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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.
