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Because in a year, she would be free. She would’ve served her time.
The three years she’d agreed to would be up!
Divorced from Zeph Diamandis with the company she’d nurtured intact and her sacrifice behind her.
With that reminder in mind, she pulled away, ignoring the sharp pang of disappointment triggered by eluding his touch.
‘Not citing doesn’t mean any of this is still a good idea. Or what I want,’ she tagged on in a bid to firm her resolve. So what if it came out weak and a little desperate?
What if it seemed to rouse something in his eyes? Determination? A resolve much thicker and weightier than her own?
She swallowed the darts of alarm, and firmly grasped the tail-end of their previous discussion. ‘Yes, so to answer your question, Callahan is mine but falls under Diamandis’s overarching purview.’
For an age, he stared at her. Then he nodded. ‘Tell me about the board members. Who impresses, who disappoints. Who will smile at me while stabbing me in the back.’
She couldn’t quite hide her grimace, and her breath caught when one corner of his mouth quirked.
‘That bad?’
Her shoulders sagged and she realised she’d been tense at the direction of his conversation where perhaps she needn’t have been. ‘Only if you consider a bunch of men alluding to a woman’s place not being the boardroom or being CEO of a conglomerate on a far too regular basis a bad thing.’
His eyes glinted and she caught a glimpse of the formidable tycoon in that look. The one men who valued their skins bent over backwards not to invite. ‘But you didn’t let that cower you.’
She shrugged. ‘I held my own. I’m used to doing that when it counts.’
Those eyes narrowed. ‘Does that include with me?’ he enquired silkily.
She shivered, then decided she had nothing to lose by stating the truth. ‘I won’t let you run roughshod over me when it counts.’
‘I’ll consider myself duly warned.’
Imogen had a feeling she’d need to keep that statement alive and burning at the forefront of her mind since her emotions and body were behaving in ways she found disconcerting. Luckily, she was saved from further torment when the head steward approached to let them know the stylists had arrived.
She scrambled up, very much aware of his solid presence behind her as they descended one deck to the more intimate one where the designers waited.
Zeph barely glanced at them as they scurried about unzipping garment bags. She knew why when he immediately intercepted her when she tried to make a discreet exit.
She gulped when he loomed in front of her, one eyebrow slanted upward. ‘You always seem in a hurry to leave my presence. A lesser man would have a complex about his wife fleeing his presence when they’re supposed to be on their honeymoon.’
She didn’t miss the fact that he exempted himself from that weaker man bracket. ‘But...you don’t need me to choose your attire for you,’ she whispered heatedly.
‘No, and yet I want you to stay. I would appreciate your input. And after all, you need to appreciate the view too.’
Her eyes widened even as colour swam into her cheeks. Her gaze darted to the stylist who had discreetly turned away. Zeph suppressed a smile and proceeded to tug his T-shirt over his head. His shorts were kicked away next and he stood in his boxers, tall, proud, blatantly near-naked and unselfconscious, with both hands propped on his lean hips.
Sweet heaven, he was breathtaking. Too much. Heat billowed between her thighs and she swallowed the moan that threatened to escape.
Desperately reaching for her phone, she started to glance down at it, hoping for some sort of electronic intervention. The device was plucked out of her hand a moment later and tossed onto a cushioned seat several feet away.
‘Hey, you can’t do that.’
His face hardened. ‘I’m your boss. In that capacity you’ll find I can do whatever I want.’ He pointed to a seat. ‘Sit.’
Oh, yes. The very much insufferable Zephyr Diamandis was alive and kicking in this version, too. But since he was indeed her boss, and she’d agreed to this...farce, she had no choice but to obey.
She sat down.
Then spent the next hour with her hands clenched tight in her lap, biting her tongue so it didn’t hang out like a teenage groupie as her husband strutted around like a supermodel who’d stepped off the pages ofGQmagazine.
