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As the sun struck the blinding white of the travertine walls she was dazzled—not just by the rays but by the sheer dizzying possibilities of life.
She knew how she should be feeling: thoroughly ashamed with herself. She’d kissed a man who was her boss, her enemy, the wrecker of her friends’ and colleagues’ lives. Joe had spoken the truth: the kiss had been a mistake.
But it had also been earth-shattering. She’d never experienced one like it and her body still fizzed with the sheer joy of it. Apparently lust trumped principles. But who would have thought a kiss could be so incredible? How could she regret a kiss like that?
Apprehension prickled her skin. Take care, Imo. Perhaps this was how her mother had felt all those years before—beguiled by Jonathan Lorrimer’s looks and charm. And look what had happened there.
Not that Joe was remotely charming, nor making any attempt to beguile her. In fact he appeared to have erased the kiss from his memory banks.
Their whole trip around
the fabric store and their entire tour of the museum had been achieved civilly enough—Joe had asked intelligent questions about the fabrics, observed the paintings in the museum with genuine appreciation—but gone was the man who had laughed with her and wreaked such magic with his kiss. This man was the consummate professional, with his tie back round his neck as if that could restore professional equilibrium.
Currently Imogen would have settled for any sort of equilibrium. Even now the nape of her neck tingled. Every molecule of her body was hyper-aware of the strength of him just behind her on the narrow stairway as they approached the summit.
Her breath caught as she looked down over the awe-inspiring vista of Paris. The Eiffel Tower jutted above the rooftops of thousands of differently shaped buildings, all glinting in the late-afternoon sun. It made her feel dizzy, different, infused with wonder.
‘It’s incredible …’
‘Yes.’
Had his gaze lingered on her face for a heartbeat before he’d turned to stare out at the panorama?
Ridiculous. He was talking about the view, for heaven’s sake! She had to get some perspective. They’d shared a kiss. Big deal. Now they had to return to normal. Joe equalled Big Bad Boss. Imogen equalled Employee. She needed to concentrate on her job.
‘Have you seen it before?’ she asked. There. Perfect. Normal civil conversation.
‘Yes.’ As if realising the brevity of the syllable, he continued, ‘I came with my sisters once.’
‘Really?’ It was strange to imagine Joe in family mode.
‘Really.’ A smile touched his lips—a genuine one. ‘I’m not sure they appreciated the glory of the scenery. They were fourteen and more interested in the glory of French boys.’
His lips pressed together, as though he regretted sharing even that much personal information.
A glance at his watch and, ‘We need to go.’
Guilt prodded her as she scuttled after him through the tourist crowd. She’d completely lost track of time—hadn’t given work a single thought since they’d got on the Métro. All she’d thought about was Joe. Oh, and sex. In conjunction.
As their taxi screeched and sped through the Paris traffic Imogen squeezed her hands into fists and focused. The hours for living the dream were over and it was time to concentrate on reality and the need to wow Richard. If only her body would stop with the snap, crackle and pop …
The taxi glided to a stop and she climbed out, stood on the pavement whilst Joe paid the driver. The street teemed with chicly dressed chattering women and casually dressed men. Elegance mixed with gesticulation and passion, and for a minute Imogen wished with all her heart that she was in Paris with a lover.
Joe.
Delusional, Imo.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, and they wended their way through the throng into the warmly lit interior of a bar.
Small and intimate, its tables glowed golden in the muted light from retro lamps and the candles that dotted the embrasures in the wax-dripped wall.
A bar curved down one side of the room, behind which there was a bewildering array of bottles and an old-fashioned cash register that evoked images of a Paris of decades before. The soft strains of jazz filled the evening air, reminding Imogen of the sheer thrill of being in the romantic capital of the world.
‘Over here.’
Peering through the throng, Imogen spotted Richard and Crystal sitting in a corner booth, a pitcher of delicate pink liquid on the table in front of them.
Happiness was evident in the glow of their smiles, the linking of their fingers as they both rose to their feet. Richard looked younger than she remembered, his salt-and-pepper hair longer, his whole stance more relaxed.
