Breaking the Boss’s Rules

by Nina Milne

  Joe was intent on his laptop, his conversation over, a frown creasing his forehead.

  ‘Morning,’ Imogen said, and foreboding weighted her stomach. Joe looked formidable—a far cry from the man she’d had a midnight picnic with in bed.

  ‘Good morning.’

  Fighting the urge to turn and run, Imogen forced her unwilling legs forward, pulled out a chair and sat down.

  What now? For the first time since they had entered the apartment Imogen wondered if she had screwed up monumentally by sleeping with Joe. ‘Um …’

  His gaze was unreadable, his expression unyielding as he looked across the table at her, and Imogen felt the heat of embarrassment curdle her insides. This was not the expression she’d wanted to see.

  Come on, Imo. What did you expect? The night was over and Joe was back in ruthless businessman mode—there was no reason for him to look at her with warmth.

  Yet surely what they had shared last night had to mean something?

  ‘So how does this work?’ she blurted out. ‘This is uncharted territory for me. I don’t know the etiquette of the morning after. What usually happens?’

  ‘Breakfast and goodbye.’ He picked up his coffee cup. ‘Unfortunately not an option in this case.’

  ‘Unfortunately?’ Hurt crashed into anger and created fury.

  For a second she thought she saw emotion flash across his face, and then the guard was back up, his jaw set, the outline of his mouth grim.

  ‘Come on, Imogen, let’s be grown-up about this. I could write a whole tick-list of my own with reasons why last night should not have happened.’ He closed his eyes and grimaced. ‘I can’t believe I said that. I meant a list—not a tick-list.’

  Imogen forced herself not to flinch. She’d shared something important with him last night about her parents’ disastrous marriage and her need for a tick-list, and now he was mocking her.

  ‘I’d rather have a tick-list than some sort of cold, emotionless relationship avoidance criteria.’

  A sigh gusted through the air as he pushed his chair back over the paved stones. ‘And this is exactly why last night was a mistake. We need to work together—not sit here trading emotional insults.’

  Imogen opened her mouth and then closed it again, focusing on the backdrop—the terracotta pots and the mosaic patterns of the outdoor tiles

  Joe was right. This was about Langley. About keeping Langley safe from Ivan Moreton by winning the Richard Harvey project.

  Imogen frowned as Joe’s earlier words echoed in her ears. ‘May the best man win. See you on Wednesday.’

  ‘Who were you on the phone to earlier?’

  His fingers drummed a tattoo on the table. ‘Ivan Moreton.’

  ‘You’re going to see Ivan Moreton on Wednesday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘But what?’

  There was no quarter in his voice or expression; any minute now she’d see icicles form as he spoke.

  ‘Did you think last night would affect my buy-out decision?’

  ‘No!’

  What had she thought? She’d foolishly, erroneously, stupidly thought the man she’d shared a bed and so much more with last night wasn’t capable of selling off the company to a douchebag like Ivan Moreton.

  Cold realisation touched her with icy fingers—she’d done the thing she’d sworn she wouldn’t. Let lust—the way Joe had made her body feel—affect her judgement. Joe had never claimed to be Mr Nice Guy—Imogen had repainted him to suit herself. Just because he could make her body achieve the heights of ecstasy, she’d rewritten his personality.

  Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

  Shame coated her very soul when she remembered how she’d spilled her guts about tick-lists, her parents’ marriage, Steve and Simone. And what had he shared in return? Zilch—a great big zip-a-dee-doo-dah zero. Humiliation jumped into the mix. Maybe he hadn’t even been listening—maybe all his women experienced the urge to confide in him post-orgasm and he just tuned them out until he was ready for the next round.

  ‘Well?’ he rasped.

  ‘I have no expectations of you whatsoever.’ Hauling in breath, she dug deep, located her pride and slammed her shoulders back. ‘There is no need to worry that last night will make any difference at all to us working together.’

  She’d made a monumental error and slept with the enemy—forgotten her work obligations and where her loyalty lay. It was time to make up for that. So she’d use what he’d given her—channel the fizz and the buzz, take the memories and turn them into creative vibes.

