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For the love of Mike … This was so off the business plan he might as well file for bankruptcy right now.
Curving his fingers firmly round the edge of his desk, he adhered his feet to the plush carpet and forced calm to his vocal cords. ‘My job is to make sure that Harry has a viable company to come back to. I am not out to destroy Langley. That’s not how I operate.’
‘That’s not what your reputation says.’
Disbelief clouded her blue eyes with grey and the disdain in her expression caused renewed affront to band round his chest.
‘Imogen, there are some companies that even I can’t salvage. But if you study my track record you will see that most of the companies I go to sort out get sorted out. Not shut down. My reputation is that I’m tough. I’ll make the unpopular decisions no one wants to make because they let sentiment and friendship cloud their perspective. I don’t.’
A small frown creased her brow. ‘So you’re telling me you’re cold and heartless but you get results?’
‘Yes. Peter and Harry wouldn’t be able to let Graham go. I can. They, you and Captain Kirk may not like my methods, but I will save Langley.’
Annoyance at the whole conversation hit him—talk about getting overheated. Who did he think he was? The corporate version of the Lone Ranger? He’d spent the better part of the past half an hour justifying his actions, and he was damned if he knew why. Anyone would think he cared about her opinion of him.
‘Now, can you please sit down so we can get some work done?’
At least that way the bottom half of her would be obscured from sight and his blood pressure would stay on the chart.
Imogen dropped down onto the chair. Joe’s words were ringing in her head—and there was no doubting his sincerity. So, whilst she saw him as the villain of the piece he saw himself as the hero.
She chewed her bottom lip—was there any chance that he was right? Then she remembered Harry Langley’s pale face, blending in with the colour of his hospital pillow. His slurred voice shaking with impotent anger as he vowed to put things right.
She thought of the size of Graham’s mortgage, his pride that his wife could be a stay-at-home mum if she wanted … of Maisey’s tears when she’d phoned her on the way here from the hospital …
All those people suffering because of the man sitting opposite her.
Yet a worm of doubt wriggled into her psyche. His deep voice had been genuine when he’d spoken of the necessity of his cuts, the bigger picture, his desire to save Langley.
But, hell, that didn’t mean she had to like him. Nonetheless …
‘Imogen.’
His impatient growl broke into her reverie.
‘Did you hear a word I said?’
‘Sorry. I was thinking it must be hard to always be seen as the villain,’ she replied.
‘Doesn’t bother me.’ A quizzical curve tilted his lip. ‘You starting to feel sorry for me now?’
‘Of course not.’
The idea was laughable; Joe McIntyre didn’t need sympathy. He needed to be shaken into common sense and out of her dreams.
‘Well, tonight we need to at least call a truce. You acting as though I am some sort of corporate monster will do more damage to Langley than I can. So you need to play nice.’
Wrinkling her nose in a way that she could only hope indicated distaste, she nodded. Instinct told her a truce with this man would be dangerous, but he was right: they could hardly attend the award ceremony sparring with each other.
‘As long as you know I am playing. As in pretending.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, his voice so dry it was practically parched. ‘Message received, loud and clear. The truce is temporary. Now, can we get on with it? I’ve ordered a taxi to take us to the hotel at seven, and I want to go through Peter’s client list with you before then.’
An hour later Imogen put her pen down. ‘I think that’s it,’ she said.
Flexing her shoulders, she looked across at him. Big mistake. Because now she couldn’t help but let her gaze linger on the breadth of his chest under the snowy-white dress shirt and the tantalising hint of bare skin on show where he hadn’t bothered doing up the top buttons.
Looking up, she caught a sudden predatory light in his brown eyes. A light that was extinguished almost before she could be sure it had been there, but yet sent a shiver through her body.
‘You’ve done a great job.’ Pulling at the sheaf of paper she’d scribbled on, he glanced down at her notes.
‘Thank you. I’ll type those up for you first thing tomorrow. The notes indicate what each project was, how many times they’ve used us, and a few personal bits about them. Not personal personal, but …’
Babble-babble-babble. One probably imagined look and she’d dissolved into gibberish.
