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.’