‘Don’t forget to smile,’ he said.
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.’
Imogen expelled a sigh of relief as she heard Joe’s drawl, and then she looked up and saw the glint of anger in his eyes. She spotted the set jaw and something thrilled inside her.
Get some perspective, Imo.
For a start she was quite capable of looking after herself, and had had a perfectly good self-defence plan. Plus, Ivan was planning a Langley buy-out—that was what she needed to be thinking about. Instead of going all gooey because Joe was being protective.
The interior designer spun round and held his hand out. ‘Joe. My friend. How are you doing? Imogen and I were just—’
‘I can see exactly what you were just doing, Ivan, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do it again.’
Ivan’s grey eyes flicked from Imogen to Joe. ‘You calling dibs, my friend?’
Imogen gave a small gasp. Please let it have sounded like outrage, not hope.
‘No.’ Joe stepped forward, his lips curling in a smile that held no mirth whatsoever. ‘But if you want to talk about Langley deal with me. Not anyone else.’
The interior designer gave a toss of his dyed blond hair and stepped backwards. ‘I’ll do that. I’ll get my PA to call your PA and set something up. I’m very interested in a buy-out.’
With that he turned and walked away.
‘You OK?’
‘I’m fine.’ Imogen waved away his look of concern. ‘Ivan Moreton is a sleazebag, and if you hadn’t turned up he’d have been on his way to A&E with a stiletto through his foot.’
This time Joe’s smile was real, and Imogen’s stomach rollercoastered, all focus leaving the building.
‘It’s time for the presentations,’ Joe said.
So not the moment to discuss the impossibility of an IMID buy-out; plus, it would best to do that out of Ivan’s range.
‘I’ll text Richard.’
‘Why? What happened to the romantic Parisian getaway?’
‘Nothing. He wants to show his support so I’ve arranged for him to be video conferenced in.’
‘Great idea? Yours?’
There was that warmth again at his words … She needed to stop being so damn needy of people’s approval. Just because praise had been a rarity in her childhood it didn’t mean she had to overreact to it.
‘Thanks,’ she said, as coolly as she could, and quickly bent over her phone to hide the flush of pleasure that touched her cheeks.
A minute later her phone vibrated and she glanced down at it and blinked.