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CHAPTER EIGHT
‘DONE.’ IMOGEN DROPPED the charcoal pencil onto the sheened mahogany Langley boardroom table and blew out a sigh. Exhaustion made her eyelids visibly heavy, and dark lashes swept down in a long blink as she reached for her cup of coffee. ‘Here.’ She pushed the piece of paper towards him. ‘If you hate it don’t tell me.’
Joe shook his head. ‘I haven’t hated anything yet.’
Far from it—over the past two days Imogen had produced some truly exceptional sketches. Perplexity made him frown yet again at her genuine inability to see her own talent. Instead doubt often clouded her vision and caused her to chew her lip in a way it was nigh on impossible not to be distracted by.
Not that he had given even the whisper of a hint of said distraction. After the sheer stupidity of his behaviour in Paris he’d made sure to keep to strictly professional boundaries. As for Imogen—once she’d got immersed in the project it had been as if she’d entered a world of her own.
‘I know you haven’t. But I’m worried neither of us can see straight any more—we’re too knackered.’
She had a point; they’d worked round the clock. They’d worked in the apartment, worked on the Eurostar and come straight to Langley, where they’d set up shop. Grabbing only a few hours’ shut-eye on the boardroom sofa.
‘And,’ she continued, ‘this last room is pretty crucial—the master bedroom is meant to be the pièce de résistance.’
Full marks to her, he thought. Although a flush tinged the angle of her cheeks, her voice and gaze were
steady. Yet he knew she must be remembering their own bedroom interlude. He glanced down at the sketch and his heart thudded as images filtered across his brain. Imogen had taken the bedroom at Lovers’ Tryst and delivered to it her own unique twist. No longer circular, the bed seemed suspended in the air.
‘It’s a floating bed,’ she said. ‘It’s different and romantic. I know it may be more expensive, but …’
‘I’ll check.’
‘No!’ Her face paled as she nodded at the clock. ‘Look at the time.’
‘It’s eleven.’
‘Eleven p.m.’
‘Oh, hell.’ The impact of her words hit Joe with a sucker punch. ‘Richard said first thing Monday morning and it’s an hour until midnight. Do you think we need to get this over there now, rather than at nine a.m.?’
‘I think Richard is quite capable of disqualifying us if we don’t meet the exact letter of his instructions.’
‘So we’d better get it couriered across right now. I’m on it. You get it packaged. We’ll email it across as well.’
Anger spiked inside him, along with a surge of adrenalin—he should have spotted that midnight trap right from the get-go. Instead of pondering over Imogen’s lack of self belief. Instead of interspersing working flat-out with his fight to sever the bonds of attraction that had him so distracted.
Imogen nodded and raced across the boardroom, and he pulled his phone out of pocket—this proposal would get to Richard Harvey on time if it killed him. No way would he let Langley down—that would not be acceptable. If he didn’t know a courier service would get it there more quickly he’d take it himself.
Fifteen minutes later Imogen stared at him, worry painting creases on her forehead. ‘It will get there, won’t it?’
‘Yes. I’ve used Mark before—he whizzes round London faster than the speed of light. And Richard’s offices aren’t that far away. Plus, we know the email made it. So we’re covered.’ He nodded. ‘Well spotted, Imogen.’
‘I should have thought of it before,’ she said. ‘But now I’m worried we’ve sent a proposal that’s not as good as it could be. I thought we had a few more hours to polish it.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. I didn’t think of it at all.’
‘You don’t know Richard as well as I do.’ She paced the room, long jean-clad legs striding the length of the boardroom table. ‘I want this contract.’
Her smile was tremulous, and for an insane moment he wanted to pull her into a hug, slide his hand down her back and utter soothing words. Shock rooted him to the deep-pile carpet that covered the boardroom floor and he tried to school his features into professional support mode.
‘So do I. I promise you it’s a damn fine proposal and it’s got a really good chance. You couldn’t have done more than you did.’
‘Huh. That’s what I used to tell myself after exams. You’ve worked really hard, Imogen, maybe this time you haven’t messed it up.’ Her hand covered the slight curve of her tummy. ‘Ugh. It makes me feel queasy.’ Pressing her lips together, as if to stop the flow of further information, she resumed pacing.
Her words triggered a memory of Imogen in his office just a week before, telling him about her ten-year-old self bringing a report home and her mother’s disappointment. He recalled her words in the Michelin-starred restaurant, her fear of undertaking the proposal, and a pang of understanding hit him.
Instinct prompted the words he had used so many times with his sisters. ‘You have given this your all and no one can ask more than that. Including yourself. If we don’t win this proposal you haven’t let anyone down.’