  ‘I care about Langley and I will create a kick-ass proposal that will beat Graham’s hands-down. And, yes, I do hope that influences your decision about selling out to Ivan Sleazeball Moreton.’

  His email pinged and he glanced down at the laptop screen. For a second Imogen saw irritation cross his face.

  ‘Trouble?’ she asked. As long as it wasn’t anything to do with Langley she damn well hoped that it was.

  ‘Nothing I can’t deal with.’ He lifted his gaze. ‘So, any ideas yet?’

  ‘Give me a ch—’ Just like that an idea shimmered into her brain, frothed and bubbled. ‘Actually, yes, I do.’

  He gestured with his hand. ‘Go ahead. I’m listening.’

  Imogen hesitated—right now she didn’t even want to share air space with the guy, let alone tell him her idea. But, as she had so spectacularly forgotten last night, Joe McIntyre was the boss.

  ‘I need to show Richard and Crystal that Langley can create an apartment that is essentially French—a place that combines fantasy and reality, a place where they can feel at home and on holiday all at the same time. A home with a sexy edge, with glitz and glamour, but somewhere to feel comfortable. For example—look at this kitchen. It’s very minimalist … not really the sort of kitchen you could imagine cooking in. So I’d design a kitchen that conveys the chicness of croissants and coffee, the sexiness of caviar and champagne, but also the hominess of cooking a romantic boeuf bourgignon together. Then on the proposal I’d sketch all those elements.’

  To her own irritation she realised she was holding her breath, waiting for Joe’s opinion. Please just let it be a need for the professional go-ahead. Nothing more.

  His fingers tapped on the wrought-iron of the tabletop as he thought.

  ‘Sounds good. Come up with an idea like that for each room and I’ll come up with a cost mock-up. Let’s get to work.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘DONE.’ IMOGEN DROPPED the charcoal pencil onto the sheened mahogany Langley boardroom table and blew out a sigh. Exhaustion made her eyelids visibly heavy, and dark lashes swept down in a long blink as she reached for her cup of coffee. ‘Here.’ She pushed the piece of paper towards him. ‘If you hate it don’t tell me.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘I haven’t hated anything yet.’

  Far from it—over the past two days Imogen had produced some truly exceptional sketches. Perplexity made him frown yet again at her genuine inability to see her own talent. Instead doubt often clouded her vision and caused her to chew her lip in a way it was nigh on impossible not to be distracted by.

  Not that he had given even the whisper of a hint of said distraction. After the sheer stupidity of his behaviour in Paris he’d made sure to keep to strictly professional boundaries. As for Imogen—once she’d got immersed in the project it had been as if she’d entered a world of her own.

  ‘I know you haven’t. But I’m worried neither of us can see straight any more—we’re too knackered.’

  She had a point; they’d worked round the clock. They’d worked in the apartment, worked on the Eurostar and come straight to Langley, where they’d set up shop. Grabbing only a few hours’ shut-eye on the boardroom sofa.

  ‘And,’ she continued, ‘this last room is pretty crucial—the master bedroom is meant to be the pièce de résistance.’

  Full marks to her, he thought. Although a flush tinged the angle of her cheeks, her voice and gaze were
steady. Yet he knew she must be remembering their own bedroom interlude. He glanced down at the sketch and his heart thudded as images filtered across his brain. Imogen had taken the bedroom at Lovers’ Tryst and delivered to it her own unique twist. No longer circular, the bed seemed suspended in the air.

  ‘It’s a floating bed,’ she said. ‘It’s different and romantic. I know it may be more expensive, but …’

  ‘I’ll check.’

  ‘No!’ Her face paled as she nodded at the clock. ‘Look at the time.’

  ‘It’s eleven.’

  ‘Eleven p.m.’

  ‘Oh, hell.’ The impact of her words hit Joe with a sucker punch. ‘Richard said first thing Monday morning and it’s an hour until midnight. Do you think we need to get this over there now, rather than at nine a.m.?’

  ‘I think Richard is quite capable of disqualifying us if we don’t meet the exact letter of his instructions.’

  ‘So we’d better get it couriered across right now. I’m on it. You get it packaged. We’ll email it across as well.’