‘Things that show I’m not delivering the same spiel to each client,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I need.’
He stared down at the paper and cleared his throat, as if searching for something else to say. Could he be feeling the same shimmer of tension she was?
‘So … according to this, you’ve done a lot of actual design work.’
‘Er … yes … I told you I help out.’
‘I didn’t realise how much. Why haven’t you put all the project work you’ve done on your CV? Or, for that matter, why haven’t you put things on a more formal footing? I’m sure Peter would agree to sponsor you so you could go to college.’
‘That’s not the way I want my career to go.’
It was a decision made long ago. What she prized above all else was security—a job she enjoyed, but not one that would rule her life. She’d seen first-hand the disastrous consequences of a job that became an obsession, and she wasn’t going there.
‘Why not? You’ve got real talent and great client liaison skills. Everyone I’ve spoken to so far has only had good things to say about you—even Mike Anderson.’ He nodded at the paper. ‘From everything you’ve written there, it seems clear they’ll all be the same.’
Imogen couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips as she savoured his words, absorbed them into her very being. ‘Everyone? Even Mike Anderson? For real?’
‘For real.’
He smiled back and, dear Lord above, what a smile it was. Instinct told her it rarely saw the light of day—and what a good thing that was for the female population. Because it was the genuine make-your-knees-go-weak article.
The moment stretched, the atmosphere thickening around them, blanketing them …
‘So what do you think?’ Joe asked.
‘About what?’ Focus, Imo.
‘Changing career? Within Langley if it remains a viable option. Or elsewhere.’
Forcing herself to truly concentrate on his question, she let the idea take hold. New Imogen Lorrimer—wearer of red dresses and trainee interior designer. Yeah, right. There was no version of Imogen who would leap out of her comfort zone like that.
And she was fine with that. More than fine. The whole point of a comfort zone was that it was comfortable.
‘Not for me, thank you. I’m very happy as I am.’
End of discussion; there was no need for this absurd urge to justify herself.
Glancing at her watch, she rose to her feet and pushed the chair backwards. ‘Look at the time. I need to get ready before the taxi gets here.’
An audible hitch of breath was her only answer, and she looked up from her watch to see dark brown eyes raking over her. Without her permission her body heated up further—a low, warm glow in her tummy to accompany the inexplicable feeling of disappointment at a decision she knew to be right.
‘You look pretty ready to me,’ he drawled.
Was he flirting with her? Was she dreaming?
An unfamiliar spark, no doubt ignited by the sheer effrontery of the dress, lit up a synapse in her brain. Hooking a lock of hair behind her ear, she fought the urge to flutter her eyelashes.
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘If you want.’
There was that look again—and this time she surely wasn’t imagining the smoulder. Even if she had no idea how to interpret it.
‘It’s also an observation.’
As he rose to his feet and picked up a black tie from the back of his chair Imogen gulped. Six foot plus of lean, honed muscle.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘seeing as you had a bathroom break a quarter of an hour ago, my guess is that you’re avoiding this discussion. True or false?’
Mesmerised, she watched his strong fingers deftly pull the tie round his neck before he turned and picked his jacket up.
‘False …’ she managed.
Right now she needed to get away from the pheromone onslaught—she wasn’t avoiding the discussion. Much …
‘If you say so.’ Slinging the jacket over his shoulder, he headed towards her. ‘And, Imogen? One more thing?’
‘Yes?’
Oh, hell—he was getting closer. Why weren’t her feet moving? Heading towards the door and the waiting taxi? Instead her ridiculous heels appeared superglued to the carpet as her heart pounded in her ribcage. A hint of his earthy scent tickled her nostrils, and still her stupid feet wouldn’t obey her brain’s commands.
His body was so warm … his eyes held hers in thrall. Hardly able to breathe, she clocked his hand rising, and as he touched her lower lip heat shot through her body.
A shadow fleeted across his face and he stepped backwards, his arm dropping to his side.
