AS FAR AS Imogen Hargrove was concerned, this week could take a long walk off a short pier. Or go into space and take its helmet off. If she was a potty-mouthed kind of woman, she might’ve had a few more words to employ in explaining exactly how much she’d hated this week.
But alas, she could taste the soap in her mouth before any four-letter words had the chance to form.
“Breathe,” she said to herself as she tidied her desk. “The day is almost over.”
Most days she loved her job. Being an executive assistant to the CEO of the most respected architecture and construction firm in Australia had its perks. Like getting to work with a host of amazingly talented, smart and passionate people. Not to mention the little blue box that appeared on her employment anniversary every year.
But today had been the cherry on top of a giant pain-in-the-butt sundae. Not only had she managed to spill her morning cappuccino all over herself, but then she’d missed the start of the management meeting because she’d been frantically trying to get the stain out. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, except that her arch-nemesis had swooped in and made her look disorganised by handing out the wrong agenda. Imogen was positive he’d done it on purpose. Then—like a sign from the gods that she really should have stayed in bed—her boss had demanded she shuffle his entire afternoon five minutes before he was due to present at the finance team’s quarterly town hall.
Thank God Jason had been able to step in. Imogen bit back a smile as she thought of the CEO’s son. Apart from being a total hottie, he was being groomed to take over the company. Good looking and ambitious, traits that went together like peanut butter and chocolate as far as she was concerned. Chances were she’d be working for him. Intimately. All the long hours and late nights trapped together in the office sounded like a scene straight out of one of those raunchy books her friend Lainey loved to read.
You could do with something a little raunchy in your life. You’re one bad date away from becoming a born-again virgin.
Ugh. How was it her fault the dates she’d been on recently had less snap, crackle and pop than her morning bowl of Rice Bubbles? She’d tried to be funny and interesting and cute enough for a guy to take her to bed...but either she was picking the wrong guys, or she had no idea how to be any of those things.
She brushed her hands down the grey pencil skirt that covered her knees and matched the pearls around her neck. Her friends teased her for her “limited colour palette” but Imogen knew what worked for her. Monochrome made her mornings easier. Besides, it was important to look professional. She had a feeling Jason would appreciate that about her.
“What’s got you looking so dreamy, Imogen? Wait, don’t tell me.” Caleb Allbrook sauntered into her office with a swagger that made Imogen’s thighs automatically press together. “Daydreaming about me again?”
Then there was the CEO’s other son. The one who managed to get her feminine hormones singing like an opera of canaries at full volume even though he was bad news in every sense of the word.
The guy was trouble enough for an entire Taylor Swift album.
“I can barely restrain myself,” she said drily, not even attempting to keep the disdain out of her voice. “You should leave before I throw myself at your feet. It would be best for us both.”
Caleb raised a brow. He was as handsome as his brother, without a doubt. But whereas Jason was all serious, moody glances and smooth, in-command tones, Caleb was his polar-opposite. The younger Allbrook brother was always quick with a snappy comeback, and he didn’t take anything or anyone seriously. The guy oozed so much sex appeal he should be listed as a controlled substance. He was cocky as all get-out and most women in the office swooned whenever he walked past, which only inflated his giant ego further.
“Who am I to turn down a woman in need? Should I close the door or do you want an audience?” He wrapped a hand around the doorknob and waited for her response.
It was times like this that Imogen wondered if she should start swearing, because it seemed like the perfect time to use the F-word. Preferably with either a “you” or “off” following it. “What do you want, Caleb?”
His full lips curved into a wicked grin and Imogen had to tamp down the excitement zipping through her. Dammit, when was her body going to get the memo on this one?
Caleb Allbrook is not your type. It doesn’t matter if you never have another date in your life, he’s not for you.
“A moment of your precious time, Ms. Hargrove.” He walked over to her desk and planted both palms on the smooth, wooden surface.
“Miss Hargrove.”
“Single and loving it, huh? Good for you.”
She oscillated between wanting to run her fingers through his thick, wavy hair and needing to slap him across the face with her binder. As usual. The guy was her kryptonite. In every other scenario, Imogen prided herself on her poise and level-headedness. On her ability to be the cool cucumber in a room full of ticking bombs. But around Caleb Allbrook, her brain cells packed their bags and flew on a one-way ticket to Fiji.
