Читать книгу After-Hours Negotiation: Can't Get Enough / An Offer She Can't Refuse - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 13

JACK CONCENTRATED FIERCELY 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?

A little desperate, he cast a glance around his brushed steel cell and then suddenly got it. Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever it was called. That thing where the people were held hostage and started to identify with, and like, and sympathize with their captors. That’s exactly what was happening here—Stockholm Syndrome! She was his captor, and he was starting to sympathize with her. Once he was restored to his normal environment, nature would reassert itself.

Relief washed over him. Good old science—always there with an explanation for everything.

Following her example, he decided to try for some shut-eye. If they were going to be in here for another five or so hours, sleeping some of it off was a really good idea. Of course, he wasn’t feeling very snoozy, but if she could sleep, so could he.

He lay down, quickly becoming aware that the carpet was the prickly, unforgiving type that was designed to survive a nuclear holocaust. He sat up and spread out his shirt like a towel at the beach. Once on his back, he stared at the ceiling, his hand automatically sliding down and across his belly and beneath the waistband of his pants to find the long scar that cut low across his stomach and around his side. He couldn’t feel the familiar ridge under his fingers without thinking of Robbie, and he made a point of thinking of Robbie every day. It was the least he could do because it was all he had left.

People always talked about feeling as though they’d lost a part of themselves when a loved one dies, but Jack knew with rock-solid certainty that he’d lost the best part of himself when his twin brother succumbed to kidney disease.

Even though it had been three years now, he couldn’t think about it without tasting the bitterness and anger again. It should have been him. Robbie had always been smarter, stronger, funnier. Robbie had been the one who’d chosen medicine, while Jack had been just bumming around, trying to find something that held his interest. If fate had to take someone, it should have been him.

“It’s so hot in here.”

It was almost a relief to be distracted from his own thoughts.

“Not much we can do about it,” he replied, knowing it would annoy her. After all, it was what he was good at.

“Imagine if Robinson Crusoe had that attitude. We need to be innovative, think outside the box. Or the elevator, I guess.”

His eyes still on the ceiling, he shook his head minutely in exasperation.

“This isn’t Gilligan’s Island, Mary Ann. We can’t just bake a batch of coconut cream pies and wait for the Professor to find a way to get us back home.”

“Ginger, if you don’t mind.”

“What?”

“Ginger. I always wanted to be Ginger, not Mary Ann.”

That surprised him so much that he turned to look at her and found she was on her back also, and was looking at him. Without his permission, his eyes flickered down to her chest. Her full breasts strained at the fabric of her bra now that she was on her back, and he felt a definite tightening in his groin. What was it with him and those breasts? He’d seen great breasts before. And he’d see them again. Plenty of them, in matched sets. These weren’t the only breasts in the world. So why was he suddenly so hot to see them and touch them and taste them?

“Ginger was a redhead,” he said, forcing himself to concentrate on the subject at hand.

“So? On the inside, maybe I’m a redhead.” Her eyes dared him to contradict her.

“Hey, it’s your split personality, not mine.”

“Exactly.”

Their old friend silence crept back into the elevator. Jack bent his legs and rested one ankle on the opposite knee, for something to do. And to try and distract himself from thinking about her breasts.

He bet they were firm. Firm, and sensitive. He bet if he took her nipple into his mouth, she’d cry out. He had a flash of Claire’s eyes clouded with desire, her lids slightly lowered, her mouth open and wet.

“Who would you have been?” she asked suddenly.

“What?” he asked, almost starting with guilt.

“On the island. Who would you have been?” she repeated.

“Mr. Howell.”

“You’re kidding? Ugh!”

She sounded genuinely disgusted. He had a natural skill in this area, it seemed.

“Come on, think about it. He was rich, he managed to work it so everyone else did everything for him and he still had his main squeeze with him on the island.”

She laughed. Another surprise—she had a sense of humor.

“You’re the most practical playboy I’ve ever met,” she said.

