So I do hope you have a wonderful Christmas and get to spend time, love and laughter with your nearest and dearest.
With very best wishes,
Natalie
For Uncle Allan: a box of tomatoes, stiff gins, mushy cauli and cheese, pavlova and raspberries, Spanish cream, plum duff, your brand of chocolate…
I can still have all these things this Christmas.
But without you, my heartaches.
CHAPTER ONE
‘PLEASE, PLEASE WORK.’ Imogen slowly pushed the card in before, just as slowly, pulling it out. Nothing happened. The little green bubble just refused to light up.
She tried again. Pushed it in slowly, then whipped it out fast. Nothing.
Fast in. Fast out. Nada.
‘Damn.’ Getting desperate, she tried fast in, slow out. ‘Give me the green light, give me the green light. I do not have time for this.’
She didn’t have time for anything. A quick glance at her watch showed precisely ten minutes remained until the meeting began. Ten minutes to wash off the mix of mud, blood and sleet and change into the new shirt and skirt she’d bought from the over priced shop three doors along precisely eight minutes ago.
‘Please, please, please.’ Why did this have to happen now? She wanted to wail. Why…when she’d got all her reports together well ahead of schedule, when she’d found something to wear after her cringe-worthy disaster on the street, when the receptionist had been so sympathetic…why did she have to fall at the final hurdle?
She pulled her wet shirt away from her skin. It was cold and muddy and she felt hideous and sore. She’d gone for such a spin on the icy path—landing awkwardly and sliding flat on her front, ending up in a puddle of nasty water. She cursed the hidden ice that never seemed to melt on these Edinburgh foot paths. She couldn’t master walking on them at all. No matter what shoes she wore, she still slipped. And the one time she needed to get somewhere fast, and in one piece, she’d gone for the biggest spill of all.
And still the hotel room door wouldn’t open. The smiling receptionist had practically leapt to attention when Imogen had explained why she was there and who she was meeting and what had happened on the way. She’d handed over her wool coat and been assured it would be delivered to the dry clean ers, and had then been given a key card to a room.
‘Please use the room to shower and change. No charge.’
The ‘no charge’ bit was a huge relief, because the emergency outfit she’d had to buy had not been cheap. Nor was it the kind of business clothing she usually wore. Her wardrobe consisted of a neat uniform of black below-the-knee skirts and discreet jackets—nothing attention-seeking at all. Imogen didn’t want attention; she just wanted to get on with the job—and do it well. But the nearest clothing boutique had stocked far more stylish and figure-revealing items than her usual mass-produced, form-concealing choices. She’d frantically pulled aside the hangers in a quest for something conservative and simple. And she’d been in too much of a hurry to even try her selection on. Surely the black trousers and green shirt that she now held in the large carrier bag would fit? She was a standard size. Surely—hopefully, please, Lord—it would be fine?
Well, it wouldn’t be if she couldn’t get into the wretched room to wash and change!
She flicked the hank of hair that had fallen free of its tie back over her shoulder, breathed in deeply, and tried to control her rising temper with a slow count out.
‘One…two…three…four five six seve neight ni ne ten.’ She inserted the key card one last time. ‘Argh!’ she exclaimed in total frustration.
Nine minutes and counting. She was never going to make it. She was going to have to meet the new manager of Mackenzie Forrest wearing a sodden shirt and with dirt on her hands. She banged those hands hard on the door in front of her and swore. ‘Open, damn you!’
And then it did. So quickly she stumbled. Regaining her balance with a wince of pain from her knee, she looked up. Then lost all her remaining poise as he spoke—dry and unconcerned.
‘Can I help you with something?’
Stunned, she stared, stared and stared some more. He was wearing nothing—nothing—but he held a white towel to his…his…lower middle. There was acres of chest…lightly bronzed, so broad, so bare…and he was dripping wet. Imogen couldn’t help following the light dusting of hair…down. Couldn’t resist following the angles of his muscles…down. Couldn’t stop following the drops of water…down, down, down.
