Breaking the Boss’s Rules Page 4

  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. Read the words again and gave a small whoop under her breath.

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘Yup. Look. That’s Richard. He and Crystal have bought a place in Paris and they want us to pitch for the job of doing it up.’ She continued reading. ‘He wants us—you and me—to meet him in Paris on Friday.’

  Joe and Imogen off to Paris. Be still her beating heart.

  Polite applause broke out around them as the first speaker mounted the podium.

  ‘That’s excellent news. You’d better book some tickets on the Eurostar, then.’

  Was that all he had to say? Was she the only one all of a flutter here? Of course she was. After all she was the one with the dream problem.

  Turning away from him, Imogen stared resolutely at the speaker and tried to focus on his words. For the rest of the evening she would focus on interior design. Not on the man sitting beside her.

  ‘Paris?’ A pyjama-clad Mel stared at her in sheer disbelief. ‘You are going to Paris with Joe McIntyre?’

  ‘Yes.’ Imogen snuggled back on the sofa and cradled her mug of hot chocolate. ‘Ironic, really. I practically begged Steve to take me there, but he wouldn’t. Said it held too many memories of Simone.’

  She took a gulp of hot chocolate and pushed away memories of just how much time she had spent choosing a cruise that didn’t contain any locations holding any memories of Simone. There was real irony for you. Because right this minute now Steve and Simone were on that luxury cruise, paid for with her hard-earned money, creating new memories.

  ‘I’d rather go with someone hot like Joe than Steve,’ Mel said musingly.

  ‘That’s plain shallow,’ Imogen said. ‘Heat level isn’t everything in a man, you know. There are other attributes that are way more important.’

  The sort of traits she looked for in a partner: kindness, stability, loyalty, security. More irony—how had she misjudged Steve so badly?

  Mel shook her head, blonde curls bobbing. ‘Not if you’re on a jaunt to Paris.’

  ‘It’s not a jaunt. It’s a business trip. We’re not even staying overnight. Joe is out of the office tomorrow, I’m meeting him at St Pancras Station on Friday late morning, then we’re coming back straight after our meeting.’

  ‘Tchah! Why don’t you book the wrong tickets by “mistake”? Then you could end up staying in a romantic hotel and …’

  ‘I’d end up fired.’

  Though for one stupid, insane moment her imagination had leapt in … She could see the hotel silhouetted on the Parisian horizon …

  Imogen drained her mug. ‘I’m for bed.’

  ‘Oh!’ Mel gave a gasp. ‘I was so gobsmacked by Paris I forgot to tell you. Your mum called—she said it was urgent. Not that sort of urgent,’ she added hastily, seeing panic grip her friend as she imagined the worst. ‘But she did say you needed to ring her back, no matter what time it was.’

  Imogen sighed. This wasn’t what she needed right now, but Eva Lorrimer hated being made to wait.

  Grabbing her mobile phone from the floor, she dialled her mother. ‘Hey, Mum. It’s me.’

  ‘Finally.’

  ‘Sorry. The awards ceremony finished late.’

  ‘I only hope you going means you’ll keep your job, Imogen. You make sure you impress Joe McIntyre. Somehow. Good PAs are two a penny, and now you’ve managed to lose Steve you will need to support yourself and—’

  ‘Mum. Mel said it was urgent?’ Surely reciting all Imogen’s shortcomings couldn’t be classed as imperative at past midnight. Even by Eva’s standards.

  ‘It is urgent. Steve has proposed to Simone on that cruise he’s taken her on. They’re getting married.’

  Breath whooshed out of her lungs; surely this was some sort of joke. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Clarissa rang me with the news.’

  Better and better—Imogen bit back a groan. Clarissa was Steve’s mother and one of Eva’s old schoolfriends. If you could call her a friend. No doubt she had rung up to gloat.

  ‘It’s all over social media too,’ Eva continued. ‘Simone even put out a message thanking you for providing such a wonderful setting.’

  Excellent. Now she’d be a laughing stock to everyone who knew her. Humiliation swept over her in a wave of heat that made her skin clammy.

  Eva gusted out a sigh. ‘That could have been you if you’d played your cards right. You could have a man to rely on—a man to support you and keep you secure. You should have done more to keep him, Imogen.’

  Like what? She’d done everything she could think of to make Steve happy. Obviously she’d failed. Big-time. Steve himself had told her that she wasn’t enough for him.

  But instead of the usual self-criticism a sudden spark of anger ignited in the pit of her stomach. The bastard had actually proposed to another woman on the cruise she had paid for using her hard-earned savings. What would he do next? Send her the bill for the engagement ring?

  ‘Actually, Mum, maybe I’m better off without him.’

