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