Can't Get Enough (15 page)

He frowned at her, straightening from his lounging position against his
desk. Good. Nice to see him abandon his casual observer stance and wade
in at last. She hated the idea that everything she did vastly amused
him, that he liked poking her with a stick and seeing what she did
next. If only her heart hadn't leaped as he took a step closer to her,
she'd feel almost happy with the turn of events.

"Lady, you have rocks in your head if you thought I was ever going to
just roll over and play dead. If I'm working on something, I'm working
on it. I'm not in the habit of taking credit for something I didn't
do."

"Morgan made the terms of your involvement very clear—it's in name
only. You are not sticking your oar into my magazine," she declared
hotly.

"Which is exactly why I told Beck I didn't have the time for the
project. You should be thanking me instead of carrying on like a
harpy."

This made her so angry she needed both hands free to gesticulate at him, and she abandoned her blouse to the Fates.

"You are the most arrogant man I have ever met. I can't believe I
actually—I can't believe I didn't implode out of self-defense after
spending more than five minutes in your company yesterday." She refused
to acknowledge what she'd almost said, instead planting her hands on
her hips and glaring at him.
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"Ditto. Again, another good reason for us not working together."

"Well, get over it. Because I told Morgan we could sort this out," she
fired back at him. He looked so surprised she almost laughed.

"You did?"

"Someone has to be grown-up about this. And I'm not going to see my magazine stall because of your ego."

"
My
ego?"

He stared at her, but then, almost as if some irresistible force drew
his gaze downward, his eyes dropped to her chest. She'd been aware that
his eyes had strayed below her neckline more than once in the past few
minutes. She felt his gaze like heat on her skin, and she swallowed
nervously. Or was it excitedly? She was so confused right now, it was
hard to tell the difference. In a split second all her thoughts turned
from being furious with him to feverishly anticipating the touch of his
hands on her breasts again. She wanted to feel the welcome weight of
his body on top of hers. She wanted to touch his smooth, firm skin and
hold the strength of him in her hands again. In an instant her panties
were damp with wet heat, and her breath was coming short and sharp. She
wanted him—but he had to make the first move. She couldn't risk making
herself vulnerable again.

JACK COULDN'T STOPhis gaze from dropping to her breasts. He ordered
himself not to look, but it was useless. What man could resist when
fate had handed him such a golden opportunity? She was wearing a cream
lace bra today, and her breasts curved lovingly into it, rising and
falling with each breath she took.

She was so damn hot. How was he supposed to resist her when she was
running around taunting him like this? He was trying to do the right
thing here, trying to be a nice guy and spare her feelings. Because it
would be the easiest thing in the world to just sleep with her again,
drink his fill, explore the chemistry between them and then move on. He
was doing her a favor, damn it—and now she was showing him exactly what
he was missing out on.

All he had to do was reach out and pull her to him. His muscles tensed
in anticipation. He'd slide her shirt off, then that bra—pretty as it
was, it was nothing compared to her unadorned breasts. The pale pink of
her nipples, the way they puckered so responsively under his touch, the
taste of her, the heat of her skin, the little hitch she got in her
breathing when he sucked her nipples deep into his mouth. He'd back her
against the desk, pull up that prim little skirt of hers and slide
himself into her. She'd get that look in her eye, that glazed but oddly
intent look, and she would tilt her hips and tighten her strong, firm
legs around his hips—

He didn't need to look down to know that he was rock hard again, his
erection straining against the fly of his jeans. Something had to
give—and he had a feeling it was going to be him.

"For Pete's sake, how am I supposed to concentrate? Come here," he said, reaching toward her impatiently.