Down to where that broad hand was holding the fluffy towel which was catching those slow drips of water. She’d never seen a body so perfect—not even in bill board ads for underwear or aftershave. She’d certainly never seen a torso with such muscle definition. Not body-builder, too-many-steroids, bulging-veins kind of muscles, but strong and smooth and sharp. There was not an ounce of fat for those muscles to hide behind—they were all on show. And she’d never before seen a belly button that her tongue basically begged to touch. In fact, it seemed her whole body had gone brazen—and so had her brain. She was blatantly watching as his fingers tightened on the towel and his other hand came to support it. Blatantly fascinated as each of his abdominal muscles moved, revealing even greater definition.
‘Ma’am?’
Hearing his broad American drawl, she dragged her gaze back up. Looking into his face, she simply stared some more as the brightest of blue eyes captured hers. Peripherally she saw the straight nose, the even brows, the angular jaw, but it was the eyes that held hers, with their unbelievable colour and their focus and their sudden flicker of something that looked a lot like you wanna dare?
At that whisper of wickedness she closed her eyes for a second, holding back the wave of sensual feeling that wanted to spread over her, forcing herself to pause the explicit show her imagination wanted to screen and instead get on top of what she was sup posed to be doing.
‘This isn’t your room.’ She didn’t mean to snap. But she was embarrassed and confused.
‘Actually, I think it is.’
Oh, did he have to have a voice to match the body? All amused and confident and capable of turning her pause button off again?
‘Actually, it isn’t.’ Pause button back on. She was in control and fighting for her rights. ‘The receptionist said I could use it to tidy up and change.’
‘Well, that was nice of her. But it’s my room.’
‘It was a him.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded, and that dare in his eyes became a very naughty looking challenge. ‘I’d have said yes to you, too. Beauty in distress.’
She wasn’t dis tressed, she was flustered, getting hot and rapidly approaching full-on panic mode. ‘I can’t get the key card to work.’
‘That’s because it’s my room.’
‘It’s not. It’s—’
She broke off as he took half a step closer. ‘What’s your room number?’
Her pause button slipped and she answered breathlessly, staring at that chest once more. ‘Sixty-seven.’
‘Ah.’
At that know-it-all sound, she looked up. He was nodding again, and this time accompanying it with a wide smile—perfect white teeth, all too devastating.
‘Ah, what?’ Her heart couldn’t beat any faster. She couldn’t feel any hotter. And the wild thing was that she was wishing she could forget the silly meeting with her stuffy new boss and just stand here all day. Staring at him.
‘This is my room—number sixty-nine. Yours is just along the corridor a bit.’
She slowly looked behind him and read the number on the door. She could have sworn that nine was a… Oh, hell, could she really be so stupid? ‘Sixty-nine?’
‘Sixty-nine.’
‘And I’m…’ Not sixty-nine. Not thinking sixty-nine. Not thinking… Ohhhhhh. The sensual feeling rippled. Imagine—those muscles, that size, that heat…and tasting it all.
Her mental X-rated movie started rolling again.
His head angled and he almost whispered, ‘You can come in here if you want.’
Unconsciously she mirrored him, angling her head so she could keep watching the same gleam of light in his eyes. Then what he’d said sank in. ‘What? No!’
‘Oh—okay.’ He was out-and-out grinning now. ‘I thought for a second there you looked like you might want to.’
Oh, great. So her lustful moment had been totally trans parent. She put her hand to her chest protectively, hoping her nipples weren’t prodding through the wet shirt like twin missiles aimed at him. They sure felt as if they were. ‘What I want is to find my hotel room.’ Frozen speech now. Dignity had to be recovered.
‘Well, like I said, it’s just along the corridor a little.’
She curled her fingers and pulled the halves of her shirt closer together. This time it was his gaze that dropped. His smile widened as he gave her torso a very thorough inspection.
She could feel herself responding even more to his warm appraisal. She couldn’t believe she was standing in a hotel corridor being turned on just by looking at a complete stranger—and by him looking at her.
