Читать книгу Out of Hours...Office Affairs: Can't Get Enough / Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss / Bound to the Greek - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 13

JACK WALKED BACK into his office after his last meeting of the day and groaned at the pile of paperwork Linda had left on his desk: afternoon mail, letters to sign, blah, blah, blah. He sighed heavily and dropped into his chair, swinging his feet up onto his desk as he reached for the pile of mail. His feet knocked something to the floor, and he leaned sideways in his chair to peer around the edge and make sure he hadn’t broken anything.

His stapler lay on its side on the plush carpet, and he stared at it a moment. Unbidden, unwanted, unwise, a Technicolor image of Claire Marsden’s lacy bra popped into his mind. Complete with a memory of how she’d smelled and how she’d felt when he’d pulled her close to remedy the temptation. Because—really—how was a man supposed to have a good, solid argument with a woman when all he could think about was burying his face in her cleavage? And, after that, burying other parts of his body in her, also. He’d been so close to giving in to the need to touch her. If he closed his eyes for more than a heartbeat, images of their time in the elevator flashed back at him. It was the only thing he seemed able to think about. That, and all the other things he wanted to do to her. Once was not enough, he was fast discovering, where Claire Marsden was concerned. At least, that was what his body believed. Intellectually—well, that was a whole other ball game.

Because it was impossible to remember Claire’s spectacular body without remembering her spectacular temper. The spark of remembered lust faded as he recalled her insulting insinuation—that he’d told Beck she wanted him off the magazine. Man, he’d busted his ass being diplomatic with Beck that morning, explaining how he was loathe to work on something he wasn’t truly contributing to, pointing out his work schedule was already very hectic, stressing that Claire was very good and very likely to be able to soothe savage-beast-Hillcrest all on her own.

And she reads that as him setting her up! Which was the problem with her, when he got right down to it. She was always ready and willing to read an ulterior motive into everything he did. More trouble than she was worth.

Insidious and undeniable, the memory of her simple but sincere sympathy for him snuck into his mind. She’d said exactly the right thing, and she’d even anted up with a confession of her own so he wouldn’t feel like a complete dick when the doors opened. So she wasn’t an absolute lost cause….

And then there was the sex. He kept coming back to that. Had he ever been that hot for a woman? Surely in his teens he’d had encounters that were that hot…but he couldn’t quite remember with whom or when. In fact, all past encounters paled into insignificance beside what had happened yesterday. It was even beginning to worry him a little, the way his mind would automatically drift to those few precious memories of the smell of her skin, and the sound of her excited breath in his ear, whenever he let his guard down. He’d nearly embarrassed himself several times in meetings today. One moment he was discussing deadlines and feature stores, and the next he was fighting off sense memories of tanned skin and the wet, voluptuous slide of his body in hers. And as for how his body had reacted when her shirt had popped open…It had been a close-run thing, and he’d been forced to seek refuge behind his desk to hide his desire. The last thing he needed was for little Miss Uptight to know the potential hold she had over him….

He started as Linda stuck her head into his office doorway.

“I’m going now. See you tomorrow,” she said.

He grunted a goodbye, deliberately pulling his attention back to his pile of mail.

Stop thinking about Claire, he ordered himself. He’d already laid her ghost to rest last night, when he’d decided not to call her. So why did she keep rising to the surface of his mind?

Here he was again, reverting to thinking about her as soon as all other distractions were gone! He’d already walked down this road, and it was a dead end. Time to move on. With a real force of will, he focused on his mail, sorting through more than half of it until he came to an internal mail envelope. Like most internal mail envelopes, the previous recipient had crossed their name out before reusing the envelope for another message. He stared at Claire’s crossed-out name for a second, then squeezed the bag, frowning. It felt bulky, not like paperwork. Mystified, he broke the sticky-tape seal and pulled out a small shopping bag. The cool slither of silk on his hands clued him into the bag’s contents before he’d pulled the tie out. It was striped, with some sort of lion and crown etched into it. The sort of tie his grandfather had always been fond of. He stared at it, genuinely dumbstruck for a moment.

