Breaking the Boss’s Rules

‘I went for something more opulent for the second bathroom. All fluted pillars and marble. With a wooden hot tub, complete with a table in the middle for champagne.’

Her breath caught in her throat. Imogen and Joe, playing naked footsie … Move on, move on.

‘And this was my pièce de résistance. I managed to source sheets threaded with twenty-two-carat gold for the bedroom.’

Oh, hell. Time to stop talking.

Closing the folder, she moved around the desk, willing her feet not to scurry back to the dratted chair.

‘Anyway, Graham can take you through the rest of the project.’

‘Not possible.’

‘Why not?’ Imogen studied Joe’s bland expression and the penny clanged from on high. ‘Have you sacked Graham?’

Joe shrugged. ‘Graham no longer works for Langley.’

‘But … you can’t do that.’ Outrage smacked her mouth open and self-disgust ran her veins. How could she possibly fantasise over a man who could be so callous?

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I think you’ll find I can.’

‘Graham Forrester is one of the best interior designers in London. He’s Peter’s protégé. Why would you get rid of him?’

‘That is not your concern.’

Her hands clenched into fists of self-annoyance. She’d let herself relax, been pleased that he had approved of her work. Taken her eye off the fact that he had the power to take Langley apart.

‘Graham is my friend and my colleague. I went to his wedding last month. He needs this job. So of course it’s my concern. And it’s not only me who will say that. Everyone will be concerned. We’re like a family here.’

‘And that’s a good thing, is it?’ His tone was dry, yet the words held amusement.

Anger burned behind her ribs. ‘Yes, it is.’ A wave of her hand in the air emphasised her point. ‘We’re the interior design version of The Waltons. And sacking Graham is the equivalent of killing off John-Boy.’

His lips quirked upwards for a second and frustration stoked the flames of her ire. He could at least take her seriously.

‘You have to reconsider.’

The smirk vanished as his lips thinned into a line. ‘Not happening, Imogen.’

‘Then I’ll …’

‘Then you’ll what?’ he asked. ‘I think you may need to consider whether your loyalty lies with Graham Forrester or with Langley.’

‘Is that a threat?’

‘It’s friendly advice.’ Rubbing the back of his neck, he surveyed her for a moment. ‘Peter described you as an important part of the company—if you walk out to support Graham, or undermine my position so I’m forced to let you go, the company will lose out.’

Dammit, she couldn’t let Peter and Harry down—however much she wanted to tell him to shove his job up his backside. If she were still here maybe she could do something to prevent further disaster … though Lord knew what. Plus, on a practical note, she couldn’t add unemployment to her list of woes.

‘I’ll stay. But for the record I totally disagree with you letting Graham go.’

‘Your concerns are noted. Now, I need you to reinstate Langley’s presence at the awards ceremony. We’re going.’

‘What?’ Imogen stared at him. ‘You can’t possibly mean to go.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it will look odd for Graham not to be there. And you being there is hardly going to send out a good message; it’s advertising that Langley is in trouble.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s acknowledging that Langley is in trouble and showing we’re doing something about it. The head in the sand approach doesn’t work.’

The words stung; she knew damn well from personal experience that the head in the sand approach didn’t work. ‘My head is quite firmly above ground, thank you.’

‘Good. Then listen carefully. Whether you believe it or not, I am good at my job. Me being at these awards will reassure everyone that Langley is back on its feet and ready to roll.’ He leant back and smiled a smile utterly devoid of mirth. ‘So we’re going. You and me.’

Say what? Imogen stared at him, her chin aiming for her knees.

Joe nodded. ‘You worked on the project, you liaised with the client—it makes sense.’

CHAPTER TWO

IMOGEN PACED HER best friend’s lounge, striding over the brightly flowered rug, past the camp bed she was currently spending her nights on, to the big bay-fronted window and back again. ‘Makes sense!’ She narrowed her eyes at Mel and snorted. ‘Makes sense, my …’

Mel shifted backwards on the overstuffed sofa, curled her legs under her and rummaged in her make-up bag. ‘Imo, hun … You need to calm down. Joe is in charge and you have no choice.’ Holding up two lipsticks, she tilted her blonde head to one side in consideration. ‘It may even be fun.’