She was smiling again, her face just an arm’s length or so away. It was almost like being in a very large bed, him on one side, her on the other. His body had things to say about the idea of being in bed with this new-improved, friendly, black-bra-wearing Claire Marsden, and he ruthlessly changed the subject. And kept his eyes fixed firmly on her face.

“Okay, Desert Island Top Five,” he announced.

“I don’t think we need to pretend we’re trapped on a desert island, do you?”

She had a point.

“Trapped in an Elevator Top Five, then. All-time favorite movies,” he said.

She shot him a look, seemed about to say something, hesitated and then spat it out anyway.

“I thought you were angry with me.”

He shrugged. “You want to spend another five hours arguing or sitting here glaring at each other?”

“Good point. Okay. Top five movies. The first one is easy—The Big Sleep, definitely.”

He couldn’t help himself. “Surprise, surprise.”

“Excuse me?”

“Everyone picks a black-and-white movie, preferably something with Bogie in it. Gives you street cred.”

“But it’s my favorite movie!” She sounded outraged.

He made sure there was a heavy dose of doubt in his tone. “Of course it is.”

“Wait till it’s your turn,” she warned him. “Second movie would be When Harry Met Sally. I can watch it over and over and it’s still clever and funny.”

“So predictable, not even worth commenting on.”

She threw him an exasperated look.

“You know what’s predictable? You not agreeing with a word I say. I swear if I said the sky was blue, you’d disagree with me just for the sake of it.”

“Depends.”

She snorted with exasperation this time, and he found he was enjoying needling her like this.

“On what, pray tell?”

“If it was nighttime or daytime.”

She half laughed at his lame joke, and he tried not to notice how pretty she looked and the way her breasts jiggled invitingly. Those damn breasts!

“Okay, third movie. Getting tougher now. Have to have a comedy in there, otherwise it’s just way too boring.”

She stretched one leg in the air, waggling it around aimlessly as she considered her options. Jack’s eyes followed the hem of her skirt as it slid down to reveal more of her thighs. As if her breasts weren’t doing him enough damage. But it was impossible to keep his eyes from the sleek, tanned firmness of her legs. She really had great legs. They looked strong, and flexible. Like they could grip a man hard around the hips as he—

“There’s Something About Mary!” she said suddenly, and he threw a mental bucket of cold water on himself.

She was watching for his reaction, so he simply looked thoughtful, although he was really quietly impressed. And not a little surprised. The lady didn’t mind a good dose of potty humor. Not what he would have picked from her at all. Great breasts, great thighs and fond of puerile comedy. If they hadn’t been stuck in this elevator together, she would have taken those secrets to her grave.

“Hmm.”

She shook her head and continued. “Fourth movie… Something I can watch again and again, but is still fun… Con Air.”

He nearly sat up he was so shocked. “No way!”

“What?”

“You do not like Con Air.”

“I think I do.”

“No way.”

“Jack, I think I know if I like a movie or not. And I want Con Air as my number four.”

“But—”

She was lying on her side now, leaning on her elbow. Her hand on her face made her cheek squish up, making her look almost cherubic and more than a little naughty as her eyes sparkled across at him.

“What’s your problem?” she demanded.

“I was going to have Con Air,” he admitted.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Something in common. Scary,” she said.

“You’re telling me.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll never happen again. And you can have Con Air on your list, too.”

“But then we’ll have two copies of the same movie.”

She almost laughed at his little gag, the twisting of her lips giving it away.

“Fifth and last movie…The Wizard of Oz.”

“The singing munchkins? The wicked witch of the west? You’re not watching that in my elevator, I can tell you.”

She was getting better at not reacting to his jibes.

“Your turn.”

She sat up, rubbing her hands together with exaggerated anticipation, obviously looking forward to shooting him down in flames. He found himself admiring the dancing light in her eyes, and the way she leaned forward slightly, ready to take him on. The fact that her new position also gave him a great look at her cleavage was irrelevant. Completely irrelevant.

“Number one—His Girl Friday, with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell.”

He enjoyed watching her indignation grow.

“But you picked on me for having a black-and-white movie!”