She was a real piece of work. Not content to have the last word, she’d gone out and bought him the perfect response to his claim not to own a tie.

Well, she could whistle Dixie as far as he was concerned—there was no way he was wearing a stupid tie. Especially not this particular stupid tie.

Thank God he hadn’t called her last night. He’d regretted it earlier today, even after their fight he’d found it in himself to regret it, because there was something about her that drew him…But after this? No way. He and she were chalk and cheese. She’d drive him crazy. He tossed the tie negligently to one side.

He actually snorted his exasperation and disbelief out loud as he reached for the folder Linda had filled with his personal mail from his post office box. There were a handful of bills, but one envelope caught his attention. That was his Mom’s handwriting scrawled across the front of the pale lavender rectangle. A dead, dull weight settled on his chest as he lifted the flap on the envelope, knowing full well what was inside: a birthday card.

Just like his Mom. She never forgot birthdays, even though he’d made his feelings clear on the subject. He almost laughed out loud. He’d been mostly successful in ignoring the march of time this year. He’d figured that if he was very careful and skimmed along through November, he could skip over his and Robbie’s birthday.

But he’d still known that it was coming up, just the same—otherwise he wouldn’t have felt that instant weight upon seeing his mother’s card. Otherwise he wouldn’t have this well of grief opening up inside him so readily and easily.

Liquid heat threatened at the back of his eyes, and he pushed himself to his feet, dropping the card onto his desk, ignoring all that needed to be signed for tomorrow. He had to get out of there, right now.

THERE WAS A CALL waiting on her answering machine when Claire got home from work that evening, and she despised herself for the little thrill of anticipation she felt as she noted the flashing message light. Maybe Jack had called after all. Maybe he’d felt as angry and frustrated and disappointed as she had after their argument.

Then she gave herself a mental slap. There was no way Jack would have called after the fight they’d had in his office. Or, if he called her at all, it would only be to give her hell for having foisted a tie on him, despite his insistence that he wouldn’t wear one.

But it was her father’s voice on the answering machine. She stared at the small black appliance as he told her that he was in town unexpectedly. Would she like to catch up for dinner?

She hadn’t spoken to her father in months. She sent him e-mails on a regular basis, mostly because she was determined to do all that she could to have some kind of relationship with him. Occasionally he replied, but he rarely commented on her news. Instead he concentrated on his latest expedition or project, his letters reading more like press releases than missives from a father to his only child.

Warily pleased, she called the hotel number Harry had left. His voice sounded unfamiliar and distant when he answered the phone.

“Dad, it’s me, Claire,” she said.

“Oh, hello, Claire. I take it you got my message?”

As usual, the cool matter-of-factness of his manner stopped her from saying any of the things she instinctively wanted to say—that it had been a long time, that she’d been thinking about him. That she was hoping he could make it to her triathlon final.

They quickly arranged for her to meet him at his hotel for dinner—he was disinclined to let her take him out to any of her favorite Melbourne restaurants. In a city that was well-known for its food and wine culture, Harry preferred to chance the hotel dining room, and she felt unequal to the task of convincing him otherwise.

She settled for a scaled-down version of her training session for the evening, and it was only as she was discarding the third top she’d tried on in ten minutes that she acknowledged she was nervous.

Ridiculous, really—but he was her father, and their relationship was uneasy at best. Still, he’d made the effort to get in contact while he was in town. That was something, a change. She allowed herself to hope that maybe all her hard work in maintaining contact had perhaps gotten through to him on some level.

She was surprised at how old he looked when they met up in the foyer of his hotel. At sixty, he was very active and still organized expeditions, even if he didn’t lead them himself anymore. But his hair had thinned, and was now completely white, and his eyes seemed faded somehow. She had to fight a surge of emotion as she realized that time was running out for them to reconcile.