‘Okay,’ she croaked. She turned—too fast for her recently scraped knee—and couldn’t quite stifle her groan of pain.
His glance went lower. ‘Hey, you’ve hurt your leg. It’s bleeding.’ He stepped after her. ‘Can I get you a plaster?’
The change from teasing flirt to concerned gentleman was too fast and too damn sweet. Infatuation threatened to slip over her, to send everything sensible from her head—what little was left.
Embarrassed even more by her ridiculous response to him, she muttered, ‘No, I’m fine.’ She added, ‘Thanks…’ way too late as she tried to walk normally, but her leg had really stiffened now.
‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ He followed her into the hall. ‘I’m good with first aid.’
Imogen turned back and nodded, unable to stop her eyes slipping south one last time. She was quite sure he’d be good with everything. Did he have any idea how good he looked right now? His legs were long—really long—and every bit as beautifully muscled as his chest. And the way his hair was wet, sitting as if it had been pushed back with a hand, all added up to a gleaming bronze statue way better than Michelangelo’s marble David—this one was all real man. But she didn’t answer, and made it to her door instead. The card worked instantly, the little green light flashed, and she heard the lock mechanism sliding. Thank all the gods.
She didn’t even try to resist taking one last look. He’d gone back to his room, but had paused in his open doorway—still smiling as if he knew everything she was thinking, and still not wearing anything like enough clothing.
Feeling far too hot for this freezing winter’s day, she let the door slam behind her and, tiptoeing on her sore leg, taking the weight on her good one, hobbled into the bathroom. Caught a glance in the mirror and froze.
Oh, no.
She blinked. Took another look to be sure.
Oh, yes.
She hadn’t realised the extent of the rip in her blouse. The sleeve had all but come away completely from the seam, and there was a tear from her underarm across the front. To make it worse, the way she’d been holding it just now had pulled that gap even wider. Towel Guy had had a first class view of her breast. Her scarlet-bra-cupped breast.
Scarlet and lace bra.
Her mind raced back to her sprint out of the flat early that morning—wanting to get to work and have everything just so for the arrival of her new lord and master. Usually she wore a black bra, or skin tone—plain, nothing too fancy that would show outlines under the fabric of her simple cotton shirts. But with all the extra study she’d been doing to get her last assignments in ahead of the Christmas madness she was behind on the laundry. Like weeks behind. So she’d grabbed this one from the drawer, figuring no one was going to see it anyway, and besides, wasn’t it the kind of day when she needed the extra lift the colour gave her?
She’d bought the set on a whim once in the store’s sale, simply because she loved the colour. Just looking at it gave her inner confidence a boost—and today her toenails were painted the same colour, even though they’d spend all day hidden away in her ankle boots. Scarlet underwear; blood-red toenails. Not because she was some sexy vamp, but because that deep, almost burnt red was her favourite, and wearing it gave her a pick-me-up—yes, underneath she was covered in confidence. It was still fake, but it was better than none at all.
Only now she didn’t see it as the confident colour of a winner. It was trashy streetwalker in-your-face tarty—and she was crimson with embarrassment.
No wonder the hotel receptionist had been so happy to help and so full of smiles. No wonder Towel Guy had been so bold about inviting her in. She was flashing the world half her scarlet-clad assets.
She glanced at her watch. Less than three minutes. No time to shower—only a quick wash with a flannel and an even quicker fix of her mascara and a swipe of the comb through her hair. She retied it back in a harsh ponytail and got to redressing.
The new shirt was forest-green and silk, and felt deliciously cool on her hot body. She took in a breath and told herself to calm down as she tried to work the buttons through their too small holes. Any last shred of calm dissipated as she pulled on the new trousers—they were way firmer round the hips and thighs than she would usually wear. Definitely too firm round the butt. Her temperature lifted again as she tucked in the shirt and did up the zip and button at the waist. This was the kind of sleek outfit she’d have worn at her old job—emphasising her curves and showing her long legs while still being appropriate office attire. She’d wanted to look attractive there. Wanted to be wanted—what a naïve fool of a girl she’d been. She’d learnt more than one painful lesson as a result. One of them being that work and amorous relationships shouldn’t ever mix.
