Читать книгу Out of Hours...Office Affairs: Can't Get Enough / Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss / Bound to the Greek - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 12

“HE SAID WHAT?”

Claire stared at Morgan Beck, aware that she’d crouched forward in her chair and placed one hand imperiously on his desk.

“You heard me, Claire. I know this whole arrangement sticks in your craw but I flatter myself that after thirty years in the business I know what I’m doing. I don’t care what sort of a disagreement you and Jack have had, but you’re just going to have to sort it out.”

Morgan was cranky, his voice hard and his posture aggressive as he glared across the desk at her.

“I just don’t understand it. Yesterday the two of you seemed to be in perfect accord, and now this,” he said.

You have no idea, she thought. And she tried very hard to get the image of her and Jack doing the wild thing on the elevator floor out of her mind as she held her boss’s eye. Now was not the time to get turned on by rogue memories. This was her career she was talking about here. Jack and his perfect penis could go hang as far as she was concerned.

“Wait a minute—are you telling me that Jack Brook has refused to work with me?” she asked, still trying to get a grip on this concept.

“Have I been talking to myself for the last five minutes, Claire?”

She fought back the impulsive urge to tell him to keep his pants on, then blanched that any such urge had even crossed her mind. What was wrong with her? When she’d first entered his office, she’d found him seated with his feet up on his desk. She’d had trouble hiding her smile at his aggressive, I’m-the-boss posture. She’d got control of her unruly mouth, but she’d been appalled at herself—when had she ever felt anything but respect and a faint tinge of fear for Morgan Beck?

“Mr. Beck, this comes as a complete shock to me,” she assured him now, neatly sidestepping the fact that she’d come to work this morning with the single-minded intention of finagling her boss into removing Jack from her project. It was one thing for her to reject him…

“Really?”

The single word dripped disbelief. She found herself glaring back at her boss, her temper well and truly firing on all cylinders now. Before she could stop herself, hot and angry words were pouring out.

“Yes, really. Do you truly think I’m so pathetic that I’d get him to do my dirty work for me? I assure you, if I didn’t want to work with Jack Brook I’d let you know in no uncertain terms.”

Okay, that was a lie, because she’d spent the whole night trying to come up with subtle, nonaggressive ways of suggesting Jack be reassigned. But Morgan didn’t seem to understand that she’d spoken out of anger—his eyebrows were rising up, his expression one of pure shock. She tried to remember if she’d ever come close to speaking to him like this before.

No, probably not. Mostly she concentrated on smiling and sounding competent and on top of things when she met with him. Mostly she’d been way too aware of his power and her own desire to win his approval.

But today she was too annoyed to remember any of that. Today she was outraged that not only had Jack left her dangling all night, he’d also pipped her at the post on the work front, too. To top things off, this balding little man in front of her thought she was so wimpy that she’d use someone else as her front man.

“You know, I was prepared to wear all this rubbish about placating Mr. Hillcrest, but I’m beginning to wonder if I wouldn’t be better off stepping aside and letting you simply replace me with someone better qualified,” she heard herself saying silkily.

Good grief. Give a girl a little rush of power to the head, and suddenly she was the Genghis Khan of office politics!

Morgan had gone pale, but she bit down on the apology that sprang to her lips the moment she uttered her challenge. Instinctively, she understood that much hung in the balance right now.

He needs me, she reminded herself. It’s my project, and he needs me, and he should remember that.

Except this wasn’t her style at all. She was a worker, a quiet achiever. A nonconfronter. And she was going to lose her job. She was going to be escorted from the building by mustached security guards, and she was never going to get another job in publishing. She’d get kicked out of her apartment, and her car would be repossessed, and before she knew it she’d be coming up with catchy names for bad adult movies for a living, titles such as Ordinary Peepholes and Free Willy. Although, technically, that was no different from the original even if it had a new interpretation. Maybe she’d be no good at this new career, either. Ah—Three Willy! Maybe she’d survive, then…

To her surprise, Beck suddenly laughed, pushing himself back from his desk and loosening his tie a little.

“Okay, Claire. Point taken. I apologize.”

Her vision of her career in pornography receded and she hoped she wasn’t looking as surprised as she felt. He was apologizing. Her boss was apologizing. She’d answered back and threatened him and he hadn’t had her escorted from the building. A slow feeling of elation bubbled into her blood. She felt…strong. Powerful. Valued.