“Claire. Good to see you,” he said, leaning forward stiffly to kiss her cheek.

Ignoring his formality, she hugged him, pressing her cheek close to his.

“How are you?” she asked warmly.

“Good, good. A little annoyed at having to make this extraneous trip to Melbourne when we’re so close to heading off, but these things happen.”

Unsure of what he was talking about, Claire followed him into the dining room and waited till they had been seated before venturing further.

“You’re organizing another expedition, I take it?” she asked.

Obviously her father was unaware that he hadn’t communicated with her for some time.

“Yes. It’s a joint Australian-Swiss assault on Everest. We were supposed to leave next month…but I don’t want to bore you with the details. How is work? And your marathon thingy?”

She blinked with surprise. Her father never tired of talking about his work, and he never enquired after her life. She struggled to pull her thoughts together. “Work is good. Busy, but good. We’re very close to launching our first edition of the magazine. And my triathlon training is coming along well. Just two weeks to go now.”

He made the appropriate noises as he studied the wine list, while she studied his face. Was this truly the breakthrough she’d been hoping for all her life? Or, if not that, exactly, perhaps the beginning of a thaw?

“This is the magazine that you devised, the hardware thing?”

Another surprise—he’d read her e-mails, actually remembered their content.

“Yes. It’s more home renovation and decoration than hardware, really. But you’ve got the basic idea.”

He shot her an assessing look, then indicated her menu. “Better hurry up and decide—I can’t stand waiting around for my meal,” he said, already signaling for the waiter to come over.

There was a momentary hiatus in their conversation as Claire hurriedly decided on a salad as entrée and fish for her main, and the wine waiter poured some wine into her glass—a red, her father’s choice.

“So, I guess this Beck character who runs all those magazines of yours must be pretty pleased with you, then.”

“Well, he’s certainly happy to have landed a new client.”

She took a mouthful of her wine, wondering that her father even remembered what company she worked for.

“But you know him, yes? You’ve spoken with him?”

For the first time she registered that this was more than just polite interest from Harry. What was going on here?

“I’ve had several meetings with him, of course. Have you met him somewhere?”

Her father shook his head vigorously, tearing his dinner roll apart. “No, but I will tomorrow. Just trying to get a bit of a feel for the man. What do you know of him? Is he a sports man?”

Claire sat back in her chair, baffled and bemused. Why would her father care what she thought of her boss, or what he thought of her? And why on earth would her father, renowned explorer, be having a meeting with Morgan Beck, millionaire publisher?

And then she got it.

“Is he thinking of funding one of your expeditions?” she asked flatly. She watched her father’s face closely, feeling that this moment was pivotal somehow. It was possible she was wrong, that her father truly had found some smidgen of sentiment in himself as the years rolled by and was genuinely interested in his daughter’s life.

“As a matter of fact, yes. It’s a bit of a difficult situation, actually. This Beck character was interested in getting involved right from the get-go, but then we had a better offer from the Swiss side of things. Now our Swiss guy has dropped his bundle, and I’m hoping to talk Beck into renewing his offer.”

Harry was animated and enthusiastic as he explained his situation to her, describing the details of the assault, the makeup of the team, the differing experience levels, the problems he’d had and overcome.

And she sat there, watching his face light up with passion for his subject, for the only thing he’d every really loved, the bitter taste of disappointment in her mouth.

Who had she been kidding, really, when she thought that her father had suddenly become all Brady Bunch?

Harry seemed to sense her preoccupation, and he broke off his recital to consider her. “Is something wrong, Claire? Don’t you like the wine?”

She stared at him for a beat, tempted to just let things slide like she always had. But suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of pushing her own thoughts and feelings down again. Yesterday she’d admitted to Jack that she was the disappointment of her father’s life. But it didn’t have to be that way. She wasn’t a bad person—she was just different from what he’d wanted in a child. But did that mean she had to accept the crumbs from his table for the rest of her life?

