Kitabı oku: «Breaking the Boss’s Rules»

For my parents, for believing in me.

Table of Contents

Cover

Excerpt

Dear Reader

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

Dear Diary

My name is Imogen Lorrimer and my life is in a less than stellar place right now.

For a start there is every possibility that my temporary new boss is about to fire me. His name is Joe McIntyre and, just to really mess with my head, he has taken to appearing in my dreams.

Naked.

Last night was particularly erotic. I won’t go into detail, but we were in his office and let’s just say various positions were involved … as were varying bits of office furniture … glass-topped desk, red swivel chair…

Obviously I know this is thoroughly unprofessional and utterly inappropriate.

In my defence he is gorgeous.

Think sexy rumpled hair—dark brown, a tiny bit long, with a few bits that stick up. Think chocolate—the expensive kind—brown eyes. Think a strong but not too dominant nose. A long face, with a sculpted jaw and clearly defined chin. Oh, and a body to die for—Joe McIntyre is a long, lean fighting machine.

Problem is, however much I appreciate the man in my dreams, the real live clothed version of Joe McIntyre is a ruthless corporate killing machine. He is a troubleshooter who has been called in to overhaul Langley Interior Design and we are all in danger of losing our jobs.

In fact there is every chance he will fire me on the spot tomorrow—especially given my recent screw-up.

I cannot let that happen. I cannot afford to lose my job. Not on top of everything else.

To be specific I am:

Homeless—my scumbag boyfriend, Steve, of three years has just dumped me for his ex—Simone—and thrown me out of the flat we shared. So I am currently living with my BFF—and, whilst I love Mel like the sister I never had, I can only sleep on her pull-out bed for so long. I think I’m cramping her style.

Heartbroken—Steve ticked all the boxes on my ‘What I am looking for in a Man’ list. I thought he was The One.

Broke—I blew my savings on a romantic holiday for Steve and me. And, unbelievable though this may sound, he is now taking Simone. How humiliating is that?

It’s no wonder that I am fantasising in my dreams. My real life sucks.

Time for some ice cream, methinks!

Imogen x

CHAPTER ONE

JOE MCINTYRE LEANT back in the state-of-the-art office chair and picked up the CV from the glass-topped desk.

Imogen Lorrimer. Peter Langley’s PA for the past five years.

She of the raven-black hair and wide grey-blue eyes.

Faint irritation twanged Joe’s nerves; her looks were irrelevant. ‘No Mixing Business and Pleasure’. That was an absolute rule. Along with ‘One Night Only’ and ‘Never Look Back’. From The Joe McIntyre Book of Relationships. Short, sweet and easy to use.

Joe gusted out a sigh as his eyes zoned back to his emails. Leila again. Shame the manual didn’t tell him how to deal with a blast-from-the-past ex-girlfriend from a time he’d rather forget. But this was not the time to open that can of worms—his guilt was still bad enough that he had agreed to attend her wedding, but there was no need to think further about it. Right now he needed to think about this interview.

Imogen Lorrimer had snagged the edge of his vision the moment she’d entered the boardroom two days before, when he’d called an initial meeting of all Langley staff. He’d nodded impatiently at her to be seated and been further arrested by the tint of her eye colour as she’d perched on her chair and aimed a fleeting glance at him from under the straight line of her black fringe. For a fraction of a second he’d faltered in his speech, stopped in his tracks by eyes of a shade that was neither blue nor grey but somewhere in between.

Since then he’d stared at her more than once as she scuttled past him in the corridor, dark head down, clearly reluctant to initiate visual contact.

But he was used to people being nervous around him. After all he was a troubleshooter; people knew he had the power to fire them. A power he used where necessary—had in fact already used that morning. So if firing Imogen Lorrimer would benefit Langley Interior Designs he wouldn’t hesitate. However attractive he found her.

As if on cue there was a knock at the open office door and Joe looked up.

Further annoyance nipped his chest at the realisation that he had braced himself as if for impact. Imogen Lorrimer was nothing more than an employee he needed to evaluate. There was no need for this disconcerting awareness of her.

For a second she hesitated in the doorway, and despite himself his pulse-rate kicked up a notch.

Ridiculous. In her severely cut navy suit, with her dark hair pulled back into a sleek bun, she looked the epitome of professionalism. The least he could do was pretend to be the same. Which meant he had to stop checking her out.

‘Come in.’ He rose to his feet and she walked stiffly across the floor, exuding nervous tension.

‘Mr McIntyre,’ she said, her voice high and breathy.

‘Joe’s fine.’ Sitting down, he nodded at the chair opposite him. ‘Have a seat.’

Surely a simple enough instruction. But apparently not. Astonishment rose his brows as Imogen twitched, stared at the red swivel chair for a few seconds, glanced at him, and then back at the chair. Her strangled gargle turned into an unconvincing cough.

