by Nina Milne
‘But would you prefer a partner who wanted to explore those ideas?’
‘If we’re going to have this conversation—’ and heaven only knew why they were ‘—then I need to know why we’re having it.’
‘It’s …’ For a second she stared down at her coffee. ‘Research.’
‘Research for what?’
‘I was wondering if I should … well … maybe pick up a few items from Jean’s arsenal.’
‘That’s something you would need to discuss with your bedroom partner.’
‘Given my current bed partner is a cuddly rabbit that’s seen better days, that’s probably not going to work. That’s why I’m asking you. For a general opinion.’
‘I don’t think turn-ons can be boiled down into a general formula, Imogen. Everyone’s rules of attraction are different.’
Imogen sighed. ‘I guess I’ve just never thought that sexual attraction was particularly important in a relationship.’
Joe frowned. How could a woman so clearly made for the bedroom think sexual attraction was unimportant?
‘That probably explains the rabbit situation,’ he said.
Clearly not the right thing to say.
Imogen’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re saying I’m single because I don’t believe sex is the be-all and end-all to life?’
‘I’m saying sexual attraction is a key component to a relationship.’
‘What makes you an expert? You just said you don’t do relationships.’
‘I don’t. But I do do sexual attraction, and I can vouch for it being an important thing.’
‘Sure. But there are other things that are way more important. Kindness, loyalty, shared goals, a sense of humour, being good parent material. They all rate way higher than sexual attraction on my tick-list.’ Her voice vibrated with absolute belief.
‘Tick-list?’ She had a tick-list? ‘You have an actual, for real list of requirements? Manly chest? Sizeable bank balance? A yen to walk down the aisle.’
He was honest-to-God fascinated.
‘Chest size irrelevant,’ she said.
Though he couldn’t help but notice her gaze linger on his pecs with perhaps a hint of regret.
‘Moderate rather than sizeable savings account to demonstrate that security is important to him. And, yes, I need him to be pro marriage. And kids. I want financial security and whilst I’m happy to share my salary I need a partner who pulls their weight.’ Her voice had a steely ring Joe usually heard in a corporate boardroom not a bedroom. Any minute now she’d give him a PowerPoint presentation. ‘I want a man who wants children, who will be a wonderful dad who puts his children before himself.’
‘So what do you do? Sit every eligible man down, ask for a copy of his bank statement and make him write an essay on his opinion of a white picket fence?’
‘Of course not.’ Against the odds her eyes narrowed further. ‘But, yes, I do need to know whether we have long-term compatibility. So of course I do an assessment.’
‘You don’t think that’s a bit clinical?’ To say nothing of a touch kooky.
‘No more clinical than only having one-night stands to serve a bodily function.’
The disdain in her voice touched a nerve.
‘A one-night stand is about way more than bodily functions.’
‘If you say so …’
Her nose wrinkled in distaste and defensiveness rose within him.
‘I do. It’s about passion and chemistry and spark.’
He allowed his gaze to linger on her mouth, heard her breath catch in the slender column of her throat.
‘When the scent of the other person turns you on, when the idea of touching them becomes consuming, when all you want to do is pull them into your arms and kiss them.’
Her tongue snaked out to moisten the bow of her lips and his willpower snapped. Maybe he could show her what she was dismissing with such contempt.
‘A bit like now,’ he growled.
And in one movement he hitched his chair around the curve of the wooden table and cupped her jaw in his hands, expelled a sigh at the silken texture of her skin beneath his fingers. He ran his thumb over the fullness of her lower lip, saw the quiver run through her body.
As he covered her lips with his own, Joe was dimly aware that this was a bad, bad idea—but then Imogen’s taste, her scent, her warmth eradicated all vestige of thought. All he wanted was to plunder the softness of her coffee-scented lips as they parted to allow him access.
Her tongue tentatively stroked his, and as she moaned into his mouth he was lost. He tangled his fingers in her smooth glossy hair as she twined her arms around his neck; her fingers brushed his nape and desire jolted through him.
