Can't Get Enough (8 page)

She didn't say a word, but she didn't need to. After just an hour of
one-on-one with her, he was becoming finely attuned to her body
language. A shift of a shoulder, the sniff of her nose, and she might
as well have shouted at him.

"What? Fine, then. Where do
you
think those sorts of comments come from?" he demanded. Her eyes
measured him for a moment before she answered. He fought the urge to
squirm.

"You think they're just bitter
because you broke up with them, don't you? And you're probably right,
I'm sure that's some of it. But there are plenty of them who aren't
bitter, just sad." He couldn't let that slide by.

"Because I broke their hearts? Let me tell you, I am never anything but honest with women. They all know the score."

"They're not sad because you rejected them, Jack. They're sad because
for a man with so much potential there's so little on offer. Katherine
told me that she'd never met a man who was more afraid of his feelings
in her life. She said there was no point pursuing anything with someone
who was never going to let himself go."

If she'd quoted anyone else, he would have been able to blow it off as
sour grapes. But Katherine…He'd thought they'd had a real
understanding. A short, hot fling, an absolute meeting of minds—two
people who enjoyed each other, looking for nothing more than a bit of
companionship and human comfort. No strings, no hassles.

He frowned as he remembered that she'd been the one to drift away, the
one to call a halt before the usual awkward time when the relationship
should move into the next stage but was never going to, thanks to his
own fierce commitment to being uncommitted.

He tried to shake off the strange feeling of oppression that settled
over him as he considered that Katherine's assessment was right.

Immediately he thought of Robbie, and he hardened himself. So, maybe
they were right, maybe he didn't have anything to offer on that level.
That was simply the way it was. He'd given it all to Robbie, and he
didn't have anything left to share.

His thoughts snapped back to the woman sitting opposite. He now knew why she judged him the way
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she did. A spark of anger sprang to life inside him. She
had
judged him, big-time. She'd listened to office gossip and rumor, and
she'd formed her own opinions of him, and decided he was lacking. Hence
all that talk about him being the action-man about the office. Hence
her thinly veiled contempt for him. Vaguely, he was aware of how
quickly his temper had gone from zero to one hundred.

"And let me tell you, that air-conditioning story is bull. Judy never
told me she got heat rash. I said I didn't like the air-conditioning,
sure, but she never said she'd get a rash if it wasn't on." He felt
small and stupid as soon as he'd said it. What was he defending himself
to Claire for, anyway?

"I told you, I didn't believe it at the time."

Now she was being understanding. She even looked like she was
regretting what she'd said to him. He didn't like it that she suddenly
seemed to have the upper hand. He was much more comfortable with their
normal status quo, where he disdained her repression and she expressed
her contempt for his freewheeling attitude.

"I'm surprised you haven't got better things to do than sit around
gossiping about me all day. Workload must be a bit lighter than I
remember it down in Homes," he snipped. She rolled her eyes at him.
"Spare me. You think I want to stand around and talk about the office
stud all day? It's impossible not to pick this stuff up. It's like
osmosis." He sat up straight, bristling.

"I'd prefer it if you didn't call me that, thank you," he found himself
saying stiffly. Can you hear yourself? Now who's uptight?

"I beg your pardon?"

Her incredulity was clear. But he'd drawn a line in the sand, and he had to stand by it.

"Office stud. I find it offensive. How would you like it if I called
you the town bike?" She surprised him by laughing out loud. "Go ahead,
see if I object." For a moment he stared at her, taking in the
transformation in her face when she laughed. She looked…nice.
Approachable. Attractive.

All just a sugarcoating for her inner shrew,he reminded himself.
Don't forget that. Never forget that.

CLAIRE PLUCKEDat the neck of her heavy silk shirt, trying to get some
air between it and her hot skin. Why hadn't she picked a cotton shirt
this morning? She pictured the litter of clothes all over her bedroom
and declined to comment on the grounds that she already knew why: she
was a pig, and she needed to do the laundry.