  Anger spiked inside him, along with a surge of adrenalin—he should have spotted that midnight trap right from the get-go. Instead of pondering over Imogen’s lack of self belief. Instead of interspersing working flat-out with his fight to sever the bonds of attraction that had him so distracted.

  Imogen nodded and raced across the boardroom, and he pulled his phone out of pocket—this proposal would get to Richard Harvey on time if it killed him. No way would he let Langley down—that would not be acceptable. If he didn’t know a courier service would get it there more quickly he’d take it himself.

  Fifteen minutes later Imogen stared at him, worry painting creases on her forehead. ‘It will get there, won’t it?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve used Mark before—he whizzes round London faster than the speed of light. And Richard’s offices aren’t that far away. Plus, we know the email made it. So we’re covered.’ He nodded. ‘Well spotted, Imogen.’

  ‘I should have thought of it before,’ she said. ‘But now I’m worried we’ve sent a proposal that’s not as good as it could be. I thought we had a few more hours to polish it.’

  ‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. I didn’t think of it at all.’

  ‘You don’t know Richard as well as I do.’ She paced the room, long jean-clad legs striding the length of the boardroom table. ‘I want this contract.’

  Her smile was tremulous, and for an insane moment he wanted to pull her into a hug, slide his hand down her back and utter soothing words. Shock rooted him to the deep-pile carpet that covered the boardroom floor and he tried to school his features into professional support mode.

  ‘So do I. I promise you it’s a damn fine proposal and it’s got a really good chance. You couldn’t have done more than you did.’

  ‘Huh. That’s what I used to tell myself after exams. You’ve worked really hard, Imogen, maybe this time you haven’t messed it up.’ Her hand covered the slight curve of her tummy. ‘Ugh. It makes me feel queasy.’ Pressing her lips together, as if to stop the flow of further information, she resumed pacing.

  Her words triggered a memory of Imogen in his office just a week before, telling him about her ten-year-old self bringing a report home and her mother’s disappointment. He recalled her words in the Michelin-starred restaurant, her fear of undertaking the proposal, and a pang of understanding hit him.

  Instinct prompted the words he had used so many times with his sisters. ‘You have given this your all and no one can ask more than that. Including yourself. If we don’t win this proposal you haven’t let anyone down.’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ she said, coming to a stop in front of him ‘If I lose and Graham wins there’s a bigger chance you’ll sell Langley to Ivan. For you that’s just business—another day on the job. But for me … I will have let Peter and Harry down. They will be devastated, and in their state of health that will have a knock-on effect. And I will always wonder if I should have called Belinda in.’

  He shifted backwards slightly—not a good plan to have the lush curve of her breasts in his line of sight. ‘That was my call, and no matter what happens I stand by that decision. You are taking too much on yourself. Both Peter and Harry have seen this proposal and they love it.’

  ‘That doesn’t guarantee I’ll win. And if I don’t, Langley is one step further to ending up in Ivan’s hands. That’s a fact, isn’t it?’

  To his own surprise Joe felt a prod of guilt, even as he forced his features to remain neutral. No way could he let emotional reasoning affect a business decision.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There you go, then. My responsibility. My bad if it goes wrong.’ Her hair shielded her expression as she continued her relentless striding across the room.

  He rose and strode towards her, blocked her path as she paced. ‘Stop.’

  This was important enough that he would force himself to ignore the way her delicate scent enveloped him, would allow himself to get close to her.

  ‘It will not be your fault if Langley ends up in a buy-out situation. You will not have let Peter down—or Langley. Promise me you get that.’

  Her chest rose and fell, her blue-grey eyes were wide as she stared up at him, and suddenly he felt all kinds of a fool. What was he doing, overreacting like this? If only she wasn’t so beautiful—ink-stains, smudged eyes, creased T-shirt and all.

  Stepping backwards, out of temptation’s way, he forced himself to sound casual. ‘I will be making the decisions as to Langley’s future—no matter what happens you can absolve yourself from blame. In fact I’ll provide you with a life-size photograph of me and a set of darts. How’s that?’