“You know, I thought you’d asked me here to spend time with me, because you wanted to see me,” she said.

“Yes, of course, and that’s exactly what we’re doing,” her father said, the picture of surprise.

“No, it’s not. We’re having dinner because you want something from my boss. You’re not really interested in my magazine or my triathlon or anything else in my life.”

She tried hard to keep the tears out of her voice, but they were lurking there, giving her a husky vibrato. Her father was pulling an exasperated face, and shaking his head.

“I don’t know where you’re getting all this from, Claire. I was in town, I asked you to dinner—it was as simple as that.”

“Really? Fine, then tell me when my triathlon final is. I told you earlier, when you asked, because you were so interested in my life, so it shouldn’t be any big stretch for you to remember what I said.”

She held her father’s eye, challenging him.

“I can’t recall the exact details, but I know it’s soon…” her father began, and Claire pushed her chair back and stood up.

“I am your daughter, and I love you, but I am not going to be the only one participating in this relationship. I call you and e-mail you and offer to fly to visit you for Christmas every year, and you can’t even remember a conversation we had five minutes ago.”

Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, Claire turned to leave.

“You let me know if you’re prepared to put a bit of effort in, because I’m not going to make it easy for you anymore,” she said over her shoulder.

She walked straight out and didn’t look back.

She was proud of herself all the way home in the car. Then reaction set in. He would be so angry with her, she probably wouldn’t hear from him for months and months. She never, ever caused a fuss with him, because she knew how he hated having to deal with emotional messes. She understood, deep in her heart of hearts, that if she didn’t keep up the contact with her father, she would never hear from him. Whatever faint connection that existed between them would fade and shrivel, and she’d be utterly alone.

It was a scary thought, but she refused to take it to bed with her. She was a grown, adult woman. She had an exciting, vibrant life of her own. She was about to launch a new magazine. She had a real chance at winning the state triathlon finals. And she’d had dirty, wild elevator sex with the office playboy not twenty-four hours ago.

Never did she think that she would turn to those stolen, wanton moments with Jack as a source of comfort, but the world was a strange and amazing place. For some reason, thinking of him, going over their argument today, and the discussions they’d had in the elevator, made her feel a whole lot better. She had stuff going on in her life. She didn’t need her dad.

Inevitably her thoughts turned from what she and Jack had talked and argued about in the elevator to what they’d done, and before long she was imagining what might have happened in Jack’s office today if he’d kissed her again instead of stapling her shirt shut. What if he’d slid her shirt off, and then her bra? She would have reached for his jeans, because she’d been thinking about having him inside her ever since he’d withdrawn from her. Maybe she would have sunk to her knees and taken him in her mouth, loving the look on his face as she laved him with her tongue. And maybe he wouldn’t have been able to stand it for long, and he’d have pushed her onto that stupid, squishy couch in the corner and reached down between her legs to push her panties aside—too impatient to remove them entirely—then he’d be inside her again and—

Claire was panting into her pillow. Very resolute, she got out of bed and rummaged through her drawers until she found a pair of pajamas. She always slept naked, but these were desperate times. Pulling on underwear, and then the pajamas, she slid back into bed.

No more fantasies about Jack Brook, she warned herself.

Armored in cotton and determination, she finally drifted off to sleep.

THE NEXT MORNING she was feeling distinctly jittery about having cut off communication with her father and about seeing Jack again. First, there was that irritating thing her heart did whenever Jack was in the room—it was almost as though it missed a beat now and then, lurching around inside her chest like a drunken sailor. Then there was the powerful physical awareness she seemed to have developed for him ever since they’d gotten down and dirty. You’d think that jumping on each other would have put an end to any sexual tension, but, if anything, it was worse. Now when she looked at his strong thighs and long fingers and broad shoulders she knew exactly how devastating they could be. And, to her shame, she wanted to be devastated. Badly. Hence the fact that he suddenly had top billing in all her sexual fantasies. Slowly but surely, he was driving her crazy.

