‘Excuse me?’
‘The day they met a year ago. Richard has whisked her off to Paris for a romantic getaway. That’s why they can’t attend the awards. I hope Richard and Crystal get to celebrate decades of meetiversaries.’
‘Good for you. I hope to show Richard that we value the award we won for decorating his apartment. So, tell me more about the project. Who worked on it?’
‘Peter, Graham and me. Peter often lets me get involved with the design side of things as well as the admin stuff.’
Joe’s brown eyes assessed her expression and his fingers continued to drum on the desk-top. ‘How involved were you on the project?
‘I designed both bathrooms.’
‘Could you show me?’
‘Sure.’
Trepidation twisted her nerves even as she tried to sound calm. Maybe Joe would use this to make his final decision on her job. Or was it something else? There was something unnerving about his gaze; she could almost hear the whir and tick of his brain.
‘I’ll get the folder.’
Once she’d pulled the relevant portfolio from the filing cabinet at the back of the room she walked back to the desk.
Placing the folder carefully on the glass top, she leaned over to tug the elastic at the corner. Whoosh—an unwary breath and she had inhaled a lungful of Joe: sandalwood, and something that made her want to nuzzle into his neck.
No can do. Newsflash, Imogen: this is not a dream—it’s for real.
She needed to breathe shallowly and focus—not on the way an errant curl of brown hair had squiggled onto the nape of his neck but on demonstrating her design talent.
‘The spec was to create something unique to make Crystal feel special.’
‘Tough gig.’
‘I enjoyed it.’
Back then she’d been living in Cloud Cuckoo Land, absolutely sure that Steve was about to propose to her, and throwing herself into the spirit of the project had been easy. She had enjoyed liaising with Richard over the plan and ideas—loved the fact that the flat was to be a wedding surprise for his wife.
‘These are the bathrooms.’
She pointed to the sketches and watched as he flipped through the pages.
‘These are good,’ he said.
His words vibrated with sincerity and she felt her lips curve up in a smile, his approval warming her chest.
‘Thank you. The hammock bath is fab—big enough for two and perfect for the wet room.’
Imogen and Joe, lying naked in the bath … Just keep talking.
‘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.’
IMOGEN