Breaking the Boss’s Rules

‘Clarissa rang me with the news.’

Better and better—Imogen bit back a groan. Clarissa was Steve’s mother and one of Eva’s old schoolfriends. If you could call her a friend. No doubt she had rung up to gloat.

‘It’s all over social media too,’ Eva continued. ‘Simone even put out a message thanking you for providing such a wonderful setting.’

Excellent. Now she’d be a laughing stock to everyone who knew her. Humiliation swept over her in a wave of heat that made her skin clammy.

Eva gusted out a sigh. ‘That could have been you if you’d played your cards right. You could have a man to rely on—a man to support you and keep you secure. You should have done more to keep him, Imogen.’

Like what? She’d done everything she could think of to make Steve happy. Obviously she’d failed. Big-time. Steve himself had told her that she wasn’t enough for him.

But instead of the usual self-criticism a sudden spark of anger ignited in the pit of her stomach. The bastard had actually proposed to another woman on the cruise she had paid for using her hard-earned savings. What would he do next? Send her the bill for the engagement ring?

‘Actually, Mum, maybe I’m better off without him.’

‘Steve was the best thing that ever happened to you, Imogen. Yes, I’d have preferred a fast-track banking career for you, but the next best thing would have been marrying a man with one …’

As Eva’s voice droned on Imogen ground her molars and waited for the right moment to intercede.

‘Mum. I understand how you feel.’ That her daughter had let her down yet again. ‘But I’m exhausted. We’ll talk more tomorrow.’

Imogen disconnected the call and resisted the urge to bang her head against the wall.

Joe glanced at his watch, and then around the busy Victorian-style St Pancras station. Men and women tapped onto tablets, sipped at coffee or shopped in the boutiques. But there was no sign of Imogen. Where the hell was she?

Ah. There she was: striding across the crowded lounge, briefcase in one hand, cup of coffee in the other, dove-grey trouser suit, hair tugged up into a simple ponytail.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she stated as she came to a halt next to him.

Joe frowned; her tone indicated not so much as a hint of sincerity. In fact it pretty much dared him to comment. Imogen seemed … He glanced at her coffee cup as she tugged the lid off. Full. Yet she seemed wired—there was a pent-up energy in the tapping of her foot, an unnecessary force as she dropped her briefcase onto a chair.

‘No problem. We’ve still got three minutes till we need to board.’

‘Good.’ She took a gulp of coffee. ‘Then I have time to grab a pain au chocolat. Get myself in the mood.’

Because what she really needed right now was sugar on top of caffeine.

Joe swallowed the words. As a man who had brought up twin sisters, he knew exactly when it was best to keep his opinions to himself.

Clearly something had happened in the day and a half since he’d last seen her. But equally clearly Imogen’s private life was nothing to do with him.

So he was not going to ask her what was wrong; he was going to stick to business.

Focusing on her back, he followed Imogen through the departure lounge to the ticket barriers, where they were smiled through by a svelte member of Eurostar staff. They moved along the bustling platform and onto the train.

He waited until she’d tucked her briefcase next to her and sat down opposite him, her eyes still snapping out that ‘don’t mess with me’ vibe.

‘So, could you brief me on our meeting with Richard Harvey? Has he told you anything about the project at all?’

‘Nope. All I know is that it’s a place in Paris. He’s also said he’s giving Graham a chance to pitch for it as well, because it seems only fair.’ She frowned. ‘My guess is Graham got on the phone and guilted him into it with a sob story about how you had brutally thrown him out.’

Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought you agreed with him?’

‘I do, but …’ Her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug and her eyes sparked. ‘If you must know Graham rang me yesterday, and he was really vindictive. Not only about you but about Peter too—and that’s not fair. It’s not as though Peter sacked him. And even you offered him a reduced salary.’

‘You told me yourself about his mortgage and his wife; you can’t blame him for accepting a more lucrative offer and now being loyal to Ivan.’

‘I can blame whoever I like for whatever I like.’

Joe blinked at the sheer vehemence of her tone.

‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘Ivan is an out-and-out toad.’ The description brought a small quirk to his lips until she said, ‘And you aren’t going to let him buy out Langley, are you?’

Damn. He’d hoped she’d forgotten that, but maybe this was why she was on the warpath.

‘That’s not something I can discuss with you.’

‘But … you can’t be seriously thinking about it. It would kill Harry off.’

‘If a buy-out is offered I have to consider it.’

She opened her mouth as if to argue but inhaled deeply instead. ‘OK. Fine. Clearly you don’t have a better nature to appeal to, so tell me what I can do to help avert a buy-out.’ Her fingers encircled the plastic table’s edge and her nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Because I’d rather starve in a ditch than work for Ivan.’

He could hardly blame her; a sudden wave of aversion washed over him at the very thought. Irritation with himself clenched his jaw. If the buy-out was best for Langley that was the road he’d take. Full stop.

‘That will be your choice. My decision will be based on what’s best for Langley as a business.’

Eyes narrowed, she tapped a foot on the carriage floor. ‘If we win this Paris project will that make Langley safe from Ivan?’

‘Depends on the full extent of the project. But, yes, it would help.’

‘So you’re fully on board with going all out to win it? You haven’t already decided that the buy-out is the way to go?’

Joe resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why didn’t she get that the decision was nothing to do with her?

‘Can we drop the subject of the buy-out and concentrate on winning the Richard Harvey project? What else can you tell me about Richard and this meeting that will help our pitch? Is he bringing wife number seven?’

‘Yes. I’ve told you her name is Crystal—and obviously don’t make a big deal of her being number seven.’

Joe snorted. ‘Well, gee, Imogen—thanks for the advice. My plan was to ask for a rundown of each and every wife along with a view of the wedding albums.’ He gusted out a sigh. ‘I’ll happily avoid the entire topic of marriage.’

Imogen shook her head. ‘Richard likes talking about marriage. Like I said, he’s incurably romantic—which I suppose is why he’s bought a place in Paris. As far as he is concerned he has finally fulfilled his dream—he’s found The One. So probably best not to share your “dreams should be abandoned” theory.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Even if I’m beginning to wonder if you’re right.’

‘Me? Right? Wonders will never cease.’ Curiosity won out over common sense. ‘What brought that on?’

Opening her mouth as if to answer, her gaze skittered away as she clearly thought better of it and shook her head. ‘You know, the daft dreams we have when we are young. I once thought I’d become an artist—had some stupid vision of myself in smock and beret, sketching on the streets of Paris or attending the Royal Academy, studying the masters in Italy, exhibiting in Rome—’ She broke off. ‘Absurd.’

Yet the look in her eyes, the vibrant depth of her tone, showed him that the dream had been real.