‘Fun?’ Imogen stared at her, a flicker of guilt igniting as her tummy did a loop-the-loop of anticipation. ‘Fun to spend two hours working late with Joe and then going to an awards ceremony with Joe. That’s not fun. It’s purgatory.’

Mel raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. ‘Imo! Imo! Imo! Methinks you protest too much. Methinks you fancy the boxers off the man.’

There was that fire of guilt again. How could she be so shallow as to have the hots for such an arrogant, ruthless bastard?

‘Youthinks wrong,’ Imogen said flatly. ‘And why are you looking at me like that?’

‘A) Because you couldn’t lie your way out of a paper bag and B) because I’m hoping you aren’t planning to go to the awards ceremony looking like that.’

Imogen looked down at herself. ‘What’s wrong with this? I wore this to a big client dinner with Steve a few months ago.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Imogen, sweetie. That dress is dull. It’s grey and it’s shapeless and it’s boring. It’s how Steve liked you to dress because he was terrified you would run off—like Simone did.’

‘That’s not true. I chose this dress because …’ She trailed off. ‘Anyway, it will have to do. In fact with any luck no one will notice me. I mean, it’s wrong to go to the awards ceremony when Graham did most of the work.’

Mel frowned. ‘It sounds to me like you did your fair share. Plus, Graham can’t go because he doesn’t work for Langley any more. Plus, you said that Joe said he would still be credited.’

‘Humph …’ Damn man had an answer to everything.

‘So you are going to this ceremony to display to the world that Langley is alive and flourishing. If you go dressed like that everyone will think Langley is on its last legs and you’ve bought a dress for the funeral.’

‘Ha-ha!’ Imogen exhaled a sigh as she contemplated her best friend’s words. Mel knew all there was to know about clothes, and she had a point. ‘OK. How about my little black dress with …?’

‘It’s more big black bin-bag, Imo. I have a way better idea. You can borrow one of my dresses.’

‘Um … Mel. You know me. I really, really don’t want to be …’

‘The focus of attention? Yes, you do. And I’ve got the perfect outfit. Wait here a second.’

Imogen exhaled a puff of air—of course she wanted to do the right thing for Langley, but she knew Mel, and her friend’s fashion taste was nothing like hers. Imogen’s taste was more …

More what? In a moment of horror she realised she didn’t know. In all her twenty-six years she’d always dressed to please others.

Eva Lorrimer had had very firm ideas about what a young girl should wear, and at her insistence Imogen had obediently donned plain long skirts and frilly tops. It had seemed the least she could do to make her mum a little bit happy. Plus, anything for a quiet life—right?

Then Steve … Well, was Mel right? Had she let him dictate what she wore? Steve had always said he hated women who flaunted or flirted when they were in a relationship. He had told her how Simone had always done exactly that. So she’d worked out what he approved of and what he liked and taken care to shop accordingly. Because it had made her happy to make him happy. Plus, anything for a quiet life—right?

Mel waltzed back into the room. ‘What do you think?’

Imogen stared at the dress Mel was holding up. If you could even call it a dress. For the life of her she couldn’t work out how she would get into it, or where all the lacy frou-frou would go, or even how it could even be decent. The only thing that was clear was the colour—bright, vibrant and sassy.

‘It’s very … red.’

OK. It wasn’t what she would choose. But if she had the choice between something in her wardrobe chosen by her mum or Steve and something chosen by Mel, right now she was going with Mel’s choice.

‘I’ll wear it.’

Mel blinked. ‘Really? I was prepared for battle.’

‘Nope. No battle. Though you may have to help me work out how to put it on.’

‘I’ll do better than that—I’ll lend you shoes and do your make-up as well.’

‘Perfect. Thanks, sweetie. You’re a star.’

Surprise mixed with a froth of anticipation as to what this New Imogen would look like.

An hour later and she knew.

Staring at the image that looked back at her from the mirror, she blinked, disbelief nearly making her rub her eyes before taking another gander. Her mother would keel over in a faint, Steve’s lips would purse in disapproval—and Imogen didn’t care. She looked…. visible.

