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‘I want to concentrate on streamlining my job properly. Also I need to focus on other aspects of my life. Like finding a place to live, thinking about my future.’
The future she had been in danger of forgetting. The nice, safe, secure one with her tick-list man.
His lips tightened and his eyebrows slashed into the start of a scowl.
‘Anyhoo,’ she said brightly. ‘All in all it has been a very busy few days, so I think I’ll catch some sleep.’
As if.
But at least closing her eyes put an end to the conversation. It had been tough enough to explain her decision to Peter—almost torturous not to get involved in the project itself. But her resolve had been bolstered when she’d heard Belinda on the phone to her husband, explaining night after night that she had to work late, seen her harassed expression when her child-minder had let her down. All a timely reminder of what could happen if you let a job take over your life. That was not for her.
Forcing herself to breathe evenly and remain still, Imogen kept her eyes firmly closed for the seemingly endless remainder of the journey. Relief arrived when the plane finally began its descent and she could legitimately stretch her cramped muscles.
‘Nice rest?’ Joe asked, a quirk of his lips expressing scepticism.
‘Lovely, thank you.’ She could only hope her nose hadn’t stretched a centimetre or so. ‘I can’t believe I’m in the Algarve!’
Still hard to believe even when they descended the steps and a definitely non-British sun kissed her shoulders with glorious warmth as they headed for the airport terminal.
Once they had successfully negotiated passport control, customs, and coll
ected their luggage Imogen looked round. ‘What happens now?’
‘According to my email from the very efficient wedding planner there will be a car to take us to the villa.’ Joe glanced round. ‘There we go.’
Following the direction of his finger, Imogen saw a man in a chauffeur’s cap and suit holding up a card emblazoned with. ‘Leila and Howie’s guests’.
As they approached they saw a few others headed the same way. Imogen eyed them, a lump of doubt forming in her tummy. ‘They look very glam,’ she whispered. ‘I’m not sure I’ll fit in.’
Joe shrugged. ‘And that’s a problem because …?’
Before she could answer they had reached the chauffeur, whose name-tag identified him as Len.
‘Joe McIntyre and Imogen Lorrimer.’
Len scanned his list and then shook his head. ‘You’re down for a different car.’ He glanced round and pointed. ‘Luis will be looking after you.’
‘Senhor McIntyre—Senhorita Lorrimer?’
Imogen smiled at the young man who beamed at them as he pushed an overlong lock of dark hair from his forehead.
‘I am Luis. I am one of the wedding planners and I will do my best to answer any questions you have about the timetable and I will deal with all your requirements. But first come this way and I will take you to your wonderful accommodation for your stay in the Algarve. All, of course, courtesy of the bride and groom.’
He paused for breath and then smiled again.
‘The car is this way. I will take you the motorway route as you will want time to get ready for the ceremony. But there will be lovely scenery towards the end of the trip.’
Imogen glanced at Joe as they climbed into the four-wheel drive car. What was he thinking? It was impossible to tell from his expression but he must be feeling something. The one love of his life, the woman who had driven him to desperation—even if he was over her, even if he hadn’t seen her for seven years—was getting married.
None of her business—she was sucked in enough; she couldn’t risk getting further involved. That way led madness.
It was best if she concentrated solely on the scenery for the rest of the journey. So as the car glided down the motorway and then wound its way along bendy valley roads she inhaled the sweet breeze and soaked in the greens of the verdure outside until Luis said, ‘Nearly there.’
Her vision didn’t yield so much as a hut, let alone a villa, and Imogen frowned as Luis turned down a dirt track. ‘Wow. So the villa is really secluded, then?’
‘Villa?’ Luis said. ‘No, no—did no one email you?’
‘No,’ Joe growled. ‘Should they have?’
