Breaking the Boss’s Rules Read online

  The chance to live her dream.

  Oh, God. Her eyes snagged on the breadth of Joe’s back as he strode through the crowds He had no idea what he was suggesting; if she lived her X-rated dreams she’d be arrested.

  Her head whirled as a flutter of nerves rippled her tummy, her thoughts running amok as they made their way through the bustle of the Métro.

  Joe hadn’t so much as flirted with her, and yet … there was something. Something in the way his eyes rested on her that sent a shiver through her. Something … just something that was making her overheated imagination leap and soar.

  Something that was mixing with the anger at Steve that continued to burn inside her … something that was making her want to be different.

  Deliberately, she reached up and pulled the pins out of her hair, ran her fingers through it so that it rippled free to her shoulders. She felt Joe stiffen by her side, saw his hand clench around his broad thigh. Astounded by her own daring she oh, so casually allowed her leg to brush against his, revelling in the solid muscle. Then surprise shot out a tendril as a tremor ran through his body.

  What if … what if Joe was attracted to her? Even a little bit?

  Stop it, Imogen.

  That way lay madness. Joe McIntyre was a ruthless businessman and her temporary boss. Moreover he was responsible for sacking her friends and colleagues. Worst of all he was considering a buy-out by Ivan Moreton. Joe McIntyre was the enemy, and she’d do well to remember it.

  ‘Our stop,’ he said.

  They emerged into the late summer sunshine and Imogen tipped her face up and let the rays warm her. It was glorious, and the feel of the cobblestones through her sensible flat navy pumps seemed to send Parisian history straight to her very soul.

  Glancing up at Joe, she wondered if the surroundings were affecting him. Somehow he looked different—his mouth a touch less grim, his whole body more relaxed. His sleeves were rolled up and her eyes snagged on his forearms and she gulped. A sudden crazy urge to capture his toned muscular glory on canvas touched her. Montmartre—home to so many artistic greats—must be getting to her.

  ‘OK. Where first?’ Joe asked.

  She swivelled to look at the imposing outline of the Sacré Coeur, looming on the Paris skyline in its sugar-white beauty. Considered the cemetery where so many artistes were buried. Then there were all the shops, the tabacs, the boutiques, the Moulin Rouge, the …’

  Yet right now all she could focus on was Joe.

  Think, Imogen. Focus.

  ‘Let’s get lost in the alleyways—randomly explore. And I’ve heard of a wonderful fabric shop that is here somewhere—maybe we’ll find that. Richard would appreciate that. If we can I’d love to go the Sacré Coeur as well.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ he said as he tugged his dark blue tie off and shoved it into his jacket pocket, then freed the top button of his shirt.

  To reveal the bronzed column of his throat.

  Licking suddenly parched lips, Imogen knew they had to get moving before she threw her arms around him and pressed her lips to the warmth of his skin. Yet the dangerous attraction tilted through her, urging her to throw caution to the wind. Be shocking, be different.

  Make a total arse of herself.

  Any minute now Joe was going to sense how she was feeling, see her quiver with desire, and then mortification would consume her. She’d made enough of a fool of herself over Steve to last a lifetime.

  ‘This way,’ she said brightly, and plunged into an alleyway, barely aware of the bright colours and bustling crowds.

  The key was to keep talking until she’d got her head on straight. Dredging her brain for any information she had on Montmartre, she kept up a flow of conversation. ‘Such an amazing place. Did you know there are so many artists who lived and worked and are buried here …? Not only artists … Have you heard of Dalida …? Iconic singer … but so tragic … Amazing how many artists are tragic, really … My father was a big fan of Degas … and Zola … Isn’t it so wonderful to be here …? I really feel we are getting the real Montmartre vibes—’

  ‘Imogen.’ Joe’s deep voice broke into her words. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Of course. I’m just making conversation.’

  ‘I think you’ll find you’re making a monologue,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well. It’s so super …’

  Super? Really, Imogen?

  ‘To be here. We’re getting the real Montmartre vibes. I guess I’m a little overexcited.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, really,’ he said, and now his rich voice was laced with amusement. ‘This is definitely the essence of Montmartre, all right.’