Combine that with the fact that she was almost one hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t be happy about her gift tie, and she had plenty of justification for the butterflies winging their way around her midsection.

Then there was her father. Why had she laid down the gauntlet like that? Why couldn’t she have just eaten her dinner like a good girl and maintained the status quo? Really, it was getting to the point where she shouldn’t be allowed out without a keeper.

She spent the time before her first meeting with Jack and Hillcrest Hardware looking up whenever anyone walked near her office, and jumping every time her phone rang. She felt like a sitting duck, waiting to be ambushed by Jack from one side, or her father on the other.

By a quarter to ten, she had talked herself around to a reasonable state of calm. If her father was going to make contact with her, it wouldn’t be for some time. He’d want to leave a nice long buffer between her angry words and any future conversation to ensure she was calm and over whatever madness had had her in its grip. As for Jack—Well, she had no choice but to be ready to face him, tie or no tie.

Except he didn’t come. As the time drew closer to 10:00 and her appointment with Hillcrest, she had to use stronger and stronger arguments for not reaching for the phone to confirm Jack’s presence. She had to trust him; he was a successful, experienced executive; he wouldn’t bail on her. On the last count she couldn’t be so confident, however. They’d fought almost every time they’d been alone together for more than five minutes. There was a chance he’d see this as an extension of their battle of wills.

At 10:00 on the dot her assistant Tom told her that the Hill-crest executives were in the foyer. Caving at last, she reached for the phone and called Jack’s office. The moment Linda picked up the call she knew Jack had hung her out to dry.

“Jack, is that you?” Linda demanded anxiously.

Claire took a moment to remind herself not to shoot the messenger. “No, Linda, this is Claire Marsden. I have a ten o’clock with Jack and Hillcrest Hardware, but I’m guessing that I’m going to be handling this alone…?”

There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone, then, “I’m sorry, Claire, but your appointment isn’t in Jack’s diary. I guess you made it with him directly. Otherwise I would have called you earlier to let you know…he seems to be running a little late today….”

The usually competent and professional Linda sounded extremely rattled, but Claire didn’t have time to deal with the other woman’s concern for her no-good, lazy, sneaky boss. The big rat was probably relaxing somewhere, lazing around enjoying his self-appointed long weekend.

Ending the call as nicely as possible, she headed in to take on Hillcrest and his honchos.

It wasn’t a pleasant meeting, mostly because Hank Hillcrest managed to convey his deep skepticism about the appointment of Jack Brook to the magazine. The old man’s repeated references to the “so-called Jack Brook,” as though she and Morgan had made him up, became almost more than she could bear during the one-hour torture session. Somehow she managed to placate her client, spinning a yarn about Jack flying back in from a big-game safari in Africa and his flight being delayed. By the time she’d finished, Hank Hillcrest was so intrigued she began to suspect she’d have to cough up a genuine lion’s head trophy just to shut the man up.

At last she shook hands with the now-cheerful Hillcrest executives and saw them out into the foyer amid assurances that she would bring Jack out to meet them at their head office next week.

No sooner had the elevator doors closed on them than she let her smile drop. She couldn’t remember ever being so furious with anyone. She was so angry, in fact, that she was a little scared of herself, and she deliberately took the stairs to Jack’s floor in order to give herself some time to calm down. Her shirt was already clinging to her thanks to the tense meeting, and she slung her jacket over her arm as she exited the stairwell and made her way purposefully to Linda’s desk.

Linda was looking harried, and she glanced up at Claire distractedly. Almost as though she was talking to herself, Linda explained that she’d managed to reschedule all but one of Jack’s meetings, but she still hadn’t heard from him.

“Probably too scared to turn up now,” Claire suggested coolly.