“That’s just me, I guess. I’m a contrary bastard.”

Her eyes narrowed and she made an encouraging motion with her hand. “Keep ’em coming,” she prodded him.

“Number two—Rocky. But only the first one. I hate sequels.”

She rolled her eyes. “Typical. Macho movie about men being manly.”

“You finished?”

She smiled brightly. “Not really. But it’ll keep.”

Boy, she was pretty cute when she smiled. He caught the thought and gave himself a mental slap. This Stockholm Syndrome thing was getting out of control. It was one thing to admire breasts and thighs, but thinking that someone was cute when she smiled was moving into dangerous territory.

“Three—Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

“Sad, but predictable. Let me guess—you have a secret craving to travel the world, wear hats and be heroic?”

He made a point of looking very patient and forbearing. “Four—Blade Runner. Best sci-fi movie ever made.”

His look dared her to disagree, but she just shrugged.

“I didn’t mind it,” she admitted.

“You didn’t mind it? I s’pose you think the Colorado River is a nice little stream?”

“Number five, cough it up,” she said, wisely ignoring his baiting.

He took his time, making a big show of being very thoughtful. She didn’t buy any of it, but sat with a look that very plainly said, “I know you’re about to be very annoying, and I’m ready for it.”

“It’s tough, very tough. A couple of good contenders. But I’m going to have to go with Porkies.”

She managed to maintain a very creditable poker face. “That surprises me. You don’t think you’re overlooking some of the excellent work in Revenge of the Nerds? And let’s not forget that seminal classic, Bikini Shop.”

He played along. “I did consider Bikini Shop briefly, but I decided it was too derivative. Plus there are more boob jokes in Porkies.”

“Of course. I stand corrected.”

The subterranean grumble of his unfed stomach hijacked the rest of the conversation. In the small confines of the lift, it seemed inordinately loud and he found himself staring at his own belly.

“Sorry. I guess I’m hungry.”

He hauled himself upright, aware that the waistband on his cargo pants had dropped a little with the movement. He patted his complaining stomach, then watched her eyes follow the motion. A small frown appeared between her eyebrows, just for a second, and when he glanced down he realized his scar was showing. Sighing, he braced himself for the inevitable “Wow, how’d you get that?”

It never came. Instead, she turned to her handbag and started rummaging through it. He watched, perplexed, as her frustration grew until she finally just emptied the whole bag out onto the elevator floor. An enormous array of crap spilled out over the carpeted space between them, successfully distracting him from the increasingly hypnotic power her breasts seemed to hold over him. He surveyed the array of purse-rubble disbelievingly. This jumble of junk belonged to Claire “Crisply Ironed” Marsden?

“Wow. You got a spare Learjet or helicopter in there we could use?” he asked as she began pawing through the debris.

“Trust me, it’s all very valuable and necessary,” she said, intent on her search.

He leaned forward to pick up a child-size water pistol.

“Very handy with some clients, I’m sure.” For an insane moment, he wondered what she would do if he squirted her in the breasts with the gun, and then offered to lick the water off. Before he could so much as tighten his finger on the trigger, she reached up and took the water pistol out of his hand.

“It’s my godchild’s. Here they are!”

Triumphant, she held aloft a packet of mints as though she’d just found the Holy Grail itself. Very pleased with herself, she offered the pack to him.

“Help yourself,” she encouraged him.

She was very proud of her mints, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her they wouldn’t put a dint in his appetite. So he peeled off a mint, more than a little bemused by this new side to Claire. This godmother-to-someone’s-child, lover-of-action-movies, owner-of-a-junk-filled-handbag Claire. It didn’t gel with his previous ideas of her at all. If he’d thought about her at all—and he hadn’t, thanks to the boxy suits and the efficient way she had of cutting him dead each time she saw him—he’d have imagined her in one of those minimalist white apartments with everything arranged in tidy, geometric patterns. He’d have bet she made her bed with hospital corners, watched worthy historical dramas on public access TV and listened to opera in the original Italian.

