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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.
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.