All these years she’d been toeing the line and working hard and waiting to be acknowledged—and all it took was a bit of mouthing off to get some respect.

“Look, it’s a crappy situation we’ve put you in. I acknowledge that. But if you can swallow your pride for just a few months, I assure you we’ll get Jack off your back as soon as we can. And your…flexibility won’t be forgotten.”

A little drunk with her newly discovered power, she toyed with the idea of making another startling, bold statement. Something such as “I hate that tie,” or perhaps, “For God’s sake, do something about what’s left of your hair,” while she was on a roll, but she was wise enough to know when to quit.

“I’m not happy,” was what she actually said. “But I’ll do it, because I’ve put too much into Welcome Home to walk away.”

Her boss nodded.

“Understood. The board knows that magazine is all yours, Claire, don’t ever underestimate that. We consider you one of our most talented executives.”

She managed to contain the grin that was threatening to stretch her mouth wide. Respect and praise, all because she’d lost her temper.

“I trust I can leave it with you to sort things out with Jack?” her boss was saying, shuffling papers around on his desk.

She recognized the meeting was over and she stood quickly.

“I’ll take care of it,” she assured him.

Once out of Beck’s hallowed office, her focus swung around to consider Jack and his sneakery. It was a testament to how angry she was that she didn’t even think twice about getting in the elevator and taking it down to Jack’s level. She was concentrating instead on what she was going to say to him. He’d gone behind her back and tried to undermine her on her own project. She conveniently swept to one side the thought that she had been about to do the same to him. And she couldn’t even bear to think that while she’d been sitting home all night agonizing over why he hadn’t called, he’d been planning to approach Beck and get out of working with her.

She steamed out of the elevator and surveyed the open-plan office space confronting her, quickly spotting Jack’s assistant at a desk in the corner. Her eyes narrowed as she considered the fact that Jack enjoyed a corner office. One more reason to find him incredibly annoying.

Linda looked up with a smile when Claire stopped at her desk.

“I need to see Jack,” she said baldly.

Linda’s smile faded as she registered Claire’s mood, and Claire immediately felt like a jerk.

Perhaps she was taking this pushy thing a little too far….

“I mean—how are you?” she tried again, summoning a smile of her own.

“Fine. Jack’s not in right now,” Linda volunteered.

She shifted her gaze to the closed door over Linda’s shoulder.

“Is that a he’s-in-but-doesn’t-want-to-be-disturbed not in, or a real not in?” she asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

“He’s in a meeting down in Sports,” Linda expanded.

“Right.” Claire stood for a moment, tapping her toe as she considered her options. She could leave a message for him, go back down to her office, get stuck into some work.

She shook her head. She could just imagine him screwing up any message she left him and tossing it in the bin as he headed out to an executive racquetball game.

“I’ll wait,” she announced suddenly. Then she pointed to Jack’s office door. “In there.”

Linda opened her mouth to protest, but Claire sailed past and into Jack’s inner sanctum. She did a quick survey of the room, aware that Linda had followed her and was standing behind her.

“Can I get you a coffee while you wait?” Linda asked politely, nothing in her tone giving away her true feelings.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said.

Linda gave a small nod and exited, closing the door behind her.

So she can warn him without me overhearing, Claire guessed. Well, tough. He’d have to come back here some time.

She glanced at the two seating options—a hard-looking chair at the front of Jack’s desk, or a squishy-looking sofa in the corner. She opted for the squishy sofa, throwing herself into it impatiently. It embraced her like an overly affectionate uncle, its cushions giving way alarmingly so that her butt sank low enough to lift her feet off the carpet.

Only Jack Brook could have a bucket-seat couch, she thought, struggling to lever herself up and out of its tenacious hold. She’d worked herself into a sweat and only managed to wriggle her hips forward, finally getting her high heels on the ground, when the door swung open and Jack entered. His blue gaze swung around like a spotlight and she felt the completeness of his scrutiny, becoming painfully aware of her flushed cheeks, the way her skirt was rucked up and the fact that the buttons at the front of her blouse were strained and gaping open because of the way her arms were levered behind her. This was not the way she’d imagined seeing him for the first time after what had happened between them. Neither had she imagined that her body would instantly go onto high alert, eager for any signal from him. Suddenly her breasts felt tight and sensitized in her bra, and she was aware of the brush of her silk shirt against her skin.