Linda gave her an impatient look.

“You don’t understand. Jack has never ever done anything like this before. I know he looks casual and laid-back, but he’s always punctual, he always meets his deadlines and he always lets me know what’s going on. I’ve worked for him for two years now, and this has never happened, ever. I’m worried.”

Which made two of them, because as Linda spoke an awful image of Jack’s stupid red sports car wrapped around a tree popped into Claire’s brain.

“I take it he’s not answering his home line or his cell phone?” she ventured reluctantly.

“His home line just rings out, and his cell phone goes straight through to his voice mail.”

She saw the worry in Linda’s eyes and patted the other woman’s arm reassuringly.

“Have you checked his office? Maybe he left a note or something in there and forgot to put it on your desk.”

“I had a quick scout around, but nothing struck me,” Linda said doubtfully.

As one they turned toward Jack’s closed office door, and, at Linda’s nod, Claire stepped forward and pushed it open. Jack’s desk was a mess, which didn’t seem too unusual, but she couldn’t fail to see the tie she’d sent him strewn on the floor like an old sock.

She automatically bent to pick it up, smoothing the silk through her fingers as she continued surveying Jack’s desk. Linda frowned at the tie, curious.

“What’s a tie doing in Jack’s office? He never wears a tie. I wonder if…?” Linda’s startled eyes connected with Claire’s, and Claire could see the other woman was busy constructing an Agatha Christie plot.

“It’s okay. I bought it for him,” she explained.

Linda’s eyes went round with surprise, then her hand snuck up to cover her mouth. She was laughing, Claire realized.

“I’m sorry. I was imagining his face. It’s just…Jack never wears a tie. I don’t think he even owns one.”

“I know. That’s why I bought him one. For the Hillcrest meeting.”

Linda shot her a speculative look, and Claire guessed what the other woman was thinking. “Oh, no—it’s nothing like that. I was just trying to annoy him,” she hastily explained.

Linda looked unconvinced. “Right.”

“No, really. I wanted him to wear a tie to the Hillcrest meeting, he said he didn’t have one…It was just a joke, really.”

Linda nodded, but Claire got the distinct impression that the other woman didn’t believe her. Unwilling to dig a bigger hole for herself, she began surveying the desk again. Linda joined in straight away, but Claire was aware of her lingering scrutiny and she kept her face carefully blank.

“I don’t see anything, do you?” Linda said after a futile few minutes.

Claire was shaking her head, about to agree with Linda, when she spotted the discarded birthday card.

Frowning, she plucked it from amongst the mess and flipped it open.

Dearest Jack, thinking of you on this special day. Please be kind to yourself—our love is with you. Don’t feel as though you have to go it alone. Lots of love, Mom and Dad.

She turned to Linda, urgent now. “Did this come yesterday?”

Linda shrugged. “How could I know? He may have had it for weeks. Except—Hang on a minute.”

Linda scuffled through the papers until she found the torn lavender envelope. Matching it to the card, she nodded once. “Yes. This definitely came yesterday, because I remember the purple envelope. It was in the mail I collected from Jack’s personal mailbox. Claire, what’s going on? What’s this about?”

Claire closed her eyes briefly. This had to be it. Jack’s birthday was Robbie’s birthday. She opened her eyes, even more worried now than she was before.

Because what on earth happened to a man when all the grief he’d stuffed down deep inside threatened to escape?

She grabbed Linda’s arm, imperative. “I need Jack’s home address, pronto.”

HE LIVED IN A HOUSE. Another surprise. A big old rambling house with a yard and trees and a white picket fence. Parking her car in front, she felt a moment of shame for all the clichés she’d ascribed to Jack. She’d always imagined him in a penthouse apartment, with lots of gleaming chrome and black leather furniture and mood lighting.