Before Claire could object she'd been forcibly hauled forward by the lapels of her shirt. His body was
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hard and warm against hers, and for a beat they stood pressed against
each other, neither saying a word, their eyes locked together. Her mind
was racing. Was he going to kiss her again? God, she wanted him to—even
after the humiliation of last night, she wanted him, bad. A muscle
twitched in his jaw, and she inhaled sharply, feeling the fullness of
her breasts press against his chest. Then he grabbed something from his
desk, jamming it between them. A metallic click sounded, and he pushed
her away. She blinked down at her shirt, staring in growing indignation
at the staple now holding her blouse together more modestly. Two messy
hunks of fabric stuck out on either side of the staple—a five-year-old
with bad eyesight could have done a better job.

"This is a Gucci shirt," she said slowly, enunciating carefully so he understood exactly what he'd done.

"I was doing you a favor. I know how uptight you are about public
displays of underwear." She felt a stress twitch break out below her
left eye. She was sure that if she had her lawyers introduce the ruined
Gucci shirt as exhibit
A
during her murder trial, she could fully justify turning his stupid
desk stapler on him till he died the death of a thousand tiny puncture
wounds. She managed to ignore the fact that once again she had been
putty in his hands, while he remained supremely unaffected. She could
bring that realization out later and really soak up the rejection. But
for now, there was her favorite shirt to consider….

He seemed to sense the surge of homicidal feeling rising within her,
because he wisely moved away until the desk was between them.

"As much as I enjoy having you carp at me, I do have another meeting in
five minutes. So if you don't mind…?" he said carelessly.

She stood there, her hands curled into two tight fists by her sides.

"I'm not leaving this office until we've sorted this out. I need a man
to talk golf and football with Hillcrest, and you are a man. But that's
all I need. I don't want you writing big-game-fishing articles for
Welcome
Home,
I don't want you interfering in the design process and I certainly don't want you having any say over editorial content."

He cocked his head to one side as though he was actually considering
it. "Gee, you make it sound like such an attractive gig. No."

She glared at him, reading the determination in every line of his body.
He was even breathing a little faster, just like her. He was like her
in many ways, she realized, remembering all the things they'd found in
common yesterday. And before she could stop herself, she was
considering how
she'd
react if he came to her with this offer. What if there was some
female-oriented magazine he was working on, and he needed a Trojan
horse woman to get him in under the client's radar…?

Some of her self-righteous anger faded as she acknowledged that she'd
have told him to stick his stupid offer where only the doctor could
surgically retrieve it. Kind of like he just had, after ruining her
favorite shirt. Forcing herself to push her personal feelings of
humiliation and rejection to one side, Claire decided to be pragmatic.
She wanted to get her magazine up and running, and to do that, she
needed to do a deal with this devil.

"Okay, what's it going to take?" she asked suddenly, changing tactics midstream.
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He eyed her warily. "Don't tell me you're that desperate."

"Jack, Beck has given me no choice on this. So…what's it going to
take?" A significant pause stretched between them. She could see his
mind ticking away, no doubt trying to come up with the most outrageous
demand he could formulate. She braced herself.

"Give me a project every issue. You've got a furniture-making section,
yeah? Give me something in that, and I'll press the flesh and laugh at
old man Hillcrest's bad jokes. It's that, or nothing. I can't take
credit for something I didn't even touch."

She was aware that her jaw was hanging slackly and she made an effort
to not look too witless and stunned. She'd been expecting something
offensive at best. This was…well, very reasonable.

"That's it? That's all you want?" she clarified.

"Don't sound so disappointed."

Once again she was on the back foot. Why did that always happen with this man?

"I just…I thought you would…Look, it doesn't matter. The project idea
is good. Actually, it'll be helpful. I'm sort of breaking in a project
guy, and he's a bit nervous about taking on the full workload," she
stumbled, trying hard to regain some kind of professional footing. A
hard task when your most prominent fashion accessory is a stapled
cleavage.

"Fine. Can I have my office back now?"

He sounded bored. Her back went up again like clockwork.

"Of course. Just say the word," she said, aware her voice came out hard and tight.

"I thought I did," he drawled.

She blinked at him, aware that his casualness had caught her on the
raw. Just when she thought he was a decent human being, he had to go
and be like this.

She heard a heavy sigh from him behind her as she headed for the door.