She spared a glance for the office stud opposite. Now that she knew he hated being called that she'd
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make sure to slip it into as many conversations as possible. See how he
liked being pigeonholed. His face was closed, quiet, but she could feel
his vulnerability. She'd shocked him with her revelations about what
his exes and flings thought of him, there was no question. She felt a
vague guilt at having spilled so many beans on him. For the first time,
she questioned some of the stories she'd heard about him, and some of
her value judgments. So, he dated a lot. Was that so bad? And then she
remembered twenty-three-year-old Fiona from Legal, her heart-shaped
face blotched with tears as she explained how Jack had made an excuse
for not staying the night in her bed after they'd
done it.
He'd ended their short romance the next day at lunchtime.

He didn't deserve sympathy. Fiona deserved sympathy—as well as a good
kick in the wazoo for letting herself be suckered in by Mr.
Silvertongue .

Claire was considering trying to take a nap when movement caught her
eye and she looked up to see Jack shrugging out of his shirt.

"What?" he asked defensively. "You want me to ask permission or something?" What a jerk.

"You can take it all off for all I care," she told him stiffly. He
raised an eyebrow, obviously doubting her. "Feel free to take off
whatever you want, too," he said idly, the glint of his eyes giving
away the fact that he was mocking her. She could feel her lips
disappearing again and she forced them to behave before he noticed. He
was
sooooo
annoying. She'd truly never met anyone else who could get her so riled
so quickly. What was it about him that got up her nose so much? She
studied him through her eyelashes, trying to work it out, and found her
gaze drawn to the broad expanse of hairy chest he'd just exposed. All
that huntin'-shootin'-fishin ' obviously agreed with him because he was
in pretty good shape, his pecs nicely defined, his stomach flat, the
hint of strong abdominal muscles showing as he breathed. She knew from
experience how tough it was to get lean enough to see those ab muscles,
and she reassessed her notion of his sybaritic lifestyle. Okay, maybe
he wasn't out wining and dining every night. Every second night,
probably. He'd need to, just to fit in all his office romances.

It was nice to see a bit of hair on a chest, she decided idly, feeling
drowsy in the stuffy atmosphere. Most male triathletes made a habit of
waxing their chests to gain a little less drag in the water, and it had
been a while since she'd seen a nicely haired male chest. He had a good
tan, too, and the hairs looked healthy and dark and springy against his
brown skin. Her eyes followed the trail of hair as it narrowed over
those taut abs of his until it was just a promise as it disappeared
altogether beneath the waistband of his pants. She found herself
staring at a point just below his waistband, wondering again about
exactly how gifted Jack was supposed to be….

"Can I help you with anything?"

She started out of her daze, suddenly realizing she was staring
unashamedly at his crotch. Flaming embarrassment swept up her body in a
burning wave, and she was powerless to do anything about it. She was a
good blusher, she'd learned to her detriment over the years. Even her
ears glowed when she was totally humiliated. Like now. She felt almost
incandescent with heat and she resolutely kept her gaze
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away from his as she fought to control her own body.

But the more she thought about it, the more she seemed to sizzle and
glow, and she tried not to think about how guilty and pathetic she must
seem to him.

At last the flush seemed to dissipate, but it left her feeling
unbearably hot. Her blouse felt sticky, confining and oppressive.
Briefly, she flicked an envious gaze across at Jack's bare chest, only
to be caught in the knowing beam of his blue eyes.

A small residual flood of color washed her cheeks as she tore her gaze
from him. He was laughing at her! Why, oh, why had she stared at him
like that? Was she so hard up that the first bit of decent male action
to come her way sent her into zombie-drool mode? Even if that male
action was attached to the world's most annoying personality?

She flapped her blouse ineffectually, succeeding only in moving around more hot air.

"Take it off."

It was a dare, not a suggestion. A challenge, and the expression on his
handsome, smug face told her that he knew she wouldn't take him up on
it.