‘Closer,’ she murmured, and he slid his hands over her shoulders and down, spanned her slender waist and pulled her onto his lap.
Who knew how long they remained, lips locked, lost in sheer pleasure? Until the clink and clatter of plates, the whir of the coffee machine penetrated his brain. What the hell was he doing? Melded against someone tantamount to being an employee. Someone whose job he had the power to take. Someone who could be trying to influence him to protect not just her own job but other people’s as well.
Hell and damnation.
Pulling backwards, he broke the kiss and she gave a small mewl of protest, her eyes pools of desire clouded with confusion.
Her breathing as ragged as his, she scrambled off him and stood, one hand gripping the table for support. ‘I … I …’
Joe hauled in air and willed his pulse-rate to slow down and his brain to move into gear. Imogen did not look like a woman out to seduce him for gain; she looked as shell-shocked as he felt. Surely that couldn’t be simulated?
Regardless … ‘That was a mistake,’ he said flatly.
Yet she looked so damn desirable still, with her hair dishevelled, her lips swollen from his kiss, that it took all his willpower to remain seated.
Chill, Joe. It was a kiss. One kiss. Even if it had been the kiss of all kisses it was not a deal-breaker. ‘Never Mix Business with Pleasure’ was still Rule Number One.
Yes, he’d erred; he’d let the line between professional and personal fuzz. Given Imogen a few hours to live the dream, agreed to visit a sex shop, shared laughter, discussed sex. Time to redraw that line in permanent marker. Of the fluorescent kind.
‘A mistake that we need to put behind us.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got a couple of hours. Let’s put them to good use and visit some places that will impress Richard Harvey.’ As opposed to a sex shop.
Imogen nodded, tugged the edges of her jacket together and smoothed down her trousers, visibly pulling herself together. ‘I think we should find the fabric shop, visit the cemetery and go to the Sacré Coeur.’
‘Done.’
Imogen walked up and up and up the calf-wrenching steps towards the top of the glorious domed cathedral. She welcomed the pain—welcomed even more the legitimate reason for her heart to pound against her ribcage.
As the sun struck the blinding white of the travertine walls she was dazzled—not just by the rays but by the sheer dizzying possibilities of life.
She knew how she should be feeling: thoroughly ashamed with herself. She’d kissed a man who was her boss, her enemy, the wrecker of her friends’ and colleagues’ lives. Joe had spoken the truth: the kiss had been a mistake.
But it had also been earth-shattering. She’d never experienced one like it and her body still fizzed with the sheer joy of it. Apparently lust trumped principles. But who would have thought a kiss could be so incredible? How could she regret a kiss like that?
Apprehension prickled her skin. Take care, Imo. Perhaps this was how her mother had felt all those years before—beguiled by Jonathan Lorrimer’s looks and charm. And look what had happened there.
Not that Joe was remotely charming, nor making any attempt to beguile her. In fact he appeared to have erased the kiss from his memory banks.
Their whole trip around
the fabric store and their entire tour of the museum had been achieved civilly enough—Joe had asked intelligent questions about the fabrics, observed the paintings in the museum with genuine appreciation—but gone was the man who had laughed with her and wreaked such magic with his kiss. This man was the consummate professional, with his tie back round his neck as if that could restore professional equilibrium.
Currently Imogen would have settled for any sort of equilibrium. Even now the nape of her neck tingled. Every molecule of her body was hyper-aware of the strength of him just behind her on the narrow stairway as they approached the summit.
Her breath caught as she looked down over the awe-inspiring vista of Paris. The Eiffel Tower jutted above the rooftops of thousands of differently shaped buildings, all glinting in the late-afternoon sun. It made her feel dizzy, different, infused with wonder.
‘It’s incredible …’
‘Yes.’
Had his gaze lingered on her face for a heartbeat before he’d turned to stare out at the panorama?
Ridiculous. He was talking about the view, for heaven’s sake! She had to get some perspective. They’d shared a kiss. Big deal. Now they had to return to normal. Joe equalled Big Bad Boss. Imogen equalled Employee. She needed to concentrate on her job.
