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 wor
king 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?