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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?’