  ‘Huh …?’

  Foreboding raised the hair on her arms as she looked round. Oh, crap. Crap. Crappity-crap. Garish neon signs vied with more artistic depictions, but it was abundantly clear exactly where they were.

  The entire street was filled with sex shops.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  NOW WHAT?

  Soon enough she’d be able to boil a kettle on her cheeks—not that a kettle would be easy to come by in a sex shop.

  This was the stuff of nightmares; they couldn’t just have found a street full of museums, could they? Or artists sketching people? Oh, no! Or this couldn’t have happened when she was with Mel. Or on her own. With anyone other than Joe McIntyre.

  Her nerves jangled with irritation as he looked round with an interest he didn’t even bother to hide before turning his gaze back on her.

  Damn the blush that still burnt her cheeks, and damn her prudish upbringing that had left her believing that sex was something dangerous.

  Not that she blamed her mother; Eva Lorrimer had fallen prey to lust and then fallen pregnant—an event that had thoroughly derailed her life. She’d ended up married to a penniless artist she’d had nothing in common with—a man she’d considered beneath her socially and intellectually whom she had never forgiven. Any more than she’d forgiven herself.

  Little wonder she’d drummed into Imogen the need never to let herself be dazzled by looks or taken in by ‘the physical side of things’. Her mother would have hustled her out with here, hands over her eyes. But Eva wasn’t here.

  Plus it was ridiculous, really—this insane feeling of awkwardness. Looking round, it was more than clear to her that no one else was embarrassed. Couples strolled with their arms wrapped round each other’s waists, stopping to look into windows. A group of women whose pink bunny rabbit outfits indicated that they were without doubt on a hen party laughed raucously, the noise carrying on the afternoon air. Chic single women, debonair single men, groups of chatting tourists all smiled, sauntered on completely at ease. Whereas she stood here like some prim and proper maiden from Victorian times.

  The amused look that Joe gave her didn’t help one bit, ruffling her self-annoyance into a desire to … to … to what? Kick him. Very mature, Imo.

  ‘I take it you didn’t plan on visiting this particular bit of the district.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, then. I think if we double back down that alleyway there we should hit a different type of shop and then it shouldn’t be difficult to find the Sacré Coeur.’

  Imogen hauled in a breath and stiffened her spine. ‘Now that we’re here I think we should check one out.’

  Joe’s brown eyes glittered with surprise and something else—perhaps a flash of discomfort. Ha! Maybe he wasn’t as man-of-the-world as he appeared to be.

  ‘You sure?’

  Double ha! She was right. His body was ever so slightly rigid and his voice had a hint of clenched jaw and gritted teeth about it.

  So now she knew that he was feeling awkward too, the sensible thing to do would be to get the hell off this street.

  Sensible.

  The word grated on her soul.

  She was sick of being sensible. She had oh, so sensibly picked an oh, so sensible man—using her über-sensible tick list—and look where it had got her. Well, stuff it. Sensible Imogen could take a hike
. Not for ever, but just for a while. Temporary New Imogen was going to take over and things were going to be different.

  The unfamiliar spark of rebellion took hold and took over her vocal cords.

  ‘Of course I’m sure. Why shouldn’t I be? There’s nothing wrong in having an interest. A healthy interest in … you know …’ Imogen closed her eyes in silent despair. Had she said that?

  ‘I do know,’ he said, and suddenly the atmosphere thickened. The buzz of French chatter, the sound of the church bells all dimmed. Everything faded and all Imogen was aware of was the look in Joe’s eyes as he stepped towards her. So close that she could smell that tantalising male aroma, the underlying sandalwood. So close that if she lifted a hand she would be able to place her fingers on the width of his chest and feel the beat of his heart.

  Whoa!

  They both stepped back at exactly the same second and Imogen gave a slightly shaky laugh, horribly aware that her legs were feeling more than a touch jellified.

  Joe rubbed the back of his neck and his face was neutralised, all emotion cleared. ‘Lead the way,’ he said.