She gritted her teeth against the knowing smile dancing around Jack’s lips and pushed herself up and out of the sofa with a surge of power. It was like coming out of quicksand, and she staggered a little before finding her balance.

Jack just watched her all the while, one hip braced against his desk, his arms folded across his chest. She stood panting before him, pushing her skirt back down.

“That’s the most stupid couch in all the world,” she said, aware that any advantage she’d had was long gone.

“I like it,” he said simply.

“You would.”

She tried to regain the towering anger and feeling of self-righteousness she’d had when she arrived not two minutes ago. Unfortunately, most of her was too busy remembering what it had felt like to be pressed up against his chest, to have his hands on her skin and his tongue in her mouth. A floodgate of sense memories threatened to engulf her—the look on his face as he slid inside her; the small noise of appreciation he’d made when he’d first seen her bare breasts; the moist heat of his breath against the skin of her neck as he shuddered out his climax. She blinked, overwhelmed for a moment by a surge of desire. Fortunately for her dignity, close on the heels of those searing memories came the painful reminder of how humiliated she’d felt when he didn’t call last night.

Snap out of it, she told herself, squaring her shoulders and looking him in the eye. The effect was ruined somewhat when one of her blouse buttons popped off, performing a little somersault in the air between them before tumbling to land at his feet. The cool breeze on her torso told her that once again her underwear was on display, and she was unable to stop the flush of heat that was even now flooding her face.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” he drawled, stooping to pick up her button.

She hated him for his casual nonchalance—if his shirt had popped open she would have been bug-eyed and slathering with lust. But he just stood there, cool as a cucumber, completely unaffected by her near nudity. The bastard.

She crossed her arms in front of her breasts but a glance down revealed that this only made them seem to pop up and out over her bra even more. Yesterday in the elevator, and now this. She wanted to die, and as quickly as possible, please.

She could feel his eyes on her, and she settled for holding the two sides of her blouse together with one clenched fist.

“I’ve just been up seeing Morgan Beck,” she announced, determined to win back the initiative.

Perhaps if she just pretended she hadn’t practically forced herself on him, it would just go away.

“Figured as much.”

His tone smacked so much of casual expectation that she felt her anger heating up all over again.

“Well, thanks for consulting me first. Thanks a lot. I get hauled up there first thing this morning and he practically accused me of making you ask to be taken off the magazine.”

He looked surprised. “Where the hell did he get that from?”

“From you, I take it.”

“Well, you’re wrong. As usual. All I told him was that I had too much on my plate to take on your project, as well.”

She puffed her cheeks out to stop from swearing out loud, almost letting go of her blouse she was so furious.

“Take on my project?” she stuttered. “Are you forgetting that you were only ever going to be the token male, wheeled out for meetings to keep that Neanderthal at Hillcrest happy? Take on my project my ass!”

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.

“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 STOP his 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 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.

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 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 kickback 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.

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.

Bottom line: in the real world, out of claustrophobic elevators where people were forced to strip down to their underwear, men like Jack Brook did not look twice at women like her.

If only she’d known that before she’d let him slide her bra off and slide himself into her, before she’d had the best damn sex of her life.

Why had she given him the opportunity to reject her?

She had a sudden flash of Jack sitting on high—Zeus on his mountain—laughing at her as she scampered around at his feet like all the other women in his life.

She was walking past a display in the men’s section of a department store, and she almost ran into the young salesman setting it up. She stared down at the colorful array of ties the guy was finessing, and she remembered Jack’s refusal to wear a tie to her meeting with Hillcrest.

Suddenly she saw red. It was her meeting, and her client, and her magazine. And he was working with her. The least he could do was respect her reading of her client’s sensibilities.

Determined now, she turned to the salesman.

“Excuse me. Which would you say is the most conservative tie you stock? The sort of tie a retired banker might wear, for example?” she asked silkily.

“Definitely something with stripes. Or a royal insignia. That always seems to go over well with our older customers.” The salesman helpfully displayed two or three ties for her.

“I’ll take that one,” she said, pointing to the tie that combined stripes with a royal insignia.

And Jack Brook would wear it if it killed her.