"Claire, hang on a minute. About last night—" he began to say, and she
realized with horror that he was about to offer her some sop for not
calling.

"It's fine, Jack. Already forgotten," she said briskly.

"I want to explain. I just think that you're—" he tried again. She spun
around, desperate to stop him from saying something about how mistaken
she was, how she'd misunderstood him. "Forget it. Okay? I wish the
whole thing had never happened. Enough said." He held her gaze for a
moment, and she hoped she looked suitably indifferent. If humiliation
resembled
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indifference in any way, she figured she had a chance.

"Your call," he said, and she shot him a look. Had he meant to choose those words, exactly?

Impossible to tell. She attempted to reassemble a little dignity and self-respect around herself.

"I've got a meeting scheduled with Hillcrest tomorrow at ten," she said coolly, already turning toward the door.

"Fine. I'll be there."

She paused on the threshold of his office.

"And please wear a tie. Hillcrest is a traditional man."

"Hillcrest will have to learn to loosen up a little. Do him good." He
had a dangerous, indolent air, along with a definite "give it your best
shot" glint in his eye. She took a deep breath and reached for some
patience. "Jack. Please. Just once. Is it so painful to be
conventional, even for just five minutes?"

He shrugged, oozing innocence from every pore. "Hey—I don't even own a
tie. So it's irrelevant." She made an exasperated noise in the back of
her throat. He was laughing at her again, leaning against his desk, his
broad shoulders silhouetted against his stunning corner-office view.

"Fine. Come in your best holey T-shirt and grass-stained jeans, forget
to shave, stink of beer and scratch your furry face through the whole
meeting. See if I care."

With that, she wheeled out of his office, slamming the door behind her.
Or at least trying to. Except it had one of those nifty pneumatic door
closers on it, and all she got was a bit of kick-back when she tried to
force the mechanism.

She could still hear his laughter when the elevator doors closed on
her. She headed straight for the ladies' room on her floor, and once
she was in the safe confines of a private cubicle, she leaned against
the wall and threw her head back, closing her eyes against the cocktail
of emotions waiting to swamp her. She felt so weak. Hadn't last night
taught her anything? Intellectually she knew that Jack was a disaster
area, a no-go zone, even though she'd already been there. But her body
could not resist him. Just thinking about how he'd smelled, and the
heat of his body against hers when he hauled her close to staple her
cleavage—it was enough to get her hot all over again. Claire glanced
down and saw that her nipples were stiff and aroused, jutting out
against the silk of her shirt proudly. Between her legs, a dull ache
throbbed, and she pressed her hand against her mound through the fabric
of her skirt. I don't want this,she ordered her body.
I don't want to feel this way about Jack Brook! Stop it
immediately!

After five minutes of strong self-talk, she emerged from the cubicle.
The hectic-cheeked woman who greeted her in the mirror was a stranger,
and she shook her head at the gleam of desire that still shone in her
eyes.

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After a few minutes of wrangling, she managed to extract the staples,
but her shirt was ruined. Toying with the idea of sending him the bill,
she headed to the nearby shopping mall to find a replacement so she'd
be presentable for her afternoon meetings. If only her pride could be
salvaged so easily. She had only to remember the way Jack had calmly
stapled her to decency to feel a rush of humiliation. She'd spent the
bulk of a sleepless night inventing conversations where he explained
why he hadn't called, great excuses that meant she could still indulge
the fantasy that she hadn't behaved like a total wanton in the
elevator. Boy, was she deluded. She'd built up this whole…
thing
between them, imagining a whole lot of stuff she had no business
imagining. And all he'd been concerned about was extracting himself
from Morgan Beck's assignment.

They'd been
stuck in an airless space for several hours. He'd been bored. They'd
shared things they hadn't told anyone else, and he'd taken what she'd
so willingly offered. Big deal.She was sure that's what he was
thinking. It must have been what he was thinking when he went to tell
Beck he wouldn't work with her. And when he decided not to call her
last night, despite what had happened.