Her hands were on her buttons before she could think. One button, two,
three. And he just sat there, his lips quirked to one side, apparently
vastly amused by everything she did. She tried to remember which bra
she'd put on this morning.
Not the stretched-out one with the pills and the no-nonsense, no-trim
elastic. Please, not that one.
She wanted so badly to peek beneath her blouse to check, but then he'd know. The man was psychic. He'd definitely know.

Four buttons, only three to go now. A patch of black bra showed in her
peripheral vision. Maybe if she glanced down casually, just as though
she wasn't sure where the next button was? She risked it, sighing with
relief when she saw her unexciting but presentable plain black bra. It
was a simple, smooth cup style that was more about good design and
elegance than frills and see-through bits, and she was damn grateful
that she'd put it on this morning. More confident now, she slipped the
last button loose, tugged her blouse open and began working on the
buttons on her cuff.

He was still watching her, she could feel it. Trying to pay her back
for gawking at him earlier, obviously. She could handle it. It was just
like wearing a crop top during training, and while she wasn't into
showing off her body and flashing it around, she was quietly confident
that it was in good shape. She shrugged the damp silk from her
shoulders and slid it off her arms as nonchalantly as possible.
Determined to prove she was not the uptight prude he thought she was,
she sighed loudly.

"You're right, that's much better."

She even circled her shoulders around, as if she was warming up for a swim. His eyes were glued to her, and she was loving it.

"Yep, that's definitely better," she repeated, mostly just to annoy
him. Smiling sweetly at him, she spread her shirt out on the scratchy
industrial carpet, then rerolled her jacket into a tighter pillow.

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"I'm going to see if I can get some sleep," she told him blithely. He
was still just sitting there, an unreadable expression on his face.
Probably didn't know what to say now that she'd proved him wrong.
Typical.

5

JACK CONCENTRATEDfiercely on the idea of puppies frolicking in fresh
snow. He conjured up an image of a fresh alpine stream, clear water
burbling over mossy rocks. He even resorted to imagining a photograph
of his grandmother, the one where she was looking very stern and
schoolmarmish . None of it stopped the rest of his body from whooping
it up over the sight of Claire Marsden in a bra. Whoever designed her
suits and blouses was a master of disguise, that was for sure. The CIA
should be talking to that guy. Hollywood should be using him instead of
all that computer gimmickry they were all so fond of these days.

Because Claire was hot, and Jack had never even suspected it. From the
soft, even tan across her chest and torso to the gentle rise of her
breasts from one of the sexiest bras he'd ever seen, she was a
revelation.

Hot. Damn hot.

It wasn't just that she was built—although that had a lot to do with
it. Her breasts were definitely on the generous side, definitely a very
nice handful. And it wasn't just the ripple of highly toned muscles on
her stomach—although that was pretty damn good, also. It was more that
it all fit together so well. She was small but perfect, and generous in
all the areas she should be.

In short, hot.

His body seemed determined to worship that hotness in its own very special way, and no matter what he told himself—
she's a shrew, she hates me, she probably irons her underwear
—he
was unable to stop it. Thank God he was sitting with his knees drawn up
and his back against the wall. Thank God she'd decided to go to sleep,
and that she'd rolled to face the wall. Perhaps with those breasts out
of his immediate view he could get a grip on himself. Figuratively
speaking. It was a bit disconcerting, really. Not since the uncertain
years of adolescence had his body been so at odds with his mind.
Because she just wasn't his type. And they didn't get along, at all.
And, if he was being completely honest, she annoyed him. She was bossy,
and defensive, and too quick with a smart comeback. Too much trouble,
all round. So it was very strange to be annoyed and irritated by her,
but also wonder what color her nipples were, and if she tasted as good
as she looked. Very confusing. Disturbing, even.

He checked his watch, then returned to studying her back. Damn if she
didn't have a nice back, too—smooth, unblemished skin, nicely shaped
vertebrae—

He pulled himself up short.
Nicely shaped vertebrae?
Was he going insane?

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