“Can we get to the part where you tell me what you need so I can do it and go home?” she said, huffing.
“It’s dangerous to agree before knowing what I’m going to ask.” He chuckled. “Okay, fine. Enough with the death stare. I need you to help me find the marketing materials from the fifty-year anniversary campaign.”
“Shouldn’t someone from your team be able to assist you with that?” She raised a brow. “I assume at least one of the people you hired will have the requisite technical skills to navigate our shared folder system.”
“Now, now. There’s no need to be snippy, Miss Hargrove.” He smirked. “And I need the originals, not the files.”
She groaned internally. That meant a trip to the archive room in the building’s basement. The CEO was paranoid about people having access to it. Something to do with a fire-related accident before her time that resulted in a ton of tax paperwork being lost. Never mind the fact that smoking was now prohibited in offices and that they had sprinklers and fire alarms in every section of the building. Oh, and technological advancements meant they had electronic copies of everything. Regardless, there were only three keys to the archive room in the whole company. The CEO’s, Jason’s and hers.
Caleb hadn’t made the cut.
“Does it have to be done now?” she asked, glancing at her inbox. Imogen had a rule about Friday afternoons: never leave the office with outstanding tasks on the to-do list. But today she was itching to get out of there.
An image flickered in her mind—a mask hanging from her bedroom door. The white feathers, crystals and shimmering lengths of rose-gold chain were all waiting to adorn her.
“It’ll take five minutes,” he said, motioning for her to follow him. “If it gives you any more motivation, it’s for Jason. I believe you convinced him to present to the bean counters, so he couldn’t make the request himself.”
She sighed and pushed up from her chair. “Fine, but make it quick. I’ve got somewhere to be.”
“Hot date?”
Hardly. After her last few dates had ended with a “you seem like a nice person but there’s no spark” conversation, she’d started to wonder if it was worth the bother. There was only so much rejection a woman could take before getting paranoid that she had some third head only other people could see. Just once she’d like a guy to get all hot and bothered over her. Just once she’d like to be the object of someone’s desire. Was that too much to ask?
No, tonight was definitely not a date. But she wasn’t about to tell Caleb about the sorry state of her love life. Undoubtedly, he’d laugh in her face. Because as much as he joked and teased and flirted, he’d never once asked her out. Never once made an actual move.
Why do you care? It’s not like you want him to ask.
Sure. But Imogen was sick of being ignored. Unfortunately, that seeme
d to be her lot in life. In any case, she’d put aside worries over her own lack of love life to focus on someone else’s love life. Her sister, Penny, was getting married in ten short weeks to Daniel the Duke of Douchetown.
It was bad enough that her future brother-in-law’s stuffy old-money family had given Penny hell when they’d first gotten engaged. She’d ended up at Imogen’s place in tears on more than one occasion after they’d made her feel unworthy. But now Imogen had a sneaking suspicion that her fiancé was cheating. She’d spotted him flirting with a blonde woman at a bar when he’d lied to Penny and told her he was in Sydney for work.
So, she’d hatched a plan to catch him in the act. In disguise, of course.
* * *
Caleb bit back a smile as his father’s assistant walked alongside him, her pink lips set into a flat line. The woman always looked as though she’d sucked on a lemon. Logically, it wasn’t a visual that should turn him on but there was something about Imogen’s overly prim persona that got him all hot and bothered. And hard as a rock. Maybe it was because he suspected that beneath the boring shirt and single strand of pearls, there was a spitfire lurking.
He had a talent for seeing the reality that people tried desperately to conceal. And the fact that a woman as hot as Imogen chose to hide behind an outfit better suited to a funeral director made him curious as hell.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she said.
“I can be your SOS. Message me if he turns out to be a foot shorter than his Tinder profile advertised.” He nudged her with his elbow as they waited for the elevator. “Or if he’s a close-talker. I know you hate those.”