‘Have you seen it before?’ she asked. There. Perfect. Normal civil conversation.
‘Yes.’ As if realising the brevity of the syllable, he continued, ‘I came with my sisters once.’
‘Really?’ It was strange to imagine Joe in family mode.
‘Really.’ A smile touched his lips—a genuine one. ‘I’m not sure they appreciated the glory of the scenery. They were fourteen and more interested in the glory of French boys.’
His lips pressed together, as though he regretted sharing even that much personal information.
A glance at his watch and, ‘We need to go.’
Guilt prodded her as she scuttled after him through the tourist crowd. She’d completely lost track of time—hadn’t given work a single thought since they’d got on the Métro. All she’d thought about was Joe. Oh, and sex. In conjunction.
As their taxi screeched and sped through the Paris traffic Imogen squeezed her hands into fists and focused. The hours for living the dream were over and it was time to concentrate on reality and the need to wow Richard. If only her body would stop with the snap, crackle and pop …
The taxi glided to a stop and she climbed out, stood on the pavement whilst Joe paid the driver. The street teemed with chicly dressed chattering women and casually dressed men. Elegance mixed with gesticulation and passion, and for a minute Imogen wished with all her heart that she was in Paris with a lover.
Joe.
Delusional, Imo.
‘Let’s go,’ she said, and they wended their way through the throng into the warmly lit interior of a bar.
Small and intimate, its tables glowed golden in the muted light from retro lamps and the candles that dotted the embrasures in the wax-dripped wall.
A bar curved down one side of the room, behind which there was a bewildering array of bottles and an old-fashioned cash register that evoked images of a Paris of decades before. The soft strains of jazz filled the evening air, reminding Imogen of the sheer thrill of being in the romantic capital of the world.
‘Over here.’
Peering through the throng, Imogen spotted Richard and Crystal sitting in a corner booth, a pitcher of delicate pink liquid on the table in front of them.
Happiness was evident in the glow of their smiles, the linking of their fingers as they both rose to their feet. Richard looked younger than she remembered, his salt-and-pepper hair longer, his whole stance more relaxed.
No doubt that was Crystal’s influence. In her late thirties, she radiated a serene timeless beauty and her glance at her husband was soft with love. For them Paris was a truly romantic getaway, and envy tugged at Imogen’s heartstrings.
Forcing a smile to her face, she stepped forward and greeted the couple, introduced Joe.
‘Good to meet you, Joe,’ Richard said. ‘Sit—order whatever you like. On me. I recommend the Vieux Carré cocktail. Cognac, sweet vermouth, rye and Benedictine, with a dash of Angostura bitters.’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Joe said.
‘Me too,’ Imogen agreed.
Once they were seated, with their drinks in front of them, Richard smiled at Imogen. ‘Isn’t Steve accompanying you on this trip? I thought you’d take advantage of the chance for a romantic getaway?’
Next to her Joe stiffened for a second, his movements jerky as he picked his glass up.
‘Maybe give him the opportunity to pop the question if he hasn’t already, eh?’
Mortification encased her body as her cheeks heated to no doubt a tomato-red. Memories came of how she had gushed to Richard about her belief that she and Steve were so suited, so compatible, so together.
She had been truly delusional.
Now she would have to admit that Steve had left her for his ex and was going to marry her. Well, call her a great fat fibber but she couldn’t do it—couldn’t bear to see the pity in Richard Harvey’s eyes.
‘He couldn’t make it,’ she said, ignoring the snap of Joe’s head, sure she could feel his look boring through her temple.
‘That’s a real shame,’ Crystal said. ‘We were hoping to meet him.’
Richard turned to Joe. ‘Did you bring a significant other half with you?’
‘No. I’m a single man.’
The older man sighed, and then shrugged. ‘Then I suppose the best thing will be for you both to stay in the apartment.’
Huh? The words of confession Imogen had been preparing withered on her tongue. Trepidation tiptoed down her spine as she picked up her glass and forced herself to sip rather than gulp.
