To be specific I am:
Homeless—my scumbag boyfriend, Steve, of three years has just dumped me for his ex—Simone—and thrown me out of the flat we shared. So I am currently living with my BFF—and, whilst I love Mel like the sister I never had, I can only sleep on her pull-out bed for so long. I think I’m cramping her style.
Heartbroken—Steve ticked all the boxes on my ‘What I am looking for in a Man’ list. I thought he was The One.
Broke—I blew my savings on a romantic holiday for Steve and me. And, unbelievable though this may sound, he is now taking Simone. How humiliating is that?
It’s no wonder that I am fantasising in my dreams. My real life sucks.
Time for some ice cream, methinks!
Imogen x
JOE MCINTYRE LEANT back in the state-of-the-art office chair and picked up the CV from the glass-topped desk.
Imogen Lorrimer. Peter Langley’s PA for the past five years.
She of the raven-black hair and wide grey-blue eyes.
Faint irritation twanged Joe’s nerves; her looks were irrelevant. ‘No Mixing Business and Pleasure’. That was an absolute rule. Along with ‘One Night Only’ and ‘Never Look Back’. From The Joe McIntyre Book of Relationships. Short, sweet and easy to use.
Joe gusted out a sigh as his eyes zoned back to his emails. Leila again. Shame the manual didn’t tell him how to deal with a blast-from-the-past ex-girlfriend from a time he’d rather forget. But this was not the time to open that can of worms—his guilt was still bad enough that he had agreed to attend her wedding, but there was no need to think further about it. Right now he needed to think about this interview.
Imogen Lorrimer had snagged the edge of his vision the moment she’d entered the boardroom two days before, when he’d called an initial meeting of all Langley staff. He’d nodded impatiently at her to be seated and been further arrested by the tint of her eye colour as she’d perched on her chair and aimed a fleeting glance at him from under the straight line of her black fringe. For a fraction of a second he’d faltered in his speech, stopped in his tracks by eyes of a shade that was neither blue nor grey but somewhere in between.
Since then he’d stared at her more than once as she scuttled past him in the corridor, dark head down, clearly reluctant to initiate visual contact.
But he was used to people being nervous around him. After all he was a troubleshooter; people knew he had the power to fire them. A power he used where necessary—had in fact already used that morning. So if firing Imogen Lorrimer would benefit Langley Interior Designs he wouldn’t hesitate. However attractive he found her.
As if on cue there was a knock at the open office door and Joe looked up.
Further annoyance nipped his chest at the realisation that he had braced himself as if for impact. Imogen Lorrimer was nothing more than an employee he needed to evaluate. There was no need for this disconcerting awareness of her.
For a second she hesitated in the doorway, and despite himself his pulse-rate kicked up a notch.
Ridiculous. In her severely cut navy suit, with her dark hair pulled back into a sleek bun, she looked the epitome of professionalism. The least he could do was pretend to be the same. Which meant he had to stop checking her out.
‘Come in.’ He rose to his feet and she walked stiffly across the floor, exuding nervous tension.
‘Mr McIntyre,’ she said, her voice high and breathy.
‘Joe’s fine.’ Sitting down, he nodded at the chair opposite him. ‘Have a seat.’
Surely a simple enough instruction. But apparently not. Astonishment rose his brows as Imogen twitched, stared at the red swivel chair for a few seconds, glanced at him, and then back at the chair. Her strangled gargle turned into an unconvincing cough.
Joe rubbed the back of his neck and studied the apparently hypnotic object. As might be expected in an interior designer’s office, it was impressive. Red leather, stylish design, functional, comfortable, eye-catching.
But still just a chair.
Yet Imogen continued to regard it, her cheeks now the same shade as the leather.
Impatience caused him to drum his fingers on the desk and the sound seemed to rally her. Swivelling on her sensible navy blue pumps, she stared down at the glass desk-top, closed her eyes as though in pain, and then hauled in an audible breath.
‘Is there a problem?’ he asked. ‘Something wrong with the chair?’
‘Of course not. I’m sorry,’ she said as she lowered herself downwards onto the edge of the chair and clasped her hands onto her lap.
‘If it’s not the chair then it must be me,’ he said. ‘I get that you may be a bit nervous. But don’t worry. I don’t bite.’
Stricken blue eyes met his as she gripped the arms of the chair as though it were a rollercoaster. ‘Good to know,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Um … I’m not usually this nervous. It’s just … obviously … well …’ Pressing her glossy lips together tightly, she closed her eyes.
Exasperation surged through him. This was the woman Peter Langley had described as ‘a mainstay of the company’. It was no bloody wonder Langley was in trouble. Perhaps he should end this interview here and now.
He’d opened his mouth to do just that when she opened her eyes, gave a little wriggle in the chair, and—wham!
An image zigzagged across his brain—a picture of Imogen Lorrimer, standing up to wriggle her way right out of that navy skirt, shrug off the jacket and slowly unbutton the pearl buttons of her white shirt. Before shaking that dark hair free so it tumbled to her shoulders, then sitting back down on that damn red chair and crossing her legs.
A hoarse noise rasped from his throat. What the hell …? Why? Where on earth had that come from?
It was time to get a grip of this interview—and the conversation. A sigh escaped her and for a second his gaze focused on her lips. Hell, this was not good. ‘Never Mix Business and Pleasure’ was a non-negotiable rule. His work ethic was sacrosanct—the thought of jeopardising his reputation and ruining his business the way his father had done was enough to bring him out in hives.
So this awareness had to be nixed—no matter how inexplicably tempting Imogen Lorrimer was. His libido needed an ice bath or a night of fun. Preferably the latter—a nice, relaxed, laid-back evening with a woman unconnected to any client. Someone who could provide a no-strings-attached night of pleasure.
In the meantime he needed to concentrate on the matter in hand.
What had Imogen said last? Before she’d frozen into perpetual silence.
‘It’s just … obviously … what?’ he growled.
Imogen caught her bottom lip in her teeth and bit down hard; with any luck the pain would recall her common sense. If it were logistically possible to boot herself around the room she would, and her fingers tingled with the urge to slap herself upside the head.
Enough.
She had had enough of herself.
It was imperative that she keep her job. For herself, but also because if she were here she could do everything in her power to make sure this man didn’t shut Langley down.
Peter and Harry Langley had been more than good to her—the least she could