'Tis the Season

by Carole Mortimer, Alison Roberts

  And then there was the fact that it wasn’t just her looks he was attracted to. In the open-plan space outside his office, she and Shona were nearest to his door. The door he couldn’t bring himself to close—not when he could hear her low-voiced humour. She didn’t mix much with the others—just sat quietly next to Shona, passing the time with occasional wry and dry comments that had him hovering ever closer, increasingly interested. Wishing she’d laugh like that with him.

  And she was damn good at her job—at a junior level, for sure, but with the potential to climb a lot higher. He could see exactly why Mr Mac had agreed to put her through her degree. In early, out late. Always focused, always prepared. Thus far she’d been right—she was able to do everything he’d asked of her. Except he hadn’t asked for what he really wanted. That was in the ‘Not Allowed’ category. And she knew it. She wouldn’t meet his gaze, wouldn’t speak with him unless on a business matter, wouldn’t even call him by his first name. So he was tiptoeing around her when in another time, another place, he’d have had her horizontal as fast as possible. And he knew—deep in his bones, he knew—that she wanted him, too.

  The attraction made him ache. And the impossibility made it worse.

  So he spent as much time as he could on the shop floor—away from the temptation of sitting in the admin office. Even so he felt it—the magnetic, compelling instinct to get nearer to her. Much nearer.

  Generally Ryan relied on his instincts. He wished this one would go to hell.

  LOST IN THOUGHT, Imogen walked as early as ever to work. It was weird walking in the dark. When she walked home it was dark, too. The wintry Edinburgh sun didn’t come out to play for long. Despite this, there was one massive light on her horizon. He lit the world brighter than the biggest star in sky—and it wasn’t just her world. She’d seen the way the women working in the cosmetics de partment all stood so much straighter when he appeared—and it wasn’t an ‘uh-oh here comes the boss’ kind of leap to attention, it was definitely a ‘suck in your tummy, here comes the sexiest man alive’ pose. Nor was it just the cosmet ics hotties, but the kitchenware, nursery, formalwear and lingerie queens, too—both sexes. Wherever he went all heads turned, and on went their ‘notice me’ signals. It wasn’t just because of his looks. He had an easiness, an open, ap proachable demeanour, that made people want to draw closer. And then there was that ir re pressible, irresistible glint that suggested he wasn’t quite thinking thoughts as bland as he ought.

  Ryan Taylor was blinding everyone with his charm. Imogen was determined to resist. But, as inevitably as snow melted in the sun, and for the five mil lionth time, she replayed that scene in the hotel hallway, half kidding herself that it was a good way to combat the chilly wind on her way to work. She was crossing the bridge, and had just got to the point when she’d watched his muscles tighten, felt her own belly tighten in response, when, as she walked faster to get a grip on herself, she felt her feet slide…

  ‘Careful!’ A strong hand gripped her upper arm, lifting her, just keeping her upright. ‘You don’t want to graze your knee again.’

  ‘Oh!’ She sucked in a shocked breath. ‘Thank you.’ She put a hand out and grasped the railing of the bridge. Took another shocked breath as she identified her rescuer. ‘Thanks.’ Her heart thudded faster, but the oxygen didn’t help and she gabbled, ‘I’m so useless on this snow.’

  Ryan laughed. ‘This isn’t snow. This is just a bit of ice.’

  ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s too slippery for me.’ The whole world was too slippery. She gripped the rail tighter, vowing not to move until he’d gone.

  He stepped alongside her, so he was no longer in the way of the other people walking towards their work. He was breathing faster than normal, too. But that was because he was wearing navy track pants, had his polypropylene-striped arms poking out from the sleeves of a white tee shirt, and a film of sweat on his forehead.

  ‘You’re going in to work early.’ He didn’t seem to notice she was impersonating a statue.

  ‘I have somethings I want to do. You’re…’ She looked up at him, lost her train of thought.

  ‘Out for a run—yes.’ He smiled.