Girding her loins, she made her way up the path to the front door and leaned on the doorbell. Nothing. She waited, then tried again. Still nothing. She tried knocking next, and when this was still ineffective, she stepped back and surveyed the house. It was possible he wasn’t here at all, of course. Lord, he could be anywhere. But his car gleamed redly at the end of the drive, and she had a gut instinct about this—Jack was very private, and she doubted he’d take his grief to a public place.

She tried the front door, but it was solidly locked, so she headed boldly up the drive, emerging into a beautifully landscaped backyard. Fruit trees and roses, climbing jasmine on the fence and a rustic outdoor setting created a little oasis of calm and tranquility. She smiled at the laughing Buddha statue half-hidden in amongst some irises, then frowned as she saw the back door open and swinging in the breeze.

Well, at least she wasn’t breaking and entering….

Feeling a little more tentative now, she stuck her head in the darkened doorway and glanced up and down the hallway. In front of her, old floorboards gleamed all the way down the central hallway to the front door.

“Jack? Jack, are you here?” she called out.

Nothing. Sighing, she stepped properly into the house. The kitchen was on her right. It was old but serviceable, and Jack was obviously in the process of renovating it, with half the tiles removed and the wallpaper stripped down to bare plaster.

Two empty tequila bottles lay on their sides on the kitchen table. Oh, goody. Nothing like a tequila hangover.

She found him in the living room, slumped on the couch, his posture defeated and closed. At first she thought he was asleep, but he lifted his head when she put her hand on his shoulder, giving her a minor heart attack.

“Jack!” she said, startled, and he blinked up at her owlishly.

“What are you doing here?” he slurred, and she pulled back from the truly impressive haze of alcohol he was exuding.

Amazingly, he still managed to look dangerously attractive, despite his bleary-eyed, bestubbled, incoherent state.

“I was worried about you,” she said, not bothering to edit herself. She’d be stunned if he remembered any of this.

“Were you? That’s nice.”

His head sank back down, and she allowed herself a small moment to simply rest her hand on his head, feeling for him. He held too much to himself, blocked himself off too much….

“Jack, I think we should make you some coffee. And some food. You feel like some food?” she suggested, forcing herself to take her hand off his silky, springy hair.

“Don’t want anything,” he said, childishly.

“I’m sure you don’t. But I promise you’ll feel better if you eat some food.”

“Don’t want to feel better.”

I bet you don’t. She stared down at his still-bowed head, then made a decision. “Why don’t we get you in the shower?”

He didn’t respond to this, and she crouched down to peer up into his face. “Jack? Jack?”

Slowly he opened his eyes again.

“Don’t want shower.”

She nodded as though she was agreeing with him. “Sure. But you trust me, don’t you? And I think you should have a shower,” she said.

He just stared at her, and she leaned forward and slid her arm around his shoulders, bracing herself and ensuring a strong grip on his well-muscled side.

“Come on, now. Let’s stand.”

It took a few more minutes of coaxing and some serious counterweight balancing to get him to his feet. She cursed herself immediately for not having done a bit of recon and worked out where the shower was before she got him standing, but he was swaying on his feet so much that there was no way she could trust him to stay upright if she went for a quick scout.

So they staggered up the hallway, and she found the bathroom behind the second door she tried. She tried to make him understand she wanted him to sit on the edge of the tub while she took off his boots, but he just stared at her blankly.

“Jack, how much have you had to drink?” she asked suddenly, beginning to wonder if he’d had the whole two bottles of tequila. How much did it take before a person got alcohol poisoning? She didn’t have a head for drink herself, and the thought of so much strong spirit made her wince.

He shrugged, clearly disinterested, and she was forced to get down on her knees and lift his feet up one at a time to drag off his expensive-looking boots. The rest of him could go in the shower as is, but the boots just looked too good to ruin, and she knew he wouldn’t thank her if she destroyed them. Hell, he was unlikely to thank her anyway, but she was here now….