  ‘Steve was the best thing that ever happened to you, Imogen. Yes, I’d have preferred a fast-track banking career for you, but the next best thing would have been marrying a man with one …’

  As Eva’s voice droned on Imogen ground her molars and waited for the right moment to intercede.

  ‘Mum. I understand how you feel.’ That her daughter had let her down yet again. ‘But I’m exhausted. We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

  Imogen disconnected the call and resisted the urge to bang her head against the wall.

  Joe glanced at his watch, and then around the busy Victorian-style St Pancras station. Men and women tapped onto tablets, sipped at coffee or shopped in the boutiques. But there was no sign of I
mogen. Where the hell was she?

  Ah. There she was: striding across the crowded lounge, briefcase in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, dove-grey trouser suit, hair tugged up into a simple ponytail.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ she stated as she came to a halt next to him.

  Joe frowned; her tone indicated not so much as a hint of sincerity. In fact it pretty much dared him to comment. Imogen seemed … He glanced at her coffee cup as she tugged the lid off. Full. Yet she seemed wired—there was a pent-up energy in the tapping of her foot, an unnecessary force as she dropped her briefcase onto a chair.

  ‘No problem. We’ve still got three minutes till we need to board.’

  ‘Good.’ She took a gulp of coffee. ‘Then I have time to grab a pain au chocolat. Get myself in the mood.’

  Because what she really needed right now was sugar on top of caffeine.

  Joe swallowed the words. As a man who had brought up twin sisters, he knew exactly when it was best to keep his opinions to himself.

  Clearly something had happened in the day and a half since he’d last seen her. But equally clearly Imogen’s private life was nothing to do with him.

  So he was not going to ask her what was wrong; he was going to stick to business.

  Focusing on her back, he followed Imogen through the departure lounge to the ticket barriers, where they were smiled through by a svelte member of Eurostar staff. They moved along the bustling platform and onto the train.

  He waited until she’d tucked her briefcase next to her and sat down opposite him, her eyes still snapping out that ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe.

  ‘So, could you brief me on our meeting with Richard Harvey? Has he told you anything about the project at all?’

  ‘Nope. All I know is that it’s a place in Paris. He’s also said he’s giving Graham a chance to pitch for it as well, because it seems only fair.’ She frowned. ‘My guess is Graham got on the phone and guilted him into it with a sob story about how you had brutally thrown him out.’

  Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought you agreed with him?’

  ‘I do, but …’ Her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug and her eyes sparked. ‘If you must know Graham rang me yesterday, and he was really vindictive. Not only about you but about Peter too—and that’s not fair. It’s not as though Peter sacked him. And even you offered him a reduced salary.’

  ‘You told me yourself about his mortgage and his wife; you can’t blame him for accepting a more lucrative offer and now being loyal to Ivan.’

  ‘I can blame whoever I like for whatever I like.’

  Joe blinked at the sheer vehemence of her tone.

  ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘Ivan is an out-and-out toad.’ The description brought a small quirk to his lips until she said, ‘And you aren’t going to let him buy out Langley, are you?’

  Damn. He’d hoped she’d forgotten that, but maybe this was why she was on the warpath.

  ‘That’s not something I can discuss with you.’

  ‘But … you can’t be seriously thinking about it. It would kill Harry off.’

  ‘If a buy-out is offered I have to consider it.’

  She opened her mouth as if to argue but inhaled deeply instead. ‘OK. Fine. Clearly you don’t have a better nature to appeal to, so tell me what I can do to help avert a buy-out.’ Her fingers encircled the plastic table’s edge and her nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Because I’d rather starve in a ditch than work for Ivan.’

  He could hardly blame her; a sudden wave of aversion washed over him at the very thought. Irritation with himself clenched his jaw. If the buy-out was best for Langley that was the road he’d take. Full stop.

  ‘That will be your choice. My decision will be based on what’s best for Langley as a business.’

  Eyes narrowed, she tapped a foot on the carriage floor. ‘If we win this Paris project will that make Langley safe from Ivan?’

  ‘Depends on the full extent of the project. But, yes, it would help.’

  ‘So you’re fully on board with going all out to win it? You haven’t already decided that the buy-out is the way to go?’

  Joe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why didn’t she get that the decision was nothing to do with her?

  ‘Can we drop the subject of the buy-out and concentrate on winning the Richard Harvey project? What else can you tell me about Richard and this meeting that will help our pitch? Is he bringing wife number seven?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve told you her name is Crystal—and obviously don’t make a big deal of her being number seven.’

  Joe snorted. ‘Well, gee, Imogen—thanks for the advice. My plan was to ask for a rundown of each and every wife along with a view of the wedding albums.’ He gusted out a sigh. ‘I’ll happily avoid the entire topic of marriage.’