  For the first time in days she stared properly into his eyes—even in the half-light of the late dawn they were vivid blue. She was vaguely aware of her mouth moving into a mirroring smile. Oh, he had it all. One of those American great-all-round types, with his blue eyes and brown hair, his bronzed skin, broad shoulders and… Had she dwelt on his blue eyes already?

  ‘Do you wear contacts?’

  ‘No. Why?’ He seemed to be smiling with his whole body.

  She couldn’t believe she’d asked that question out loud. ‘Your eyes are very blue.’ Oh, God, she was whispering. Oh, brain, where art thou? She jerked back. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Why?’

  Because that was inappropriate. But she couldn’t answer. Looked away to try to clear her head of his almost hypnotic power. ‘It’s freezing, isn’t it?’ Hell. Reduced to talking about the weather to distract herself from the fact she’d just made a colossal fool of herself. To try to ignore the way she burnt up in his presence.

  ‘I like the cold. I like the fun of warming up.’

  She looked back at him then. Had he moved closer? He had, and now he was taking another step.

  ‘It’s easier to warm up than cool down.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said, just to disagree. ‘It can be impossible to warm up.’ The brakes on her sen sibility were slipping as she stood near him, with him smiling like that. He still had his hand on her arm, and he was edging closer and closer.

  ‘You can always warm up.’

  Awareness zinged between them.

  ‘No.’ She shook her head in the tiniest movement and her last hint of caution melted. ‘My lips are so cold they’re numb.’ The scare from her almost-fall must have addled everything.

  ‘Numb?’ He was looking deep into her eyes in a way that oblit er ated rational brainpower.

  She nodded, felt that squeezing inside as his gaze dropped to her lips.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’ His mouth had that cheeky quirk to it.

  ‘They are,’ she insisted. ‘I’ll have to be careful with my coffee or I might burn them.’

  His lashes swooped up and she was pinned in place—just where she wanted to be. ‘Well, we can’t let that happen.’

  Bluer than the brightest summer sky, his eyes gleamed. Spellbound, she watched as he came nearer and nearer.

  The kiss was butterfly-light. The faintest brush of his mouth on hers. Not remotely long enough or hard enough or deep enough to satisfy Imogen’s bur geoning desire.

  ‘Still numb,’ she said, as his mouth lifted and hovered mere millimetres from hers. Her challenge was unmistakable.

  His smile widened—and then she got to taste it as his head lowered. Her eyes closed and in her mind she was floating in those skies of blue. His lips were warm, gentle, teasing, before they lifted again, still too soon.

  She sighed, resigned. ‘I can’t seem to feel a thing.’

  His brows shot up, but there was a knowing look in his eyes. ‘I’ll have to try harder.’

  This time she met his mouth with her own, wide and hungry. This time he put his hands on her. This time it was longer and harder and deeper.

  Imogen moaned. He slid one hand down her back, pulling her against him while at the same time taking that last step closer. She was sand wiched firmly between the bridge railing and him. Yet still she wanted to be closer. She hadn’t lied. It was true she couldn’t feel a thing—other than pleasure radiating within her. Emboldened by that madness, she kissed him deeply, searching him out with her tongue, desperate to taste more of him—all of him. Her arms lifted, locking around his neck. Their bodies strained together, arousing, intoxicating, suddenly in an embrace so tight it almost hurt. Until finally he lifted his head and let them both breathe.

  But it wasn’t sobering oxygen that she inhaled. It was all Ryan.
‘Are you sure you don’t wear contacts?’

  ‘Imogen.’

  She closed her eyes and lifted her chin for more. Almost heard his smile. Felt him move impossibly closer, his legs imprisoning her. Feeling them against hers, she was teased by the idea of having all his weight on hers, pressing her down into a big bed, parting her thighs. She ground her hips against his. Heard his groan as he lifted his head a fraction from where his mouth had been sliding kisses along her throat.

  ‘I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I found you trying to break into my hotel room.’

  ‘Mmm.’ She ran her fingers through his hair and held on tight.

  ‘This feels really good.’

  Too good.

  She moaned when he stood back half an inch. Almost managed to start up her defunct brain. But then he undid the big buttons on her wool coat.