‘Don’t forget to smile,’ he said.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_8261aaf3-3e9d-546e-9c8e-da5fb20621a6)
IMOGEN DUCKED INTO a corner of the crowded room, needing a moment to breathe after an hour of smiling, socialising and being visible. The set-up was gorgeous—worthy of the five-star hotel where the event was being held. Glorious flower arrangements abounded, in varying shades of pink to fuchsia, layered with dark green foliage. Chandeliers glinted and black-suited waiters with pink ties appeared as if by magic with trays of canapés or a choice of pink champagne and sparkling grapefruit juice.
Surreptitiously she slipped one foot out of a peep-toe, six-inch heeled shoe. Flexing it with relief, she let her gaze unerringly sift through the crowds of beautiful professionals, slip over the fabulously decorated room, heady with the fragrance of the magnificent spring flower centre-pieces that adorned each table, and found the tall figure of Joe McIntyre.
If it really was Joe and not some sort of clone.
Because ever since they’d walked through the imposing doors of the hotel Joe had undergone some sort of transformation. It had been goodbye to her taxi companion, Mr Dark and Brooding, and hello Mr Suave as he networked the room, all professional charm and bonhomie, not a single frown in sight.
But worst of all had been his closeness, the small touches as he’d propelled her from person to person, dispensing confidence in Langley and an insider knowledge of interior design that was impressive.
Little surprise that he had gathered a gang of female groupies who were now hanging on to his every word adoringly.
‘What’s wrong, Imo? That’s a pretty hefty scowl. Contemplating the man who’ll bring Langley down?’
Shoving her foot back into her shoe, Imogen turned and plastered her best fake smile to her face. Great! The man she’d been avoiding all night: head of IMID, Langley’s chief competitor.
‘Evening, Ivan. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Bursting with health. Which is more than can be said for poor old Harry and Peter. How are they?’
Imogen’s skin crawled as Ivan Moreton’s grey eyes slid over her with almost reptilian interest. Ivan had no principles or scruples, and had engaged in so many underhand schemes to undercut and undermine Langley that she’d lost count.
His methods were unscrupulous, but legal. So to hear him stand there, full of spuriously concerned queries as to Peter and Harry made her blood sizzle. Especially when he looked as though he could barely stop himself from rubbing his hands together in glee.
‘Firmly on the road to recovery, thank you, Ivan. I’ll be sure to tell them you were asking as a further incentive to get them back into the office.’
To wipe that smug smirk off your face.
‘If, of course, they have an office to return to,’ Ivan said, with a wave in Joe’s direction. ‘Could be that Mr McIntyre will have sold it off.’
‘Joe wouldn’t do that.’ Imogen clamped her lips together; had there been a note of hero-worship in her voice? Please, no …
Ivan’s eyebrows rose. ‘Don’t be deceived by those rugged looks, Imo. Joe McIntyre will do what it takes. Though even he makes mistakes. You see, Graham Forrester now works for me—and he’s one very angry designer. Imagine offering him a salary cut. Graham said he’s never been so insulted in his life.’
Imogen blinked as she tried to process that little snippet of information.
True, Graham couldn’t afford a salary cut—but Peter had given Graham his first break, shown faith in him, showered him in pay rises. Shouldn’t loyalty count for something? At least enough for Graham not to feel insulted and maybe not go straight to Langley’s biggest competitor?
Or perhaps everyone else in the world got it except her? Were all capable of making executive decisions without sentiment?
Imogen took a step backwards, uncomfortably aware that whilst she had been thinking Ivan had stepped straight into her personal space. Enough so that now the coolness of the wall touched the bare skin on her back. If he came any closer, so help her, she’d either punch him on the nose or—better yet—take a step forward and pinion him with her heel.
‘Joe won’t be selling off the offices because there will be no need to,’ she stated. ‘Langley is still alive and kicking—and hopefully we’ll be kicking your sorry behind for a long time to come.’
‘Dream on, Imo. But I like your style.’
His cigarette-infused breath, tinted with alcohol, hit her cheek and she turned her face away.
‘When I buy Langley out I’ll put in a special bid for you.’
Ewwww. No one would thank her for creating a scene, but enough was enough. Imogen lifted her foot.
‘Sounds like you need to be talking to me, Ivan.’