Now he knew that at least some of those assumptions were wrong. For starters, those ugly suits of hers had been hiding an Aladdin’s cave of earthy delights—exhibit A being those spectacular breasts, followed closely by the firm silkiness of her thighs. Plus she had a sense of humor. And she was messy, despite appearances, if her handbag was anything to go by.

Floundering and uncomfortable with this new, far more sexy, human take on Claire Marsden, he tried gamely to cling to his old misconceptions.

“Do you like opera?” he asked, wanting to be able to retreat to familiar, predictable territory. He made a bet with himself that she even knew Italian and had a season’s pass.

She poked out her tongue playfully, something he’d never seen her do before. Who was this woman? And what had she done with the real Claire Marsden?

“Hate it. And I know you’re going to call me a philistine now and tell me how beautiful and moving it is, but I’m just not into it, okay? So sue me,” she said.

She was sucking on a mint, the action puckering her lips a little, and he had to drag his fascinated gaze away from her mouth to respond.

“Bunch of incomprehensible screaming, if you ask me,” he said vaguely, beginning to worry again about Stockholm Syndrome.

What if there was no cure? What if he got out of here and this feeling he was beginning to get—this sort of defrosting feeling coupled with a definite physical interest—what if it didn’t go away? He didn’t want to get to know Claire. He certainly didn’t want to like her, after all the crap she’d piled on him today. But the niggling thought that perhaps he’d misjudged her kept shouting for attention at the back of his mind. That, and the fact that he had an erection that was becoming increasingly difficult to hide.

* * *

HE WAS QUITE entertaining, really. But then, if you were going to be a successful playboy, she guessed you’d have to have a fair line in being charming and entertaining. Stock in trade, really.

The movie talk had been fun. And she’d been surprised by how many movies they’d both liked. Of course, she’d expected him to be prejudiced against The Wizard of Oz. Only the truly good and insightful understood how great a movie it was.

She finished stuffing all her bits back into her handbag, and settled once again into her lolling position on the floor. It was getting really warm now. All their talking hadn’t helped things any, sucking up all the available air. For a moment, she wondered about how airtight the lift was and imagined running out of oxygen. The walls seemed to frown in over her and all of a sudden she was finding it difficult to breathe again.

“Claire?”

When she didn’t answer, he nudged her foot with his, forcing her to look up. He tapped his nose, and she nodded as she remembered to follow his technique.

After a minute or so of nostril breathing, she felt the tension in her chest easing.

“Thanks.”

“The nose knows.”

She flapped a hand in front of her face, desperate for a bit of fresh air.

“It’s just so stuffy in here. Now I know how microwave popcorn feels.”

He shot her a look that plainly told her to quit whining.

“I know, talking about it doesn’t make it any better. But surely we could pry the doors open a bit, get some fresh air in?” she suggested hopefully.

But he just shook his head.

“Sadly, I left my pry bar at home this morning. Unless you have one in your bag?”

She huffed at him impatiently, already reassessing the good will he’d generated during their movie banter. Amusing he might be, but scratch the surface and he had a solid core of annoying just waiting to be expressed.

Pushing the wet curls back from her forehead, she rolled her head back on her jacket-pillow and stared at the ceiling. This waiting was bringing new meaning to the word bored. She remembered seeing some pages from the local paper stuffed in amongst the rubble in her handbag, and she reached for them in desperation. Never had reports on the local school fair or lost dogs seemed so enticing. She unfolded the pages and realized with disappointment that they were from the classifieds section of the paper. She remembered now that she’d grabbed them because she needed to arrange for a plumber to look at her dishwasher.

Still, desperate times bred desperate measures, and she found herself perusing every single ad. Plumbers, gardeners, electricians. She found three spelling mistakes and about a million grammatical errors. But who was counting, right? She was about to flip the page when she saw a small photo ad for a car dealership. The flash of red paintwork caught her eye and she squinted, trying to work out what make of car it was in the tiny photo. A Mustang! And a convertible, if she wasn’t mistaken. Excellent. She settled back to enjoy a good ten minutes’ worth of fantasizing about owning a red Mustang convertible. By the time she’d killed a quarter of an hour imagining herself cruising around with the roof off, her practical side was beginning to assert itself. The roof probably leaked, parts would be expensive, and there was nothing at all wrong with her late-model sedan. Besides, she wasn’t a red convertible kind of girl. Sighing, she rolled the pages back up and put them to one side.