  Joe knew this was a bad idea; he was having enough issues keeping his attraction for Imogen leashed. Entering through the portals of a sex shop with her probably wasn’t going to help—not so much because of the merchandise but more because he sensed that Imogen was bubbling with … something. She had been all day and certainly was now; there was undoubtedly an emotional maelstrom brewing and he wasn’t at all sure he wanted to be caught up in its wake.

  ‘This one,’ Imogen said, pointing towards a large well-lit store that looked like an emporium or even a supermarket.

  Joe followed her through the doors into the spacious shop and nearly crashed straight into her back as Imogen came to an abrupt halt. Moving next to her, he glanced down at her and saw her eyes widen, but before he could say anything a shop assistant crossed the floor.

  In his forties, the man had a discreet charming smile, dark blond hair and an urbane manner. ‘Bonjour,’ he said courteously. ‘Anglais?’

  Joe nodded. ‘Oui, monsieur. Je parle français, mais—’ He broke off. Maybe Imogen did speak French. ‘Do you speak French?’ he asked.

  A shake of her head served as her answer; evidently the merchandise was still rendering her speechless.

  The man smiled. ‘It is not a problem,’ he said. ‘I speak English. My name is Jean and I am here to help. Is there anything in particular the two of you are looking for? Something to spice up—?’

  Imogen’s head snapped round. ‘We aren’t together.’

  ‘Apologies. You just have the look of—’

  ‘Colleagues,’ Imogen intercepted. ‘We are here to … research … for a friend … who is … um … writing a book on erotica.’

  Jean swept his gaze over them. ‘I comprehend completely,’ he said, his voice smooth. ‘You are enquiring for a friend. Many people do that. So, you must let me show you around to make sure your … friend … gets a proper overview of passion. I shall show you items that can enhance pleasure.’

  Joe felt a shudder run through Imogen’s body and wondered what she was thinking. Was she imagining herself in the throes of passion—? Oh, hell—her thoughts weren’t the problem here. His, however, were. Images branded his retina. His body wasn’t interested in anything that this shop could offer—his body knew that all it needed was Imogen’s touch. In fact any enhancement and he’d probably go up in flames.

  So perhaps a guided tour was preferable to walking round just with Imogen.

  ‘Merci, Jean. Much appreciated.’

  ‘This way.’ Jean stepped forward.

  ‘Why did you agree?’ Imogen whispered.

  ‘Why did you say we were researching for a friend? If that were true we would want a tour.’

  No way was he explaining his need for a chaperon.

  ‘Now, here we have the lingerie. Come closer—touch … feel.’

  Jean motioned to Imogen and after a second’s hesitation she stepped forward and fingered the deep midnight-black confection. ‘Oh …’

  Joe bit back a groan at her reaction. Her gasp was soft, yet so appreciative as her slender fingers stroked the material.

  ‘It’s so sensual,’ she murmured. ‘Is it pure silk or … or a mixture?’

  For a second Jean looked surprised, and then his face cleared. ‘Ah, you are a woman who likes texture and feel. This is a blend of silk and satin, but we also have other fabrics. Cashmere … soft suede. Perhaps for you the blindfold would be a good thing?’

  Imogen dropped the lingerie and jumped backwards. ‘Um … I’m not sure …’

  But Jean was in full swing as he led them inexorably over to a section that was devoted to an extensive range of blindfolds. ‘You see, to be deprived of sight lifts the anticipation and allows the other senses to come into play.’

  The audible hitch of her breath, the flush that tinged her high cheekbones, told Joe all he needed to know. Imogen was wondering exactly what it would be like to be blindfolded—and, heaven help him, he wanted to be there when she explored that particular fantasy.

  ‘I am sure,’ Jean said smoothly, ‘that your friend would be interested in this.’

  ‘Friend?’ Imogen flushed even redder and then nodded. ‘Yes, absolutely. This is all very helpful. Isn’t it, Joe?’

  There was a certain part of his anatomy that would undoubtedly disagree.

  Her elbow in his ribs prompted his vocal cords and demonstrated exactly how close they were standing. ‘Yup. Our friend will be very interested in all this.’

