and master. Usually she wore a black bra, or skin tone—plain, nothing too fancy that would show outlines under the fabric of her simple cotton shirts. But with all the extra study she’d been doing to get her last assignments in ahead of the Christmas madness she was behind on the laundry. Like weeks behind. So she’d grabbed this one from the drawer, figuring no one was going to see it anyway, and besides, wasn’t it the kind of day when she needed the extra lift the colour gave her?
She’d bought the set on a whim once in the store’s sale, simply because she loved the colour. Just looking at it gave her inner confidence a boost—and today her toenails were painted the same colour, even though they’d spend all day hidden away in her ankle boots. Scarlet underwear; blood-red toenails. Not because she was some sexy vamp, but because that deep, almost burnt red was her favourite, and wearing it gave her a pick-me-up—yes, underneath she was covered in confidence. It was still fake, but it was better than none at all.
Only now she didn’t see it as the confident colour of a winner. It was trashy streetwalker in-your-face tarty—and she was crimson with embarrassment.
No wonder the hotel receptionist had been so happy to help and so full of smiles. No wonder Towel Guy had been so bold about inviting her in. She was flashing the world half her scarlet-clad assets.
She glanced at her watch. Less than three minutes. No time to shower—only a quick wash with a flannel and an even quicker fix of her mascara and a swipe of the comb through her hair. She retied it back in a harsh ponytail and got to redressing.
The new shirt was forest-green and silk, and felt deliciously cool on her hot body. She took in a breath and told herself to calm down as she tried to work the buttons through their too small holes. Any last shred of calm dissipated as she pulled on the new trousers—they were way firmer round the hips and thighs than she would usually wear. Definitely too firm round the butt. Her temperature lifted again as she tucked in the shirt and did up the zip and button at the waist. This was the kind of sleek outfit she’d have worn at her old job—emphasising her curves and showing her long legs while still being appropriate office attire. She’d wanted to look attractive there. Wanted to be wanted—what a naïve fool of a girl she’d been. She’d learnt more than one painful lesson as a result. One of them being that work and amorous relationships shouldn’t ever mix.
So she had no desire to be seen as feminine at Mackenzie Forrest. She simply wanted to be good at her job. But this was only a first meeting, with all the office and admin team. The new boss probably wouldn’t even notice her—he’d be too busy giving a speech or something. And at least the trousers covered the ugly graze. She’d fashioned a crude plaster for it out of tissue and sticky tape. That would sponge up the blood and stop her trousers from rubbing against it and being even more uncomfortable. Her elbow was sore, too. And she was thrown by the whole twenty-minute mess.
Imogen tossed her muddy clothes into the shopping bag. One last deep breath and another quick count to ten as she tried to forget the blue eyes that had twinkled at her with that mix of humour and heat and concern.
There had definitely been heat. Oh, yes, there’d been heat.
Awkwardly, she walked out of the room and took another frantic look at her watch—already three minutes late. The door of room number sixty-nine was shut. Good thing too. Turning, she headed for the lifts and—oh, wouldn’t it just be her luck?
Towel Guy was up ahead, and looking back down the corridor at her. Only he was wearing more now—more as in a tailored suit: it had to be custom-made, the way it hung so smoothly from his tall frame, dark grey, with an ice-white shirt and a blue tie that brought out the sapphiric tint in his eyes. Oh, yes, he was malemodelicious. His hand was on the door to take the stairs, but he paused, watching her hobble towards him. Then he moved away from the door, pressing the button to summon the lift instead. All the while he watched her walk nearer.
Totally self-conscious, she moved towards him, refusing to run. He could get this lift and she’d get the next. She didn’t want to be red-faced and breathless when meeting the new boss. She was already late, so another minute wasn’t going to matter that much. Anyway she couldn’t run. Her leg was too stiff.
The lift arrived. He entered. Kept his finger on the door open button long enough for her to get there and get in. For a mad moment she met his eyes, and was nearly fried on the spot.
‘Which floor?’
‘Two, please.’ Imogen looked low to the ground, not really wanting to look into those blues again—they were hotter than hell.
The doors slid shut and she kept her focus hard on the seam in the centre of them.
‘The colour really suits you.’
She started, glanced down at the green, felt her embarrassment increase—but the politeness thing was deeply ingrained. ‘Oh …’ She took a breath to try and be able to talk. ‘Thank—’
‘The green is nice.’ He cut her off. ‘But I was thinking of the red.’
Stunned, she turned, her widened gaze colliding with his—all blue fire. Then the solemnity in his face shattered and he smiled—a full-blown, toe-curling, bone-melting blaze of a smile. It felt as if splotches of crimson heat were being stamped all over her body. So much for not being red-faced when she met her new boss. It was going to take at least half an hour for her to cool down after exiting the lift. But this guy was irresistible, and she smiled back.
Nodding, she stated the only thing in her head that she could share publicly. ‘I’m really embarrassed.’ She was also really attracted.
‘Hey,’ he joked, ‘I was wearing less.’
‘Yes.’ Her smile broadened as the lift doors slid open. The comeback bubbled out of her, filled with sassy spark, just as she stepped out. ‘That suited you, too.’
She met his eyes with a lift of her brow, beyond trying to hide the attraction now.
‘I’d like to …’ He glanced at his watch, spread his hands and shrugged. ‘But I have to—’
‘I’m late for something, too.’ Imogen smiled as she closed the conversation. Another time, another place, maybe they’d have talked more, flirted, had some fun?
Imogen hadn’t done that in … well, ever. But honestly just the idea of it, the almost-but-not-quite nature of their encounter, was enough to put a little jolt of pleasure in her day. But now real life had to be attended to—she had a meeting to survive and a career to keep on track.
She walked down the corridor, conscious that he was only half a pace behind her. She stopped as she came to a suite of meeting rooms. He stopped right beside her. For a moment they stood, both reading the sign on the first door.
‘We’re heading to the same meeting,’ he said flatly.
Was the dismay that she was feeling reflected in his face?
He blinked, and in that minuscule moment his whole demeanour changed. He withdrew, and his eyes—those windows to anything personal, to that wild heat—veiled as he became completely professional.
He opened the door. ‘After you.’ And he ushered her in.
She didn’t answer verbally—couldn’t as she hobbled as far to the back of the room as she could. Oh, no. He had an American accent. He couldn’t possibly be …
‘Sorry