Joe rubbed the back of his neck and studied the apparently hypnotic object. As might be expected in an interior designer’s office, it was impressive. Red leather, stylish design, functional, comfortable, eye-catching.

But still just a chair.

Yet Imogen continued to regard it, her cheeks now the same shade as the leather.

Impatience caused him to drum his fingers on the desk and the sound seemed to rally her. Swivelling on her sensible navy blue pumps, she stared down at the glass desk-top, closed her eyes as though in pain, and then hauled in an audible breath.

‘Is there a problem?’ he asked. ‘Something wrong with the chair?’

‘Of course not. I’m sorry,’ she said as she lowered herself downwards onto the edge of the chair and clasped her hands onto her lap.

‘If it’s not the chair then it must be me,’ he said. ‘I get that you may be a bit nervous. But don’t worry. I don’t bite.’

Stricken blue eyes met his as she gripped the arms of the chair as though it were a rollercoaster. ‘Good to know,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Um … I’m not usually this nervous. It’s just … obviously … well …’ Pressing her glossy lips together tightly, she closed her eyes.

Exasperation surged through him. This was the woman Peter Langley had described as ‘a mainstay of the company’. It was no bloody wonder Langley was in trouble. Perhaps he should end this interview here and now.

He’d opened his mouth to do just that when she opened her eyes, gave a little wriggle in the chair, and—wham!

An image zigzagged across his brain—a picture of Imogen Lorrimer, standing up to wriggle her way right out of that navy skirt, shrug off the jacket and slowly unbutton the pearl buttons of her white shirt. Before shaking that dark hair free so it tumbled to her shoulders, then sitting back down on that damn red chair and crossing her legs.

A hoarse noise rasped from his throat. What the hell …? Why? Where on earth had that come from?

It was time to get a grip of this interview—and the conversation. A sigh escaped her and for a second his gaze focused on her lips. Hell, this was not good. ‘Never Mix Business and Pleasure’ was a non-negotiable rule. His work ethic was sacrosanct—the thought of jeopardising his reputation and ruining his business the way his father had done was enough to bring him out in hives.

So this awareness had to be nixed—no matter how inexplicably tempting Imogen Lorrimer was. His libido needed an ice bath or a night of fun. Preferably the latter—a nice, relaxed, laid-back evening with a woman unconnected to any client. Someone who could provide a no-strings-attached night of pleasure.

In the meantime he needed to concentrate on the matter in hand.

What had Imogen said last? Before she’d frozen into perpetual silence.

‘It’s just … obviously … what?’ he growled.

Imogen caught her bottom lip in her teeth and bit down hard; with any luck the pain would recall her common sense. If it were logistically possible to boot herself around the room she would, and her fingers tingled with the urge to slap herself upside the head.

Enough.

She had had enough of herself.

It was imperative that she keep her job. For herself, but also because if she were here she could do everything in her power to make sure this man didn’t shut Langley down.

Peter and Harry Langley had been more than good to her—the least she could do was try to ensure this corporate killing machine didn’t chew up their company and spit it out.

Instead of sitting here squirming in embarrassed silence over last night’s encounter with a fantasy Joe McIntyre.

Time to channel New Imogen, who fantasised over gazillions of hot men and didn’t bat an eyelid.

She moistened her lips and attempted a smile.

Brown eyes locked with hers and for a heartbeat something flickered in their depths. A spark, an awareness—a look that made her skin sizzle. The sort of look that Dream Joe excelled in.

Then it was gone. Doused almost instantly and replaced by definitive annoyance, amplified by a scowl that etched his forehead with the sort of formidable frown that Real Joe no doubt held a first-class degree in.

Straightening her shoulders, she forced herself to meet his exasperated gaze. ‘I apologise, Joe. The past few weeks have been difficult and the result was an attack of nerves. I’m fine now, and I’d appreciate it if we could start again.’

‘Let’s do that.’ His words were emphatic as he gestured to her CV. ‘You’ve been Peter’s PA for five years—ever since you came out of college. He speaks very highly of you, so why so nervous?’

OK. Here goes.

There was no hiding the fact that she’d screwed up and, given that Joe had been on the premises for two days, there was little doubt he already knew about it. So it was bite the proverbial bullet time.

‘I’m sure you’ve heard about the Anderson project?’

‘Yes, I have.’

Stick to the facts, Imogen.

‘Then you know I made a pretty monumental mistake.’ Her stomach clenched as she relived the sheer horror. ‘I ordered the wrong fabric. Yards and yards of it. I didn’t realise I’d done that. The team went ahead and used it and the client ended up with truly hideous mustard-coloured curtains and coverings throughout his mansion instead of the royal gold theme we had promised him.’

A shudder racked her body as she adhered her feet in the thick carpet to prevent herself from swivelling in a twist of sheer discomfort on the chair. ‘Mistake’ was not supposed to be in the Imogen Lorrimer dictionary. To err was inexcusable; her mother had drummed that into her over and over.