“Who doesn’t hate a close-talker?” Her button nose wrinkled. “When I speak with someone, I don’t want to know what they had for lunch. Let alone experience it secondhand.”
The elevator opened. It was rammed, sardine-style. All his father’s obedient minions were clocking out at five-thirty on the dot. That tended to happen when Gerald Allbrook went off-site. Apparently, there’d been some shit storm with contract negotiations for a new residential tower on Collins street. The big man had stepped in, which wasn’t a good sign.
Not that Caleb should give a shit. He wasn’t going to have a hand in this company beyond his current puff position as head of marketing. It’d been a token gesture after making Jason managing director. AKA next in line. Jason was Prince William and Caleb was the redheaded kid who’d only ever sit on the throne if everyone else kicked the bucket.
“Who’s looking daydreamy now?” Imogen said as the elevator pinged at the next floor. Two more people squeezed in.
“I’m thinking about regaining my personal space,” he quipped.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. The elevator jerked to a stop again and Imogen glanced at the sweaty-looking man standing on her other side. Her nose was unfortunately armpit-height. Her head swung to Caleb and she sighed, shuffling closer.
“Good choice,” he whispered.
“You’ll never be a good choice,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Just the lesser of two evils.”
Ouch. Imogen had never bothered to hide the fact that she—like everyone else—viewed him as a layabout who was riding on the coattails of his family name, never to achieve anything of his own. But the upside of that meant he could do whatever the hell he wanted without pressure to perform like his prize show-pony brother.
“I love it when you play hard to get.”
“I know every other female in this office seems to be under the deluded impression that you’re God’s gift to cha-chas, but I’m not blinded by a pretty face.” She folded her arms across her chest.
He leaned closer as people streamed past him to get out at the ground floor. For once he was grateful that the archive rooms were shoved way down in the basement. “Cha-chas? Really?”
“I’m supposed to take language advice from a guy who wears novelty socks?” She shook her head. “How am I supposed to take you seriously when you wear tacos on your feet?”
He pulled up the leg of his designer suit pants to reveal a bright red sock with a T. Rex print. The socks were his “thing.” Plus, they had the added benefit of pissing off his father. The old man had strict requirements for his sons’ appearances. Even on “casual days,” where the whole damn company could wear denim, Caleb and Jason were supposed to suit up like penguins. So the funky socks were his way of giving the middle finger. And frankly, they were a talking point. A conversation starter. And Caleb liked talking to people.
“You know I only wear the tacos on Taco Tuesday.” He grinned. “Besides, how does my sense of fashion have anything to do with your inability to correctly name your body parts?”
“What do you want me to call it?” She turned her nose up but some of the bravado had disappeared. The pink flush in her cheeks didn’t match the defiant expression.
“How about you use the proper term?” They were alone in the elevator now, but Caleb continued to whisper as though there were people listening. “Pussy.”
Was it his imagination or did a tremor run through her? The pink turned from a sheer tint to bright splotches on her cheeks. “That’s highly inappropriate,” she spluttered. “And the proper term is vagina, not pussy.”
She blinked, as though surprised by her own words. Caleb grinned. “Did I succeed in getting the Prim Miss Hargrove to use a naughty word?”
“You’re a bad influence,” she said as the elevator came to its final stop. The doors slid open and she marched out ahead of him, her sensible low-heeled pumps click-clacking against the polished floor.
“You say that like it’s news.” He followed her, a step behind so he could watch her hips sway as she walked.
Her skirt wasn’t exactly tight fitting, but he knew for a fact that her shapely legs extended up to a pert backside. That beneath the crisp white shirt she hid a pair of perfect, bouncy breasts. That underneath all that spit and polish, the girl had a tattoo of a diamond on the side of her rib cage. He’d seen it once, during a team-building day when they’d been at a corporate retreat. She’d had on a basic black swimsuit that kept everything covered, but when she’d fallen off her paddleboard he’d caught a glimpse of it.
And ever since he’d been on a mission to find out more about Imogen Hargrove.
Copyright © 2018 by Stefanie Little
ISBN-13: 9781488082641
Sins of the Flesh
Copyright © 2018 by Juanita Margot Critch
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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Sins of the Flesh Page 17
