‘If you want.’
There was that look again—and this time she surely wasn’t imagining the smoulder. Even if she had no idea how to interpret it.
‘It’s also an observation.’
As he rose to his feet and picked up a black tie from the back of his chair Imogen gulped. Six foot plus of lean, honed muscle.
‘So,’ he continued, ‘seeing as you had a bathroom break a quarter of an hour ago, my guess is that you’re avoiding this discussion. True or false?’
Mesmerised, she watched his strong fingers deftly pull the tie round his neck before he turned and picked his jacket up.
‘False …’ she managed.
Right now she needed to get away from the pheromone onslaught—she wasn’t avoiding the discussion. Much …
‘If you say so.’ Slinging the jacket over his shoulder, he headed towards her. ‘And, Imogen? One more thing?’
‘Yes?’
Oh, hell—he was getting closer. Why weren’t her feet moving? Heading towards the door and the waiting taxi? Instead her ridiculous heels appeared superglued to the carpet as her heart pounded in her ribcage. A hint of his earthy scent tickled her nostrils, and still her stupid feet wouldn’t obey her brain’s commands.
His body was so warm … his eyes held hers in thrall. Hardly able to breathe, she clocked his hand rising, and as he touched her lower lip heat shot through her body.
A shadow fleeted across his face and he stepped backwards, his arm dropping to his side.
‘Don’t forget to smile,’ he said.
CHAPTER THREE
IMOGEN DUCKED INTO a corner of the crowded room, needing a moment to breathe after an hour of smiling, socialising and being visible. The set-up was gorgeous—worthy of the five-star hotel where the event was being held. Glorious flower arrangements abounded, in varying shades of pink to fuchsia, layered with dark green foliage. Chandeliers glinted and black-suited waiters with pink ties appeared as if by magic with trays of canapés or a choice of pink champagne and sparkling grapefruit juice.
Surreptitiously she slipped one foot out of a peep-toe, six-inch heeled shoe. Flexing it with relief, she let her gaze unerringly sift through the crowds of beautiful professionals, slip over the fabulously decorated room, heady with the fragrance of the magnificent spring flower centre-pieces that adorned each table, and found the tall figure of Joe McIntyre.
If it really was Joe and not some sort of clone.
Because ever since they’d walked through the imposing doors of the hotel Joe had undergone some sort of transformation. It had been goodbye to her taxi companion, Mr Dark and Brooding, and hello Mr Suave as he networked the room, all professional charm and bonhomie, not a single frown in sight.
But worst of all had been his closeness, the small touches as he’d propelled her from person to person, dispensing confidence in Langley and an insider knowledge of interior design that was impressive.
Little surprise that he had gathered a gang of female groupies who were now hanging on to his every word adoringly.
‘What’s wrong, Imo? That’s a pretty hefty scowl. Contemplating the man who’ll bring Langley down?’
Shoving her foot back into her shoe, Imogen turned and plastered her best fake smile to her face. Great! The man she’d been avoiding all night: head of IMID, Langley’s chief competitor.
‘Evening, Ivan. How are you?’
‘I’m fine. Bursting with health. Which is more than can be said for poor old Harry and Peter. How are they?’
Imogen’s skin crawled as Ivan Moreton’s grey eyes slid over her with almost reptilian interest. Ivan had no principles or scruples, and had engaged in so many underhand schemes to undercut and undermine Langley that she’d lost count.
His methods were unscrupulous, but legal. So to hear him stand there, full of spuriously concerned queries as to Peter and Harry made her blood sizzle. Especially when he looked as though he could barely stop himself from rubbing his hands together in glee.
‘Firmly on the road to recovery, thank you, Ivan. I’ll be sure to tell them you were asking as a further incentive to get th
em back into the office.’
To wipe that smug smirk off your face.