“Could I…?” Jack asked, eyeing the paper greedily.

“It’s pretty dull stuff—but you’re welcome to it.” She flipped the paper over to his side of the elevator and tried to think of something else to occupy herself. She’d seen an interview with a guy who’d been held captive by South American freedom fighters once. He’d been locked up on his own for months and months, and he claimed he held on to his sanity and his purpose by having imaginary conversations with his family, acting out both sides in his cell.

She slid a sideways look at the man lying beside her. She’d never hear the last of it if she had an imaginary conversation with her father. The idea was so absurd, she almost laughed out loud. Not the least because she couldn’t begin to imagine what a real conversation with her father might be like. The familiar feeling of anger twined with rejection stole into her belly, and she steeled herself against it. Harry was not a good investment for hopes, emotions and dreams.

The sound of Jack’s stomach growling saved her from further naval gazing.

“Have another mint,” she said, tossing the roll of candy across to him.

She returned to her mindless study of the elevator’s ceiling, her eyes sliding across the familiar configuration of emergency light, utility access and the ubiquitous expanse of brushed steel.

She allowed her heavy eyelids to close, then sat up straight, inspiration energizing her.

“The utility access!” she crowed excitedly, scrambling to her feet.

Jack was staring up at her from his prone position, a shiny scrap of foil from the mint roll curled on his chest.

“Huh?”

“The utility access, in the ceiling. We can open it, let some of this hot air out. Surely there must be cooler air out there in the elevator shaft?” she said.

He liked the idea, she could tell by the way his eyes darkened to a deeper blue.

“Smart thinking, 99,” he said in a really appalling Maxwell Smart voice.

“As an impressionist, you make a great elevator mechanic,” she told him playfully, then caught herself up short.

Was she flirting with Jack Brook? She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes as he eased himself to his feet and brushed himself off.

She had to admit, she’d come a long way from her initial impression of him. He wasn’t as big a swine as she’d always imagined. In fact, he was quite kind, she decided, remembering his deft handling of her claustrophobia. Admitting that Jack Brook was not the devil incarnate she’d always classified him as was like opening herself up to the suggestion that the world might not be flat: too much was predicated on all her previous assumptions and judgments. Their whole past relationship was founded on the basis that she didn’t like him, he didn’t like her and never the twain should meet.

“Hinges at one end, catch at the other. I don’t think we’ll even need that crowbar of yours,” Jack was saying, and she snapped her focus back to the current issue and away from the scary thought that more than just her claustrophobia was getting a workout in here.

The ceiling was quite high, she suddenly realized.

“Can you reach it?” she wondered out loud, and he gave her a pitying look.

“I think we’ll be fine,” he said confidently.

But when he reached casually for the catch they both quickly saw that even standing on the very tips of his toes, he could only just get his fingertips on the mechanism. He didn’t so much as glance at her once he realized he’d spoken too soon, so she leaned against the side of the lift and watched as he jumped up and down futilely a few times, his hands flailing uselessly against the catch each time he made contact with the roof. He finally gave up and turned to her, a warning expression writ large on his face.

“Don’t say a word.”

“Did I even open my mouth?” she defended herself.

“You don’t need to. Come on, I’ll give you a boost.”

She hung back a moment, not really sure how to go about this.

“Come on,” he said impatiently.

She stepped forward slowly, deeply reluctant to be in physical contact with him. It just didn’t seem…right.

“What should I—” she began, but Jack was already bending forward to grab her around the waist and lift her toward the ceiling. At about the same time her feet left the ground she became aware of his face pressed into her cleavage, and she stared down at his dark head, appalled.