She’d just tugged his last boot off when Jack swayed alarmingly and staggered backward. There wasn’t far for him to go in the small space; his legs kicked forward, catching the heel of the boot she held and flicking it toward her face, and he slammed against the tiled wall and slid down until his butt was in the tub and his legs were dangling over the edge.

White light exploded behind her eyes as the boot connected with her right cheekbone, and she reeled backward from her crouching position, connecting with the wall behind her.

Claire just breathed through the pain for a moment, then pressed a hand to her face, probing her cheekbone tentatively. Nothing felt broken or wrong, and she guessed she’d be looking at a bruise and nothing more. Still, it hurt like hell, and she took a couple more deep breaths.

“Claire? You okay?”

She looked up quickly to find Jack staring at her, his eyes more lucid now; perhaps the impact had knocked a bit of sense into him, sent some adrenaline into his system to counteract all that alcohol.

“I’m fine.”

She pushed off the wall behind her and stood up.

“Come on, let’s get you into the shower,” she said.

She had to brace herself to help drag him up out of the tub, but he seemed much more aware of things as he sank down onto the edge of the bath and cradled his head in his hands.

“Did you knock your head?” she asked him, worried about concussion now. She leaned over him, reaching behind his head to probe the back of his skull for any bumps or blood.

Suddenly Jack’s hand shot out and grabbed hers, and she found herself being pulled down so that she was kneeling in front of him.

“Let me see,” he was murmuring. “I hurt you.”

He was determined and way too heavy for her to move around without his cooperation, so she let him have his way when he tilted her face up to examine the throbbing mark left by his boot. She tried not to look into his intent but bleary eyes, focusing instead on the tiled wall behind him.

“I hurt you,” he repeated, one large hand cradling her chin as the other brushed delicately at her cheek.

She had to swallow against the rush of feeling and memory his tender touch evoked, and she took herself to task firmly—the man was five parts drunk, incoherent and morose, and she was more hard up than she’d ever imagined if this was all it took to move her these days.

“It’s okay, Jack. It’s just a bruise. You didn’t mean it. It was an accident,” she reassured him, trying to turn her face away from his probing scrutiny.

“I still hurt you. I’m sorry, Claire, I’m so sorry,” Jack said, his voice very low and gruff now.

She froze as both Jack’s hands cupped her face and held it steady as he stared intently into her eyes, his own face just a foot away.

“I’m really, really sorry,” he said, and she watched as tears welled up in his amazing eyes and spilled over his stubbly cheeks.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he repeated, the tears still falling.

“Jack, it’s okay,” she said, tears welling in her own eyes at his misery.

His hands slipped from her face and dropped lifelessly into his lap. His shoulders shuddered, and then he seemed to crumple in on himself and she caught him in her arms as he leaned forward. A cry of anguish that seemed to seep out of his very bones echoed through him, and then he was gripping her back with a terrifying strength as he cried and cried and cried.

His weight pulled him forward off the edge of the tub and onto his knees on the floor, and she knelt with him, her heart aching for him as he wept in her arms.

She soothed a hand down his back and up again, making encouraging noises and wincing a little because he was holding her so tightly.

They stayed like that a while, until well past what her knees were happy with, but she waited until his sobbing had tapered off before soothing a hand down his back one last time and pushing him back from her.

“How about that shower now, Jack?” she suggested.

His eyes were swollen, and he needed to blow his nose, and she had to look away from the raw vulnerability in his face. This is why men don’t let women see them cry, she realized. Suddenly Jack seemed infinitely fragile.

She got him to his feet and into the shower, and was about to turn on the taps when he caught her hand again.

“Hang on.”

With one shoulder wedged against the wall, Jack reached for the waistband on his jeans and she found herself following the movements of his hands with an unnatural fascination as he slipped the stud from its buttonhole and unzipped his fly. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans next, and with a smooth motion he shucked them down. She gulped as she realized he’d taken his underwear with the jeans, hastily averting her eyes.