  ‘This is nice, but it’s so bulky…’

  She trembled as she heard the rough desire threaded in his voice. Underneath was the green silk shirt she’d bought after her spill earlier in the week. She had to admit she liked it—and she knew he liked it. Her resistance to his attraction was clearly slipping.

  ‘Such a beautiful colour on you.’ He bent and pressed his lips just north of the top button. His hand was between her coat and her shirt now, and still not where she wanted. Bare skin. The idea tormented her. As if he’d heard her mental plea his fingers moved, lifting the shirt, sliding beneath onto the skin of her back.

  Gasping, she lifted her chin and he caught her mouth again. All teasing patience gone. Now his tongue demanded—intimately searching, tasting, knowing, as he crushed her to him. His hands moved possessively under her shirt, one running down her back, the other cupping her breast, fingers spreading down on her stomach, firmly sliding further down…pressing hard on her lower belly, right where deep within she was aching and yearning for deeper, more intimate contact. She arched her back against the bridge, thrusting her hips harder into his body.

  He tore his mouth from hers. ‘If we don’t stop soon, I’ll be warming you up from the inside out.’

  Panting, she opened her eyes. Turned her head and saw the footpath, the people studiously not looking their way. The truth of what he’d said hit her. She was plastered to him, grinding herself against his massively exciting erection, and it was before eight o’clock on a weekday morning in the middle of a busy street.

  Oh, no!

  His hands loosened. Moved. Not letting go of her, but stopping their intimate invasion. He rested them on her hips—but on the outside of her coat. It was more to stop her toppling over than to turn her on.

  ‘I want you, Imogen,’ he said. ‘Badly.’

  She started shaking her head. He kept talking.

  ‘I know you’re not ready for that yet. You tell me when you are. The word I’m looking for is yes.’

  Not ready? She’d just thrown herself at him. For that she wanted to apologise, wanted to scream her mortification, wanted to rewind time back five minutes and forget.

  ‘But—’

  He placed his hand over her mouth.

  ‘There’s another word. But. Best not to say the rest. If there’s a but, that’s all there is.’

  He didn’t want to analyse it. Didn’t want it to become any more of a scene than it already was—didn’t want complications.

  Millions of thoughts were flying in her brain. Was this normal for him? Because it certainly wasn’t normal for her. It was terrifying. Since when was she so out-of-control as to be practically having sex with some guy in the street?

  In the few minutes it took her to get up to Princes Street Imogen wasn’t numb any more. She was both frozen with horror and hot with embarrassment. Desire and panic were coming third and fourth. What on earth had she been thinking? This was her boss, her spoilt playboy boss, and she couldn’t ruin the chance she’d worked so hard to get with another cad.

  RYAN COULD FEEL WAVES of insecurity and embarrassment almost buffeting into him, so strongly were they radiating from her body. Ordinarily he’d have chuckled about it—made her laugh to lighten the moment. But he was too filled with disappointment and frustration and sheer confusion to be able to laugh himself. He’d kissed her—gloriously, deeply, most satisfyingly, and then even more un satisfyingly. Because he’d wanted more and more and more with every inch he’d explored of her. Instead he’d stopped and breathed. And then he’d stood and watched all the stars in her eyes fade out one by one as reason returned to her head. Each sparkle of desire snuffed out by whatever cynical thought was striking her.

  Did he want to know?

  He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. He didn’t have the time for complicated. He was here short-term to do a job, do it well, and then move on to the next. All his concentration should be on that and nothing else. And just then, in the aftermath of that mind-blowing kiss and then some, she’d looked very complicated. Now she looked plain anxious. He liked that less than anything. He had to lighten it up—just for now. So they could have some time to cool off and think this through. Because—oh, boy—he needed to think. Since when did he have the hots for someone so bad he’d nearly stripped her in the street first thing in the morning?

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Imogen. It was just a kiss.’ A bit more abrasive than he’d meant. And who did he think he was kidding—just a kiss?