So she had no desire to be seen as feminine at Mackenzie Forrest. She simply wanted to be good at her job. But this was only a first meeting, with all the office and admin team. The new boss probably wouldn’t even notice her—he’d be too busy giving a speech or something. And at least the trousers covered the ugly graze. She’d fashioned a crude plaster for it out of tissue and sticky tape. That would sponge up the blood and stop her trousers from rubbing against it and being even more un comfortable. Her elbow was sore, too. And she was thrown by the whole twenty-minute mess.
Imogen tossed her muddy clothes into the shopping bag. One last deep breath and another quick count to ten as she tried to forget the blue eyes that had twinkled at her with that mix of humour and heat and concern.
There had definitely been heat. Oh, yes, there’d been heat.
Awkwardly, she walked out of the room and took another frantic look at her watch—already three minutes late. The door of room number sixty-nine was shut. Good thing too. Turning, she headed for the lifts and—oh, wouldn’t it just be her luck?
Towel Guy was up ahead, and looking back down the corridor at her. Only he was wearing more now—more as in a tailored suit: it had to be custom-made, the way it hung so smoothly from his tall frame, dark grey, with an ice-white shirt and a blue tie that brought out the sapphiric tint in his eyes. Oh, yes, he was male-modelicious. His hand was on the door to take the stairs, but he paused, watching her hobble towards him. Then he moved away from the door, pressing the button to summon the lift instead. All the while he watched her walk nearer.
Totally self-conscious, she moved towards him, refusing to run. He could get this lift and she’d get the next. She didn’t want to be red-faced and breath less when meeting the new boss. She was already late, so another minute wasn’t going to matter that much. Anyway she couldn’t run. Her leg was too stiff.
The lift arrived. He entered. Kept his finger on the door open button long enough for her to get there and get in. For a mad moment she met his eyes, and was nearly fried on the spot.
‘Which floor?’
‘Two, please.’ Imogen looked low to the ground, not really wanting to look into those blues again—they were hotter than hell.
The d
oors slid shut and she kept her focus hard on the seam in the centre of them.
‘The colour really suits you.’
She started, glanced down at the green, felt her em barrass ment increase—but the politeness thing was deeply ingrained. ‘Oh…’ She took a breath to try and be able to talk. ‘Thank—’
‘The green is nice.’ He cut her off. ‘But I was thinking of the red.’
Stunned, she turned, her widened gaze colliding with his—all blue fire. Then the solemnity in his face shattered and he smiled—a full-blown, toe-curling, bone-melting blaze of a smile. It felt as if splotches of crimson heat were being stamped all over her body. So much for not being red-faced when she met her new boss. It was going to take at least half an hour for her to cool down after exiting the lift. But this guy was irresistible, and she smiled back.
Nodding, she stated the only thing in her head that she could share publicly. ‘I’m really embarrassed.’ She was also really attracted.
‘Hey,’ he joked, ‘I was wearing less.’
‘Yes.’ Her smile broad ened as the lift doors slid open. The comeback bubbled out of her, filled with sassy spark, just as she stepped out. ‘That suited you, too.’
She met his eyes with a lift of her brow, beyond trying to hide the attraction now.
‘I’d like to…’ He glanced at his watch, spread his hands and shrugged. ‘But I have to—’
‘I’m late for something, too.’ Imogen smiled as she closed the conversation. Another time, another place, maybe they’d have talked more, flirted, had some fun?
Imogen hadn’t done that in…well, ever. But hon estly just the idea of it, the almost-but-not-quite nature of their encounter, was enough to put a little jolt of pleasure in her day. But now real life had to be attended to—she had a meeting to survive and a career to keep on track.
She walked down the corridor, conscious that he was only half a pace behind her. She stopped as she came to a suite of meeting rooms. He stopped right beside her. For a moment they stood, both reading the sign on the first door.
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