
“About whether you had a date tonight.” He pulled the lid off a box and rifled through the contents. Nope, not that one.
“Why do you care about my love life?” She leaned against a steel rack that housed row after row of identical brown boxes. The way she folded her arms under her bust made the buttons strain on her shirt. “It’s not as interesting as yours.”
“Your love life isn’t interesting because you keep turning me down.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re all talk, Caleb. You make these pithy remarks and dirty little jokes but you haven’t actually asked me out. I’m not sure I would go so far as to use the C-word, but...”
“The C-word?”
“Chicken.”
Was the Prim Miss Hargrove calling his bluff? He raised a brow. “You sure I haven’t asked you out?”
“Nope, not once. And I know you have asked out other women in the office. Tiffany from accounts. Stella from payroll.” She ticked the names off with her fingers. “Bethany from the assistant pool. She was a temp, but I’m still counting it.”
“I had no idea you were keeping track.” That pleased him greatly. “Are you aware they all said yes?”
“I am. Seems nobody turns you down.”
“Except you.”
“I haven’t turned you down.” She clicked her nails against the metal shelf behind her. “Yet.”
“Yet.”
“You’re too busy beating around the bush to ask.”
“But you would turn me down?” He rifled through another box, acutely aware that he was being watched. “And stop staring at my ass.”
“Excuse me,” she spluttered. “I am not staring at your ass.”
She totally was. He could see her in the reflection off the thick poles that stabilised the shelves. “I should have HR write you up for that.”
“See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.” She threw her hands up in the air. “You’re all talk, no action. Face it, I could unbutton my shirt right now and you wouldn’t do a damn thing about it.”
Ka-ching! “Try me.”
He turned and leaned against the shelving unit, mimicking her pose. The crappy florescent lighting of the archive room did nothing to hide the delicious flush in Imogen’s cheeks. The colour spread all the way down her neck, and he imagined farther past the modest neckline of her shirt.
“It’s an expression,” she muttered.
“Now who’s all talk?”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You think I’m a chicken?”
“Free range, obviously. Possibly organic.” He grinned. “Definitely one hundred percent chicken.”
She licked her lips. Stalling. “There are cameras in here.”
“So turn the light off. Dad’s big on security but he’s too tight to spring for infrared.” He waited for her to back down. “No one will know.”
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of the exercise?”
Exercise. Like they were talking about a bloody fire drill. “I can see with my hands.”
She sucked in a quick breath. “You’re so full of it.”
“Think that honour goes to you, Miss Hargrove.” He laughed. “You talk a big game, but the second I try to pull the trigger you’re coming up with excuse after excuse. Don’t worry. I’m disappointed but I’ll live.”
Her nostrils flared. This was how things always were between them—simultaneously wary and oh so interested. Truth was he hadn’t ever asked her out. Because he knew what the answer would be. But today she’d decided to play his game. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t going to question it.
“Ugh, I’m sick of men acting interested and then backing off the second any conversation happens.” She stalked over to the door and Caleb was sure she was about to leave. But then the light went off. “Am I really that boring?”
Holy shit. Was this happening? The sound of fabric rustling in the dark got him hard as stone in an instant. He blinked, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the dark. But the archive room was like an underground cell. Not even a crack of light slipped in from the hallway outside.
“Stay by the door,” he said. He walked around the perimeter of the room, his hands trailing along the edge of the shelves so he knew where he was. “And don’t turn that light back on.”
Silence. For a second there was nothing. Then his hands brushed something warm. Bare skin.
“Found you,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “My, my. The Prim Miss Hargrove knows how to play a game of truth or dare.”
“Just dare,” she said. He stepped closer, his hand brushing her bare skin again. The area felt flat, possibly her stomach. God, he wanted to touch all of her. “And I play to win.”
She stayed stock still as his hand travelled up. There was a curve, something hard beneath her soft skin. Rib cage. Then his fingertips brushed over something soft and textured. Lace. The swell of her breast filled his palm perfectly—firm and round. His thumb grazed over a hard nipple and his cock shifted in response.
Imogen made a soft, strangled sound and it was like an arrow of excitement straight through him. How many times had he thought about doing this with her? How many times had he wondered what her soft, curvy body would feel like under his hungry grasp? It would be so easy to back her up against the door and lift her leg over his hip.
“See,” she said, though her voice trembled as his thumb brushed her nipple again. “Told you I’m not all talk.”
Caleb opened his mouth to respond when a loud knock came down on the other side of the door. The thud was so hard it seemed to rattle the door in its hinges. “Hello? This is Jim from security. Everything okay in there? We saw the lights go out on the security monitor.”