‘You look gorgeous. You look hot. Joe McIntyre won’t know what’s hit him.’

‘I’m not doing this for Joe.’

Liar, liar, pants most definitely on fire.

Squashing the voice, she gave her head a small shake. The butterflies currently completing an assault course in her tummy were nothing to do with Joe.

‘I’m doing it for Langley.’

Mel dimpled at her. ‘You keep telling yourself that, Imo,’ she said soothingly. ‘Have fun!’

Joe glanced around the office and gusted out a sigh. Not that there was anything to complain about in the surroundings; he’d sat in far worse than this mecca to interior design and it hadn’t bothered him. The problem was that wherever he was sitting he’d never had this level of anticipation twisting his gut.

Irritation stamped on his chest. Anticipation had no place here. The awards ceremony would go better for Langley if Imogen Lorrimer were there. She had worked on the Richard Harvey project, knew many of the people who would be there, so it made sense for her to attend.

Joe snorted and picked up his cup of coffee. Listen to himself. Anyone would think he was justifying his decision because he had an ulterior motive in taking Imogen. When of course he didn’t. Or that he was looking forward to taking Imogen. Which was ridiculous. The woman couldn’t stand him, and he had the definitive suspicion that she was planning some sort of rearguard action against him in the hope that he’d change his mind about Graham Forrester.

She was probably running a Bring Back John-Boy Campaign.

Yet in the past two days he had more than once, more than twice, more than … too many times … found himself looking for Imogen or noticing her when there’d been no need to. Caught by the turn of her head or a waft of her delicate flowery perfume.

Exasperation surfaced again and he quelled it. Just because her appearance had somehow got under his guard it didn’t mean there was a problem. He knew all too well the associated perils of letting personal issues into the boardroom. That was what his father had done and the result had been a spiral of disaster—a mess bequeathed to Joe to sort out.

So there was no problem. All he had to do was recall the grim horror of working out that his family firm was bankrupt and corrupt. Remember the faces of the people he’d been forced to let go, the clients whose money had been embezzled.

Enough. The lesson was learnt.

His computer pinged to indicate the arrival of an email; one glance at the screen and he groaned. Another email from Leila. Every instinct jumped up and down—he was no expert on the intricacies of relationships, but he was pretty damn sure it wasn’t normal for an ex to suddenly surface after seven years, invite him to her wedding and then email him regularly to give him advice he hadn’t asked for.

Resisting the urge to thump his head on the desk, he looked up as the door rebounded off its hinges and Imogen entered.

No. She didn’t enter. It was more of a storm … A vivid red tornado of gorgeous anger headed straight towards him and slammed her palms down on the glass desk-top.

‘Something wrong?’ Joe asked, trying and failing to ignore the sleek curtain of hair that fell straight and true round her face and down past her shoulders to the plunging V of her dress. Surely there was more V than material?

Continuing his look downward, he took in the cinchedin waist and the flouncy skirt that hit a good few centimetres above the knee. Her legs were endless, long and toned, and ended in a pair of sparkly peep-toe sandals.

Stop looking. Before you have a coronary.

He tugged his gaze upward to meet a fulminating pair of grey-blue eyes.

‘Yes, there is something wrong.’

Her breath came in pants and Joe clenched his jaw, nearly crossing his eyes in an attempt to remain focused on her face.

‘I know I shouldn’t say anything. I know I shouldn’t put my job on the line. But I’ve just come from seeing Harry and Peter in the hospital and they told me that you’ve got rid of Maisey in Accounts and Lucas in Admin. How could you? It’s wrong.’

The fury vibrating in her voice touched a chord in him, aroused an answering anger to accompany the frustration and self-annoyance already brewing in his gut.

‘No, Imogen, it isn’t wrong. It’s unfortunate. Streamlining Langley is the only way for the company to survive. I’d rather a few people suffer than the whole company collapse.’

She huffed out air and shook her head, black hair shimmering. ‘But don’t you care?’ she asked. ‘It’s like these people are just numbers to you.’

The near distaste in her eyes made affront claw down his chest. ‘I do my very best to minimise the number of people I let go and I certainly don’t take any pleasure in it.’

She stood back from the desk and slammed her hands on her hips. ‘You don’t seem to feel any pain either.’

