Time to channel New Imogen, who fantasised over gazillions of hot men and didn’t bat an eyelid.
She moistened her lips and attempted a smile.
Brown eyes locked with hers and for a heartbeat something flickered in their depths. A spark, an awareness—a look that made her skin sizzle. The sort of look that Dream Joe excelled in.
Then it was gone. Doused almost instantly and replaced by definitive annoyance, amplified by a scowl that etched his forehead with the sort of formidable frown that Real Joe no doubt held a first-class degree in.
Straightening her shoulders, she forced herself to meet his exasperated gaze. ‘I apologise, Joe. The past few weeks have been difficult and the result was an attack of nerves. I’m fine now, and I’d appreciate it if we could start again.’
‘Let’s do that.’ His words were emphatic as he gestured to her CV. ‘You’ve been Peter’s PA for five years—ever since you came out of college. He speaks very highly of you, so why so nervous?’
OK. Here goes.
There was no hiding the fact that she’d screwed up and, given that Joe had been on the premises for two days, there was little doubt he already knew about it. So it was bite the proverbial bullet time.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the Anderson project?’
‘Yes, I have.’
Stick to the facts, Imogen.
‘Then you know I made a pretty monumental mistake.’ Her stomach clenched as she relived the sheer horror. ‘I ordered the wrong fabric. Yards and yards of it. I didn’t realise I’d done that. The team went ahead and used it and the client ended up with truly hideous mustard-coloured curtains and coverings throughout his mansion instead of the royal gold theme we had promised him.’
A shudder racked her body as she adhered her feet in the thick carpet to prevent herself from swivelling in a twist of sheer discomfort on the chair. ‘Mistake’ was not supposed to be in the Imogen Lorrimer dictionary. To err was inexcusable; her mother had drummed that into her over and over.
‘It was awful. Even worse than …’ She pressed her lips together.
His eyes flickered to rest on her mouth and a spark ignited in the pit of her tummy.
‘Even worse than what?’ he demanded.
Nice one, Imogen. Now no doubt Joe was imagining a string of ditzy disasters in her wake.
Tendrils of hair wisped around her face as she shook her head, sacrificing the perfection of her bun for the sake of vehemence. ‘It doesn’t matter. Honestly. It’s nothing to do with work. Just a childhood memory.’
Joe raised his dark eyebrows, positively radiating scepticism. ‘You’re telling me that you have a childhood disaster that competes with a professional debacle like that?’
He didn’t believe her.
‘Yes,’ she said biting back her groan at the realisation she would have to tell him. She couldn’t risk him assuming she was a total mess-up. ‘I was ten and I came home with the worst possible report you could imagine.’
Imogen could still feel the smooth edges of the booklet in her hand; her tummy rolled in remembered fear and sadness. Keep it light, Imogen.
‘Having lied through my teeth all term that I’d been doing brilliantly, I’d pretty much convinced myself I was a genius—so I was almost as upset to discover I wasn’t as my mum was.’
The look of raw disappointment on Eva Lorrimer’s face was one that she would never forget, never get used to, no matter how many times she saw it.
‘Anyway …’ Imogen brushed the side of her temple in an attempt to sweep away the memory. ‘I had the exact same hollow, sinking, leaden feeling when I saw the mustard debacle.’
Joe’s brown eyes rested on her face with an indecipherable expression; he was probably thinking she was some sort of fruit loop.
‘But the point about the Andersen project is that it was a one-off. I have never made a mistake like that before and I can assure you that I never will again.’
Whilst she had no intention of excusing herself, seeing as the word ‘excuse’ also failed to feature in her vocabulary, she had messed up the day after Steve had literally thrown her onto the street so his ex-girlfriend could move back in. She’d reeled into work, still swaying in disbelief and humiliation. Not that she had any intention of sharing that with Joe; she doubted it would make any difference if she did. She suspected Joe didn’t hold much truck with personal issues affecting work.
Panic churned in her stomach. The Langleys wouldn’t want Joe to fire her. But Peter was in the midst of a breakdown and Harry was stable but still in Intensive Care after his heart attack; neither of them was in a position to worry about her.
Leaning forward, she gripped the edge of the desk. ‘I’m good at my job,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’ll do anything I can to help keep this company going until Peter and Harry are back.’
Including fighting this man every step of the way if he tried to tear apart what the Langley brothers had built up.
For a second his gaze dropped, and his frown deepened before he gave a curt nod.
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s move on. According to Peter this is a list of current projects and obligations.’ He pushed a piece of typewritten paper across the desk. ‘He doesn’t seem very sure it’s complete and he referred me to you.’
Imogen looked down at the list and tried to focus on the words and not on Joe’s hand. On his strong, capable fingers, the light smattering of hair, the sturdy wrists that for some reason she wanted so desperately to touch. Those hands that in her dreams had wrought such incredible magic.
Grinding her molars, she tugged the paper towards her. ‘I’ll check this against my organiser.’ She bent at the waist to pick up her briefcase. And frowned. Had that strange choking noise been Joe? As she sat up she glanced at him and clocked a slash of colour on his cheekbones.
Focus.
Imogen looked at the paper and then back at her organiser. ‘The only thing not on here is the annual Interior Design awards ceremony. It’s being held this Wednesday. Peter and Graham Forrester were meant to attend.’ She frowned. ‘Could be Peter forgot. Or he’s changed his mind because the client can’t make it. Or he’s too embarrassed to face everyone.’
Joe’s forehead had creased in a frown and his fingers beat a tattoo on the desk—and there she was, staring at those fingers again.
‘Tell me more about it.’
‘It’s a pretty prestigious event. We won in the luxury category for the interior of an apartment we did for Richard Harvey the IT billionaire. He commissioned us to create a love nest for his seventh wife.’
Joe’s brows hiked towards his hairline as he whistled. ‘Seven? The man must be a glutton for punishment.’
‘He’s a romantic,’ Imogen said. ‘You’ve got to admire that kind of persistence.’
‘No.’
‘No, what?’
‘No, I don’t have to admire it. It’s delusional. Sometimes dreams have to be abandoned because they aren’t possible.’
Easy for him to say—it was impossible to imagine a lean, mean corporate machine having any dreams.
‘Some dreams,’ she agreed. ‘But not all. I truly believe that if you persevere and try and you’re willing to compromise there is a person out there for everyone.’
After all, she had no intention of giving up finding a man to match