  ‘It sounds like a plan.’

  A thoughtful frown creased her brow—almost as if she were trying to figure something out. Join the club.

  ‘Joe?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ll still be throwing those darts, and I’m still a bit of a wreck, but … you’ve made me feel better. Thank you.’

  ‘No problem.’ Embarrassment still threatened and he shrugged it off. ‘In the meantime, if you want to head home now I’ll call you a taxi.’

  Imogen shook her head. ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep—I’m too wired on coffee and adrenalin. And what if Richard gets back to us now? I’ll stay here—but you don’t have to stay as well.’

  As if he’d leave her in a deserted building at this time of night. Hell, call him old-fashioned, but he wouldn’t leave any woman in that situation. Anyway …

  ‘I want to hear Richard’s decision too.’

  It was no more than the truth—he did want Langley to win this bid as a stepping stone on its way to recovery. And he did also want to be with Imogen when the verdict arrived—to see her lips curve into her gorgeous smile if they won or to offer comfort if they hadn’t. That was fair enough. They’d worked incredibly hard for this proposal—had bonded professionally.

  ‘Why don’t you order a pizza? I don’t think we remembered to eat today.’

  ‘Sounds like a great idea,’ she said.

  His tablet pinged to indicate the arrival of an email. He glanced down and supressed a groan. Leila again. This was now officially out of hand and he had no idea what to do about it.

  ‘Your mystery caller again?’ Imogen asked. ‘The one who makes you sigh every time you get an email?’

  Nearly choking in an attempt to inhale a puff of air, he shook his head. ‘She’s not a mystery caller.’

  For a nanosecond Imogen’s shoulders tensed, and then she turned the movement into a shrug. ‘If she isn’t mysterious why don’t you tell me who she is?’ She hesitated. ‘It may help to talk about it.’

  ‘No.’

  He regretted the curtness of the syllable as soon as it dropped from his lips, but the thought of explaining the Leila situation in full had moisture sheening the back of his neck.

  With an expressive upturn of her palms she rolled her eyes. ‘Fair enough. It was just a tho
ught. I’ll go and order the pizza.’

  Joe watched her as she picked up the phone and then dropped his gaze to the email. Incredulity descended, causing him to reread the words in the hope that he’d got it wrong. Now what?

  His gut informed him that he was seriously mishandling Leila, his actions being dictated by the sear of guilt. His eyes veered up to Imogen—could it be time to acknowledge that he needed some help, here? Every bone in his body revolted at the idea, but as he read the email again panic roiled in his stomach.

  There was no choice—he couldn’t afford to mess this up and, like it or not, he was way out of his depth.

  Imogen placed the order, trying and failing not to watch Joe. It didn’t look as if the email was giving him joy. In fact she was pretty sure he’d groaned—and she didn’t think it was because she’d ordered him an extra-hot pepperoni, double on the chillies.

  His mystery woman was none of her business. Joe had made that more than clear and he was right. It was personal stuff, and she and Joe had already got plenty up close and personal. Heaven knew what impulse had even made her offer to help—perhaps it had been the way he had clearly wanted to help her?

  Tucking her phone back into her jeans pocket, she marched over to him, pulled out the seat opposite and plonked herself down. ‘Pizza won’t be long.’

  ‘Great.’ Thrusting his hand through his already spiky hair, he inhaled audibly. ‘Um … now I’ve read the email, if you’re still up for that offer of help, I could do with a little feminine insight.’

  Surprise made her raise her eyebrows; it must be bad, because it was clear from the way he had squeezed out each word that the request had been made with total reluctance.

  ‘You are a little pale about the gills.’

  ‘I’m feeling a little pale about the everywhere.’

  Imogen flicked a glance at Joe’s screen and curiosity bubbled to the surface. ‘OK, then. Tell me how you can use a female point of view and I’ll give it a shot.’

  Joe gestured at the email. ‘The mystery woman is Leila. She’s an ex-girlfriend from seven years ago. I hadn’t heard from her since the split, then three weeks ago she emailed me an invitation to her wedding. Which is less than two weeks from now. You may have read about it—her fiancé is Howard Kreel.’