‘It was awful. Even worse than …’ She pressed her lips together.

His eyes flickered to rest on her mouth and a spark ignited in the pit of her tummy.

‘Even worse than what?’ he demanded.

Nice one, Imogen. Now no doubt Joe was imagining a string of ditzy disasters in her wake.

Tendrils of hair wisped around her face as she shook her head, sacrificing the perfection of her bun for the sake of vehemence. ‘It doesn’t matter. Honestly. It’s nothing to do with work. Just a childhood memory.’

Joe raised his dark eyebrows, positively radiating scepticism. ‘You’re telling me that you have a childhood disaster that competes with a professional debacle like that?’

He didn’t believe her.

‘Yes,’ she said biting back her groan at the realisation she would have to tell him. She couldn’t risk him assuming she was a total mess-up. ‘I was ten and I came home with the worst possible report you could imagine.’

Imogen could still feel the smooth edges of the booklet in her hand; her tummy rolled in remembered fear and sadness. Keep it light, Imogen.

‘Having lied through my teeth all term that I’d been doing brilliantly, I’d pretty much convinced myself I was a genius—so I was almost as upset to discover I wasn’t as my mum was.’

The look of raw disappointment on Eva Lorrimer’s face was one that she would never forget, never get used to, no matter how many times she saw it.

‘Anyway …’ Imogen brushed the side of her temple in an attempt to sweep away the memory. ‘I had the exact same hollow, sinking, leaden feeling when I saw the mustard debacle.’

Joe’s brown eyes rested on her face with an indecipherable expression; he was probably thinking she was some sort of fruit loop.

‘But the point about the Andersen project is that it was a one-off. I have never made a mistake like that before and I can assure you that I never will again.’

Whilst she had no intention of excusing herself, seeing as the word ‘excuse’ also failed to feature in her vocabulary, she had messed up the day after Steve had literally thrown her onto the street so his ex-girlfriend could move back in. She’d reeled into work, still swaying in disbelief and humiliation. Not that she had any intention of sharing that with Joe; she doubted it would make any difference if she did. She suspected Joe didn’t hold much truck with personal issues affecting work.

Panic churned in her stomach. The Langleys wouldn’t want Joe to fire her. But Peter was in the midst of a breakdown and Harry was stable but still in Intensive Care after his heart attack; neither of them was in a position to worry about her.

Leaning forward, she gripped the edge of the desk. ‘I’m good at my job,’ she said quietly. ‘And I’ll do anything I can to help keep this company going until Peter and Harry are back.’

Including fighting this man every step of the way if he tried to tear apart what the Langley brothers had built up.

For a second his gaze dropped, and his frown deepened before he gave a curt nod.

‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s move on. According to Peter this is a list of current projects and obligations.’ He pushed a piece of typewritten paper across the desk. ‘He doesn’t seem very sure it’s complete and he referred me to you.’

Imogen looked down at the list and tried to focus on the words and not on Joe’s hand. On his strong, capable fingers, the light smattering of hair, the sturdy wrists that for some reason she wanted so desperately to touch. Those hands that in her dreams had wrought such incredible magic.

Grinding her molars, she tugged the paper towards her. ‘I’ll check this against my organiser.’ She bent at the waist to pick up her briefcase. And frowned. Had that strange choking noise been Joe? As she sat up she glanced at him and clocked a slash of colour on his cheekbones.

Focus.

Imogen looked at the paper and then back at her organiser. ‘The only thing not on here is the annual Interior Design awards ceremony. It’s being held this Wednesday. Peter and Graham Forrester were meant to attend.’ She frowned. ‘Could be Peter forgot. Or he’s changed his mind because the client can’t make it. Or he’s too embarrassed to face everyone.’

Joe’s forehead had creased in a frown and his fingers beat a tattoo on the desk—and there she was, staring at those fingers again.

‘Tell me more about it.’

‘It’s a pretty prestigious event. We won in the luxury category for the interior of an apartment we did for Richard Harvey the IT billionaire. He commissioned us to create a love nest for his seventh wife.’

Joe’s brows hiked towards his hairline as he whistled. ‘Seven? The man must be a glutton for punishment.’

‘He’s a romantic,’ Imogen said. ‘You’ve got to admire that kind of persistence.’

‘No.’

‘No, what?’

‘No, I don’t have to admire it. It’s delusional. Sometimes dreams have to be abandoned because they aren’t possible.’

Easy for him to say—it was impossible to imagine a lean, mean corporate machine having any dreams.

‘Some dreams,’ she agreed. ‘But not all. I truly believe that if you persevere and try and you’re willing to compromise there is a person out there for everyone.’

After all, she had no intention of giving up finding a man to match her tick list just because she and Steve had gone pear-shaped.

‘Richard has just had to try harder than most. And,’ she added, seeing the derisory quirk to his lips, ‘he and Crystal are very happy—in fact they are in Paris, celebrating their meetiversary.’

‘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.’