  ‘And let’s face it,’ he added. ‘It was inevitable.’ Hell, yes—it had been. He’d been wanting it—just as he’d said—from the moment he’d found her trying to get into his hotel room. It hadn’t been the flash of her bra and the magnificent breast it contained. He’d wanted her before then. One look into her flaming green eyes had jolted him to his core. She was one gorgeous woman.

  ‘Inevitable?’

  Frost. No doubt about it. He could see her icing over. What? Because he’d called it like it was?

  ‘Absolutely.’ He couldn’t resist the temptation to antagonise her more.

  She was trying to walk faster. Get away from him. Tough. He could handle icy paths far better than she.

  ‘Well—’ her comeback snapped as fast as her heels on the pavement ‘—now that we’ve been there and done that, we can move on and forget about it, can’t we?’

  ‘You think?’ He nearly laughed aloud. There was no forgetting the way she’d just burst into flames, and there was no way in hell he could move on for a while—not when he wanted her with a want like this.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  At the way she so coolly echoed his word he was seized with the urge to pull her close and kiss her some more, prove her totally wrong. Not a good idea—tempting as it was. His status as her boss was a problem. One he’d give a lot to get rid of—but he couldn’t. If anything more were to happen it had to be at her instigation. Just as—if she’d take a second to be honest—she’d have to admit that the kiss had been at her instigation. He had to get her to come to him. Outside of business hours, alone, they could work this out.

  One thing he knew: she liked his eyes. That was nice, because he really liked hers. He stopped her walking by putting both his hands hard on her shoulders. Stood in front of her and then lifted her chin so that she had to meet him square-on.

  She was breathing fast, and he read defiance and the remnants of the desire she was so desperately trying to squash.

  He spoke. Slowly, determinedly bringing her back to recognise that this attraction was here and it wasn’t going to go away.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  INEVITABLE. AN HOUR LATER Imogen was fuming in place behind her computer when Ryan walked in. She tried not to watch him as he greeted Shona and the others. Couldn’t help but be aware of every move. He walked past her desk.

  ‘Good morning, Imogen.’

  For a flash she met his eyes, saw the awareness in them, then looked back to her screen. ‘Good morning, Mr Taylor.’

  He stopped walking, swi velled, and came right over to her desk, not seeming to care about Shona being w
ell within earshot. ‘You’re going to “Mr Taylor” me now?’

  ‘Yes.’ She kept typing. ‘Now I have all the more reason to “Mr Taylor” you.’

  He’d been right—it had been inevitable. She’d been inevitable. And he’d been so pre dictable—just a kiss? Was that how he thought of it? If so, she was even further out of his league than she’d realised—because no way could she play it like that.

  There was a moment longer as he stood beside her desk. She kept typing. Who knew what? But her eyes were glued to the screen and her fingers flew. ‘Okay, Ms Hall, if that’s how you want it.’ He stepped closer, crouched down, spoke very quietly. ‘But there’s one thing I need you to do for me.’

  She looked down into his eyes, startled to see their almost pained expression.

  ‘I’m not asking you this as your boss. I’m asking you just to have mercy on a simple man.’

  Mystified, she kept staring.

  ‘Would you please never, never, ever wear that shirt again?’

  Then, for the first time since taking over the management of the store, he walked into his office and closed the door—hard.

  Imogen worked through until Shona reminded her there was such a thing as lunch. She wasn’t at all hungry. But having her favourite kind of break might provide one way of stopping her mind from lurching between lust-filled fantasies and rank despair. She hadn’t had the chance to do it all week, and more than ever she needed to today.

  For ten months of the year tasteful classical instrumental music was piped discreetly through the store’s speakers. For the other two months it was Christmas favourites. And in the magnificent Christmas store-within-the-store the volume was raised that little extra notch.

  Imogen loved the repeat, repeat, repeat of the songs all the day and half the night due to their extended opening hours. She knew the words to all of them and hummed along. Head bent, she stood by the grotto and put the final fold on one of her trademark origami boxes to put a tiny present in.

  ‘Ms Hall.’ An American accent, all sarcastically polite, interrupted her. ‘May I have a word?’