  Imogen shook her head. ‘Richard likes talking about marriage. Like I said, he’s incurably romantic—which I suppose is why he’s bought a place in Paris. As far as he is concerned he has finally fulfilled his dream—he’s found The One. So probably best not to share your “dreams should be abandoned” theory.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Even if I’m beginning to wonder if you’re right.’

  ‘Me? Right? Wonders will never cease.’ Curiosity won out over common sense. ‘What brought that on?’

  Opening her mouth as if to answer, her gaze skittered away as she clearly thought better of it and shook her head. ‘You know, the daft dreams we have when we are young. I once thought I’d become an artist—had some stupid vision of myself in smock and beret, sketching on the streets of Paris or attending the Royal Academy, studying the masters in Italy, exhibiting in Rome—’ She broke off. ‘Absurd.’

  Yet the look in her eyes, the vibrant depth of her tone, showed him that the dream had been real.

  Lord knew he could empathise with giving up a dream. For a second he was transported back to a time when the world had truly been his oyster. He could smell the sea spray, taste the tang of salt in his mouth, feel the thump of exhilaration as he rode a wave. The incredible freedom, the knowledge that he would win the championships, would get sponsored, would …

  Would end up dealing with bereavement, loss and responsibility.

  Whoa. There was no point going there, and guilt pronged his chest because he had. The decisions he had made back then had been the right ones and he had no regrets about making them. His sisters had needed him and nothing else had mattered. Then or now.

  Shaking off the past, Joe focused on Imogen—on the dark tendrils of hair that had escaped her ponytail and now framed her oval face. On the blue-grey of her eyes, the straight, pert nose and lush, full lips.

  ‘So what happened to those dreams?’ he asked quietly. Had they crashed and burned like his?

  Picking up her cup, she rested her gaze on his mouth. ‘Common sense prevailed. Bills need to be paid … security needs to be ensured. Starving in a garret sounds very romantic, but in real life I like my food too much. So I ended up opting for a PA role. I’m more than happy with that.’

  Coffee splashed onto the table as she thunked the cup down, the black droplets pooling on the plastic. Instantly she grabbed a napkin to absorb the liquid.

  For a moment Joe was tempted to argue. She didn’t look that happy to him. But that really was nothing to do with him.

  ‘Good,’ he said instead. ‘If you think of anything else to do with Richard let me know. Anything that could give us the edge.’

  ‘I can tell you more about him, if that would help. He’s very generous—almost too much so. He likes throwing his money around and it can come across as a bit in your face, or as if he’s showing off. But it’s not like that. I think he thinks he has to buy friendship. Reading between the lines, I think he had a pretty rotten childhood. So, yes, he’s generous. On the flip side of that he does have a bit of a chip on his shoulder, and that can make him take offence easily. He’s also a touch eccentric—there’s a story about how he actually locked three rival advertising executives in a room together and gave them
an hour to come up with a snappy slogan. Said he was fed up with long meetings and endless presentations and statistics.’

  Joe drummed his fingers on the table. Clearly the two of them had got on—that would be an advantage. What else could they use?

  ‘Have you been to Paris before?’ he asked.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Has Graham?’

  A frown creased her forehead. ‘I’m not sure … Oh, yes, actually he has.’ An indecipherable expression flitted across her features. ‘He proposed to his wife atop the Eiffel Tower.’

  Was it his imagination or was there a quiver of bitterness in her voice?

  ‘Is that the sort of thing that will impress Richard Harvey?’

  ‘Yes, but I don’t think there’s much we can do about that. Unless, of course, you ….?’

  ‘No. I’ve never proposed to anyone in Paris.’

  For a second the memory of his one and only proposal entered his head and he couldn’t prevent the bone-deep shudder that went through him. The humiliation of being on bended knee, Leila’s look of sheer horror, the violin faltering to a stop in the background … Whoa. Not going there.

  ‘But,’ he said. ‘I do think we need to do something to impress Richard. Something that will appeal to his eccentricity more than a lengthy proposal.’

  ‘Such as …?’

  ‘What time are we meeting him?’

  ‘Six p.m.’

  Joe looked at his watch. ‘So we’ll have a few hours when we get there. Let’s go to Montmartre.’

  Confusion furrowed her brow further. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it will appeal to Richard’s sense of the romantic as well. We can tell him we’ve soaked in the ambience, walked the streets of a place where great art has flourished. And …’ He shrugged. ‘For a few hours you can live your dream.’

  The words sounded way too significant.

  ‘I’ll even buy you a beret.’

  Live your dream.

  Imogen followed Joe across the bustling train station, revelling in the sound of French being spoken around her and inhaling the aroma of croissants and baguettes that was being emitted from patisseries and boulangeries. No matter what, she wasn’t going to let Steve’s actions spoil the next few hours and her chance to see a bit of Paris.