Her words made him pause; sudden discomfort jabbed his nerves. It was an unease he dismissed; feeling pain sucked, and it didn’t change a damn thing. This he knew. Hell, he had the whole wardrobe to prove it. So if he’d hardened himself it was a good thing—a business decision that made him better at his job.

Aware of curiosity dancing with anger across Imogen’s delicate features, he shrugged. ‘Me sitting around crying into my coffee isn’t going to enable me to make sensible executive decisions. I can’t let sentiment interfere with my job.’

‘But what if your executive choices hurt someone else?’

‘I don’t make choices to hurt people.’

‘That doesn’t mean they don’t get hurt. Look at Graham. I happen to know he has a large mortgage, his wife is pregnant, and now you’ve made the choice to snatch his job from under his feet. Doesn’t that bother you?’

‘No.’ To his further exasperation he appeared to be speaking through clenched teeth. ‘The bottom line is I do the best for the company as whole. Overall, people benefit.’

‘Have you ever watched Star Trek?’

Star Trek? Joe blinked. ‘Yes, I have. My sisters are avid fans.’ Repeats of the show had been a godsend in the devastating months after their parents’ death; Tammy and Holly had spent hours glued to the screen. Blocking out impossible reality with impossible fiction.

‘Joe? Are you listening to me?’

‘For now. But only because I am fascinated to see what pointy-eared aliens and transporters have to do with anything?’

‘You know how it works—they say they believe in sacrificing the few for the many. But they don’t really mean it—somehow in real life they end up knowing that it’s wrong and they go back to rescue one person, risking everyone, and everything is OK.’

Was she for real? ‘The fatal flaw in your reasoning is right there. Star Trek isn’t real life. It’s fiction.’

‘I get that—but the principle is sound.’

‘No. The principle sucks. If you run around trying to please everyone, refusing to make tough choices, then I can tell you exactly what happens. Everyone suffers.’ He’d got another wardrobe to prove that. ‘In real life Kirk would go down, and so would the Enterprise.’

‘That is so …’

‘Realistic?’

‘Cynical,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t understand why you can’t see reason. The main reason Langley is in difficulties is because of Harry’s ill health. He’s the one who understands finance. Peter doesn’t. Once Harry’s on his feet everything will go back to normal. Surely you should be taking that into consideration? Trying to think of some way to salvage everyone’s jobs.’

The jut of her chin, the flash of her eyes indicated how serious she was, and although he had no doubt his decisions were correct, it occurred to him that it was a long, long time since anyone had questioned him, let alone locked phasers with him. Apart from his sisters, anyway …

It was kind of … exhilarating.

Even more worrying, his chest had warmed with admiration: Imogen was speaking out for others with a passion that made him think of a completely different type of passion. His fingers itched with the desire to bury themselves in the gloss of her dark hair and angle her face so that he could kiss her into his way of thinking.

For the love of Mike … This was so off the business plan he might as well file for bankruptcy right now.

Curving his fingers firmly round the edge of his desk, he adhered his feet to the plush carpet and forced calm to his vocal cords. ‘My job is to make sure that Harry has a viable company to come back to. I am not out to destroy Langley. That’s not how I operate.’

‘That’s not what your reputation says.’

Disbelief clouded her blue eyes with grey and the disdain in her expression caused renewed affront to band round his chest.

‘Imogen, there are some companies that even I can’t salvage. But if you study my track record you will see that most of the companies I go to sort out get sorted out. Not shut down. My reputation is that I’m tough. I’ll make the unpopular decisions no one wants to make because they let sentiment and friendship cloud their perspective. I don’t.’

A small frown creased her brow. ‘So you’re telling me you’re cold and heartless but you get results?’

‘Yes. Peter and Harry wouldn’t be able to let Graham go. I can. They, you and Captain Kirk may not like my methods, but I will save Langley.’

Annoyance at the whole conversation hit him—talk about getting overheated. Who did he think he was? The corporate version of the Lone Ranger? He’d spent the better part of the past half an hour justifying his actions, and he was damned if he knew why. Anyone would think he cared about her opinion of him.

‘Now, can you please sit down so we can get some work done?’