  Jean beamed. ‘Then let’s keep going. Down here is the costume aisle. You have the nurse costumes, the superhero, the …’

  Aisle followed aisle, until finally Jean came to a halt.

  ‘So this has been helpful?’

  Joe stepped forward. ‘Amazingly so. Thank you, Jean.’

  ‘We’ll be sure to recommend our friend visits here,’ Imogen chimed in.

  Minutes later they exited the shop, and Joe inhaled the Parisian air as they started walking in the late-afternoon sun, heading towards the Sacré Coeur.

  Imogen stared down at the ground as she walked, presumably shell-shocked by the mass of information she had accrued.

  ‘I can’t believe we did that,’ she said.

  Neither could he. What had he been thinking? Checking out a sex shop was hardly a work-related activity, however he spun it. Time to regroup.

  ‘Let’s stop for coffee and check out a map to find that fabric place you mentioned.’

  ‘OK. Good idea.’

  He led the way into a small café and sat down at a scarred wooden table. A few minutes later, espresso in one hand and a map in the other, he expelled a sigh of relief. Control restored.

  Until he glanced at her, took in the way she twirled a tendril of hair round her finger as she gazed at him almost speculatively.

  ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘I’m not sure I can ask,’ she said.

  He snorted. ‘We just spent half an hour in a sex shop with a man extolling the virtues of a Power Stallion vibrator. Right now you can ask me anything.’

  She stared at him for a moment and her lips tipped up in a smile. ‘I wish you could have seen your face when he said it still wasn’t quite the same as the real thing.’

  He grinned. ‘I imagine my expression was pretty much a mirror image of yours when he explained what a g-wand does.’

  Imogen giggled—a full-on, proper fit of giggles—and as he watched her features scrunch up in mirth he couldn’t help himself. A sudden chuckle fell from his lips and developed into laughter. The kind that came straight from the belly. The sort of laughter he hadn’t experienced for a while—not since his sisters had taken off travelling.

  ‘I can’t believe it really happened,’ Imogen said breathlessly. ‘Poor Jean. We should have bought something, really.’

  Lord—she looked so beautiful when she laughed. Her face was so alive, her dark hair highlighted by t
he sunshine filtering through the window. An intense spike of desire pierced his chest, and the urge to lean across the polished wood of the table and cover her delectable mouth with his own was almost overwhelming.

  Gripping the edge of the table, he forced himself to remain still, all inclination to mirth gone.

  Her blue-grey eyes met his and her laughter ceased abruptly.

  The silence thickened and her lips parted as her breathing quickened. Joe’s brain was scrambled. Conversation—he had to find something to say before sheer momentum tilted him towards her.

  ‘So, what were you going to ask?’

  Imogen blinked, as if his words were reaching her through a haze of desire. ‘It doesn’t matter. Really.’

  ‘No, go ahead.’ Surely she grasped that they had to talk—use their lips to form words, not anything else.

  ‘All those things in the shop … Do you think they’re important in a relationship?’

  OK. This wasn’t the topic he’d been hoping for. Damn it, couldn’t she have been wondering about the weather, or French politics, or his opinion on the socioeconomic state of Britain or something?

  ‘Would you like your girlfriend to come home dressed as Wonder Woman, wielding a whip?’ she continued.

  ‘I don’t have a girlfriend.’ As answers went it was a cop-out, but as questions went hers hadn’t exactly been social chitchat.

  ‘Hypothetically?’

  ‘Not hypothetically either. I’m not really a relationship type of guy.’

  ‘So you’re celibate?’ Imogen raised a hand to her mouth as pink stained her cheeks. ‘Hell. Sorry. I really did not mean to say that.’

  ‘Don’t worry—and, no, I’m not celibate. I just don’t do relationships.’

  ‘So what do you do? One-night stands only?’

  For a moment he was tempted to duck the question, but a strange defensiveness tightened his grip around his coffee cup. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh. So, then … um … would you mind if your bedroom partner was into all that stuff?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have a problem exploring the idea of using some of the things Jean showed us, but I certainly don’t expect or want all my bedmates to come accessorised with a whip or a latex uniform.’