‘What apartment would that be?’ she managed.
Richard smiled. ‘Well, as you know, Crystal and I have bought a place in Paris and want it done up. I could go to someone over here, but I’d prefer to use either you or Graham. So I’ve come up with a plan.’
Oh, hell; this plan was going to be a Harvey Humdinger—Imogen just knew it.
‘Sounds intriguing,’ Joe murmured.
‘I’ve rented two romantic Parisian apartments,’ Richard explained. ‘One for Graham and his wife and one was meant to be for Imogen and Steve—though now it’s for you two. You stay there tonight. Then on Monday morning I want a two-page proposal on how you would design the interior of a four-bedroom, three-bathroom Parisian apartment. I’ll make my decision based on that.’
‘How does that sound?’ Crystal asked.
‘That sounds like a challenge Langley will be more than happy to accept,’ Joe said.
Come on, Imogen. She could do the whole gibbering wreck thing later. Right now wasn’t the time.
Raising her glass, she summoned a smile that she could only hope denoted calm, professional confidence. ‘I’ll drink to that.’
‘Excellent,’ Richard said. He reached into his pocket and pushed a set of keys across the table. ‘Here are the keys to ‘Lovers’ Tryst.’
Of course. What else could it be called?
Joe and Imogen—off to Lovers’ Tryst for the night. Dear Lord.
Panic bubbled in her tummy, and yet a thoroughly misplaced anticipation strummed her veins.
CHAPTER FIVE
IMOGEN SWEPT A sideways glance across the limo that Richard had insisted they use and shifted on the seat, nerves jangling. Joe’s whole body pulsed with contained anger and had done ever since they had said their goodbyes to Richard and Crystal. It wasn’t her fault that Richard had come up with this mad idea, so she could only assume that his irritation was at the situation—not her.
Sod it. The brooding silence was getting old. ‘So,’ she said brightly, ‘isn’t it generous of Richard to say he’ll pay for any clothes and things that we need to purchase? And to have booked us a table at one of the poshest restaurants in Paris?’ She glanced down at he
rself. ‘Do you think this is all right to wear to eat in a French restaurant? Probably not.’
‘It doesn’t make any difference to me whether you wear a sack,’ he said, the words rasping in the regulated air of the limo. ‘So don’t waste your time or Richard’s money on a seduction outfit.’
‘What?’ Confusion tangled her vocal cords. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t like being played, Imogen.’
‘Still not with you.’
‘I don’t trade business favours for sexual ones.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The kiss.’
Her neck cracked as she swivelled on the plush leather seat to face his grim expression. The dusk had harshened the angles of his face further. ‘Are you for real? You think that was for business reasons?’
‘You wouldn’t be the first to try it. You said yourself you would do anything to save Langley. Maybe you’re hoping to persuade me to drop the buy-out plan, give your friends their jobs back.’ He leant back against the padded leather. ‘So if you had seduction plans for later cancel them.’
‘Believe me, Joe, I’d rather seduce …’ Hell she couldn’t think of anyone low enough. ‘Ivan …’
‘Maybe that’s your plan B. Though I can’t help feeling sorry for that poor sap of a boyfriend you’ve got at home, waiting to propose. The man who satisfies your crazy tick-list. Does Steve know you go round kissing people in cafés? Sitting on their laps and—’
‘Stop!’
Imogen wondered if it were possible to explode with rage. If so, she damn well hoped she took Joe with her. Anger ignited, heated her veins. How dared he?
‘You arrogant, stupid schmuck! For your information, Steve and I split up six weeks ago.’
He snorted. ‘More lies, Imogen? Why didn’t you tell Richard?’
‘Because I felt such a damn fool. I raved about Steve to Richard, about him being The One. I was too embarrassed to admit I was wrong.’
As the limo glided to a stop outside a shopping mall tears of sheer rage and mortification threatened. How could Joe tarnish a kiss that had made her blood sing and her head spin? Made her feel attractive and desirable and wanted? Palliated the sting of Steve’s parting words?
