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‘I’ll text Belinda from the restaurant.’
It was all for the best. Did she really want the responsibility of going up against Graham? Having to face Peter’s disappointment and the knowledge that she’d let Langley down if or rather when she didn’t succeed? Far better to stay ensconced in her comfort zone.
‘She’s perfect for the proposal.’
Tension pounded Joe’s temples as he followed Imogen into the restaurant and nodded automatically at the maître d’, who swooped towards them majestically, his gold-braided jacket a perfect fit with all the grandeur of the baroque theme.
Not that Joe cared about the gold and gilt that abounded, or the ornate mirrors on the stone walls, or even the wrought-iron chandeliers that glinted with the ambience of wealth.
Right now he was too busy questioning the swirl and whirl of emotions that Imogen had unleashed inside him. Anger at himself rebounded against a small and unfamiliar sense of panic. There was the ever growing problem of their attraction, not helped by the tantalising torment of her dress. But worse than that was the way his chest had panged at the qui
ckly veiled hurt in her eyes when he’d suggested Belinda.
Realising that the maître d’ still hovered, he shook the thought away. ‘We have a reservation. Made by Richard Harvey,’ he said.
The maître d’ smiled his dignified approval and gestured to a black-suited waiter with a gold tie. ‘This is Marcel. He will look after your table. Marcel, please take Miss Lorrimer and her companion to the table Mr Harvey requested for them.’
Joe gave in to temptation and placed his palm on the small of Imogen’s back to steer her, his flesh tingling with warmth and an unexpected sense of possession. Just what he needed—more unfamiliar emotions that didn’t make sense.
He eyed the table and further misgivings tingled his already frazzled nerve-endings. The table was … The word intimate sprang to mind. The kind of table for lovers, not colleagues—the type where you sat at adjacent angles so your knees pressed together, so it was easy to place your hand on your partner’s thigh, indulge in a little footsie. The handy pillar would allow or even encourage canoodling.
He suddenly remembered that the gleaming candlelit table had been originally intended for Steve and Imogen.
Bloody wonderful.
Marcel seated them and then beamed. ‘Mr Harvey has made a selection for you, but he’s asked me to tell you first in case you have any allergies.’
Joe allowed the list of exquisite dishes to wash over him; the only relevant thing here was the length of the damn menu. They would be here for hours. On the other hand that might well be better than whatever Lovers’ Tryst had to hold.
Right now it was time to get a handle on the situation, get a grip of said handle and start steering. Whatever the menu, this was a business dinner.
‘That sounds fine. But I’ll stick to water rather than wine.’
‘It sounds incredible,’ Imogen interpolated. ‘Please make sure that you let Mr Harvey know how much we appreciate all this. And water for me as well, please.’
The waiter bowed, turned and glided across the restaurant floor, leaving them alone. No, not alone. Yet despite the fact that the restaurant was full, and the hum and buzz of conversation filled the air, Joe had the ridiculous impression that he and Imogen were in their own private space.
Imogen darted a glance at him and then reached down for her bag. ‘I’ll try Belinda now.’
‘Is that what you want to do?’ he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.
A frown creased her forehead as she moistened her lips. ‘It makes sense.’
As he forced himself not to linger on her glossy lips it occurred to him that nothing made sense—and that was the problem. She’d got him so damn distracted that he’d let the personal and the business line fuzz. Again. He couldn’t tell whether he wanted Belinda to come and look at the apartment because it was best for Langley or because Belinda would provide them with a chaperon. Didn’t know if he wanted to allow Imogen to do the proposal because that was the right thing for Langley or because he wanted to assuage the hurt that had flashed across her eyes.
Enough.
Time to apply logic.
‘I’m not sure it does,’ he said as he drummed his fingers on the snow-white tablecloth. ‘The impression I got was that Richard wants you to do it. I also believe that you understand how his mind works. We’re up against a time limit. And Belinda is flat-out on other projects.’
There was a pause as she looked down at the bread roll she was crumbling into tiny pieces. ‘But I’m a PA. I have no qualifications in interior design—or advertising and marketing.’
‘But this is coming up with a concept. Isn’t that exactly what you did for Richard’s bathrooms?’
‘Well, yes. But that was after we’d won the contract. And if Peter hadn’t liked my ideas he’d have nixed them. There’s a whole lot more riding on this.’
‘Is that what’s scaring you?’
