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Exasperation surged through him. This was the woman Peter Langley had described as ‘a mainstay of the company’. It was no bloody wonder Langley was in trouble. Perhaps he should end this interview here and now.
He’d opened his mouth to do just that when she opened her eyes, gave a little wriggle in the chair, and—wham!
An image zigzagged across his brain—a picture of Imogen Lorrimer, standing up to wriggle her way right out of that navy skirt, shrug off the jacket and slowly unbutton the pearl buttons of her white shirt. Before shaking that dark hair free so it tumbled to her shoulders, then sitting back down on that damn red chair and crossing her legs.
A hoarse noise rasped from his throat. What the hell …? Why? Where on earth had that come from?
It was time to get a grip of this interview—and the conversation. A sigh escaped her and for a second his gaze focused on her lips. Hell, this was not good. ‘Never Mix Business and Pleasure’ was a non-negotiable rule. His work ethic was sacrosanct—the thought of jeopardising his reputation and ruining his business the way his father had done was enough to bring him out in hives.
So this awareness had to be nixed—no matter how inexplicably tempting Imogen Lorrimer was. His libido needed an ice bath or a night of fun. Preferably the latter—a nice, relaxed, laid-back evening with a woman unconnected to any client. Someone who could provide a no-strings-attached night of pleasure.
In the meantime he needed to concentrate on the matter in hand.
What had Imogen said last? Before she’d frozen into perpetual silence.
‘It’s just … obviously … what?’ he growled.
Imogen caught her bottom lip in her teeth and bit down hard; with any luck the pain would recall her common sense. If it were logistically possible to boot herself around the room she would, and her fingers tingled with the urge to slap herself upside the head.
Enough.
She had had enough of herself.
It was imperative that she keep her job. For herself, but also because if she were here she could do everything in her power to make sure this man didn’t shut Langley down.
Peter and Harry Langley had been more than good to her—the least she could do was try to ensure this corporate killing machine didn’t chew up their company and spit it out.
Instead of sitting here squirming in embarrassed silence over last night’s encounter with a fantasy Joe McIntyre.
Time to channel New Imogen, who fantasised over gazillions of hot men and didn’t bat an eyelid.
She moistened her lips and attempted a smile.
Brown eyes locked with hers and for a heartbeat something flickered in their depths. A spark, an awareness—a look that made her skin sizzle. The sort of look that Dream Joe excelled in.
Then it was gone. Doused almost instantly and replaced by definitive annoyance, amplified by a scowl that etched his forehead with the sort of formidable frown that Real Joe no doubt held a first-class degree in.
Straightening her shoulders, she forced herself to meet his exasperated gaze. ‘I apologise, Joe. The past few weeks have been difficult and the result was an attack of nerves. I’m fine now, and I’d appreciate it if we could start again.’
‘Let’s do that.’ His words were emphatic as he gestured to her CV. ‘You’ve been Peter’s PA for five years—ever since you came out of college. He speaks very highly of you, so why so nervous?’
OK. Here goes.
There was no hiding the fact that she’d screwed up and, given that Joe had been on the premises for two days, there was little doubt he already knew about it. So it was bite the proverbial bullet time.
‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the Anderson project?’
‘Yes, I have.’
Stick to the facts, Imogen.
‘Then you know I made a pretty monumental mistake.’ Her stomach clenched as she relived the sheer horror. ‘I ordered the wrong fabric. Yards and yards of it. I didn’t realise I’d done that. The team went ahead and used it and the client ended up with truly hideous mustard-coloured curtains and coverings throughout his mansion instead of the royal gold theme we had promised him.’
A shudder racked her body as she adhered her feet in the thick carpet to prevent herself from swivelling in a twist of sheer discomfort on the chair. ‘Mistake’ was not supposed to be in the Imogen Lorrimer dictionary. To err was inexcusable; her mother had drummed that into her over and over.
‘It was awful. Even worse than …’ She pressed her lips together.
His eyes flickered to rest on her mouth and a spark ignited in the pit of her tummy.