Fuck. He hadn’t thought anyone would be watching them.
“We’re fine!” Imogen’s shrill voice made Caleb wince. Then she shoved him away from her with one hand. “Just testing some new glow-in-the-dark promo items.”
A second later the light flicked back on and Imogen was buttoned up as if their game had never taken place. She yanked the door open and gave the security guard a charming smile. “Sorry, we should have warned you. We needed to test that the items glowed properly and the rooms upstairs don’t get dark enough.”
The security guard raised a brow as though he didn’t really believe the story, but she didn’t give him a chance to ask any more questions before marching out of the room, leaving both Caleb and the security guard in her dust.
* * *
Caleb pulled into the sweeping driveway of his parents’ Albert Park mansion with his head still spinning from the incident in the archive room. He needed to put it out of his mind, though, because it was family dinner night. And that meant being on his A-game.
It looked as though Jason had already arrived, since his brother’s black BMW was parked out front. It sat next to his mother’s gunmetal Mercedes and his father’s silver Audi. God, it was like someone had done a photo shoot of the world’s most boring vehicles.
He pulled his candy-apple-red Alfa Romeo into the empty spot next to the Merc. Like most things about Caleb’s life, it didn’t fit in with the rest of his family. In his world, he wasn’t the black sheep. More like lime green with purple polka dots.
“About time,” his brother called from the front door. “I thought we’d have to start without you.”
“That would make a change. Since when am I the last to arrive?”
Caleb and his mother often jokingly made bets about who would be later to dinner—Gerald or Jason. They were two peas in a pod, unable to tear themselves away from work even with the promise of a home-cooked meal. Well, a meal cooked in their home, anyway. No one had cooked in that house but their personal chef, Luis, since they moved in a decade ago.
“I went to the finance town hall and it finished up a little early. So, I stayed for a drink and then came straight over.” His brother slapped Caleb on the back as he entered the house. “Thought it might be nice not to hold up the show, for once.”
“And Dad’s here already?” They walked through the foyer and into the open-plan dining and living room. His parents were already seated, a bottle of wine open between them.
“Yeah, the negotiations turned out fine.”
Of course they did. There weren’t many people who could face down Gerald Allbrook and come out on top. His father had intimidation down to a fine art. The only difference between him and a mob boss was that he didn’t need henchmen. Or a gun.
“What held you up?” Jason asked.
“Had to get something from the archive room.” Caleb grinned at the memory. “Since you and Dad were gone, I had to get a key from Imogen.”
“You still don’t have a key?” Jason raised a brow. “Get Imogen to cut one for you.”
The whole key issue was representative of Caleb’s relationship with his father. Gerald had made a big song and dance about only wanting three keys and it turned out the old man trusted his assistant more than his youngest son.
“All good, mate,” he said loud enough for his father to hear. “It’s never a hardship to visit Dad’s lovely assistant.”
Gerald grunted from the table. His mother jumped up and enveloped Caleb into a hug—her earrings made jingling sounds as she squeezed him tight. The familiar scent of her perfume immediately lifted his mood.
“What’s that about Imogen?” she said. “Oh, we should have invited her for dinner.”
The Allbrooks were big fans of Imogen Hargrove. There’d been some chatter among staff that when Gerald had promoted her from the general assistant pool to be his dedicated executive assistant that it’d been due to her pretty face and shiny blond hair. But that rumour was quickly dispelled when it became evident that Imogen ran a tight ship and, despite being younger than almost everyone who worked at the company, she didn’t take shit from anyone. Not even Gerald himself. A fact that endeared her to Caleb greatly.
“I’m sure she’s got friends to hang out with.” Jason shook his head and pulled two beers from the fridge. He popped the caps and handed one bottle to Caleb. “Or her own family.”
“Oh, I know. But it would be nice to see her.” She waved a hand in the air, a stack of gold bracelets clinking with the movement. Caleb smiled. His mother was like a one-woman band with all the noise she made—she was always humming or wearing something that chimed when she walked. “Maybe we’d see her more often if you asked her out on a date.”
“Not sure how Dad would feel about that.” Jason’s eyes shifted to their father, who grunted. “Good assistants don’t grow on trees.”
Caleb’s stomach revolted against the idea. It was stupid. Outside their quick grope in a darkened room, they were hardly an item. And Jason and Imogen were about as perfectly matched as two people could be. They were both driven, serious types set on conquering the world. But the moment he even thought about his brother’s hands on her, it was like Caleb’s brain went into meltdown mode. An unfamiliar roar of jealousy surged through his body, squeezing his muscles and tightening his hands into fists.