At least that way the bottom half of her would be obscured from sight and his blood pressure would stay on the chart.

Imogen dropped down onto the chair. Joe’s words were ringing in her head—and there was no doubting his sincerity. So, whilst she saw him as the villain of the piece he saw himself as the hero.

She chewed her bottom lip—was there any chance that he was right? Then she remembered Harry Langley’s pale face, blending in with the colour of his hospital pillow. His slurred voice shaking with impotent anger as he vowed to put things right.

She thought of the size of Graham’s mortgage, his pride that his wife could be a stay-at-home mum if she wanted … of Maisey’s tears when she’d phoned her on the way here from the hospital …

All those people suffering because of the man sitting opposite her.

Yet a worm of doubt wriggled into her psyche. His deep voice had been genuine when he’d spoken of the necessity of his cuts, the bigger picture, his desire to save Langley.

But, hell, that didn’t mean she had to like him. Nonetheless …

‘Imogen.’

His impatient growl broke into her reverie.

‘Did you hear a word I said?’

‘Sorry. I was thinking it must be hard to always be seen as the villain,’ she replied.

‘Doesn’t bother me.’ A quizzical curve tilted his lip. ‘You starting to feel sorry for me now?’

‘Of course not.’

The idea was laughable; Joe McIntyre didn’t need sympathy. He needed to be shaken into common sense and out of her dreams.

‘Well, tonight we need to at least call a truce. You acting as though I am some sort of corporate monster will do more damage to Langley than I can. So you need to play nice.’

Wrinkling her nose in a way that she could only hope indicated distaste, she nodded. Instinct told her a truce with this man would be dangerous, but he was right: they could hardly attend the award ceremony sparring with each other.

‘As long as you know I am playing. As in pretending.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, his voice so dry it was practically parched. ‘Message received, loud and clear. The truce is temporary. Now, can we get on with it? I’ve ordered a taxi to take us to the hotel at seven, and I want to go through Peter’s client list with you before then.’

An hour later Imogen put her pen down. ‘I think that’s it,’ she said.

Flexing her shoulders, she looked across at him. Big mistake. Because now she couldn’t help but let her gaze linger on the breadth of his chest under the snowy-white dress shirt and the tantalising hint of bare skin on show where he hadn’t bothered doing up the top buttons.

Looking up, she caught a sudden predatory light in his brown eyes. A light that was extinguished almost before she could be sure it had been there, but yet sent a shiver through her body.

‘You’ve done a great job.’ Pulling at the sheaf of paper she’d scribbled on, he glanced down at her notes.

‘Thank you. I’ll type those up for you first thing tomorrow. The notes indicate what each project was, how many times they’ve used us, and a few personal bits about them. Not personal personal, but …’

Babble-babble-babble. One probably imagined look and she’d dissolved into gibberish.

‘Things that show I’m not delivering the same spiel to each client,’ he said. ‘Exactly what I need.’

He stared down at the paper and cleared his throat, as if searching for something else to say. Could he be feeling the same shimmer of tension she was?

‘So … according to this, you’ve done a lot of actual design work.’

‘Er … yes … I told you I help out.’

‘I didn’t realise how much. Why haven’t you put all the project work you’ve done on your CV? Or, for that matter, why haven’t you put things on a more formal footing? I’m sure Peter would agree to sponsor you so you could go to college.’

‘That’s not the way I want my career to go.’

It was a decision made long ago. What she prized above all else was security—a job she enjoyed, but not one that would rule her life. She’d seen first-hand the disastrous consequences of a job that became an obsession, and she wasn’t going there.

‘Why not? You’ve got real talent and great client liaison skills. Everyone I’ve spoken to so far has only had good things to say about you—even Mike Anderson.’ He nodded at the paper. ‘From everything you’ve written there, it seems clear they’ll all be the same.’

Imogen couldn’t help the smile that curved her lips as she savoured his words, absorbed them into her very being. ‘Everyone? Even Mike Anderson? For real?’

‘For real.’

He smiled back and, dear Lord above, what a smile it was. Instinct told her it rarely saw the light of day—and what a good thing that was for the female population. Because it was the genuine make-your-knees-go-weak article.