Can't Get Enough. Sarah MayberryЧитать онлайн книгу.
“How you doin’?” he asked, lounging against the wall casually, taking up too much space.
Don’t respond, don’t respond, don’t respond, she chanted internally.
“Sleep in this morning?” she asked, eyes flicking over his crumpled shirt.
“Not sleep in, no. But I guess I was a little slow rising to the occasion,” Jack said provocatively.
She decided she simply would not blush in response to his suggestive comment. That was what he wanted, after all. And there was no way she would satisfy his juvenile baiting. Except, thanks to Katherine’s innuendo earlier, a slow wash of heat already was rising up her chest and into her face. She scratched the ear nearest him, trying to cover her embarrassment.
“Warm today,” Jack said, knowingness oozing from every pore.
She ignored him, a strategy she should have stuck with from the start. How on earth could Katherine ever imagine that Claire could be attracted to a man like Jack Brook?
The elevator halted on the thirtieth floor, and she suddenly realized Jack was getting out with her. She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He must be talking to one of the financial presidents or something. Trying to buddy-buddy himself an even fatter paycheck, no doubt.
She turned toward Morgan Beck’s office suite. Again, Jack followed. She shot him a look. What was going on? There was only one man at the end of this plush-carpeted hallway, and he had an appointment with her.
Jack raised his eyebrows at her, one of those innocent, questioning looks that was supposed to be cute. It made her want to growl deep in her chest.
Pasting a smile on her face, she lengthened her stride and made it to Morgan’s assistant’s desk ahead of Jack.
“Ms. Bell, I’ve got a two-o’clock with Mr. Beck,” she said, being sure to inject just the right amount of friendliness and respect into her tone. Like a lot of high-powered assistants, Jenny Bell had a bit of a chip on her shoulder about being condescended to by some of the company’s executives.
“Of course, Claire. Morgan is just on a phone call. Why don’t you take a seat?”
Jenny smiled approvingly at her, and Claire turned toward the waiting area, confident she’d aced that particular obstacle course. Offices were like triathlons in many ways, she mused as she sat, automatically pulling her neat black skirt down over her knees. If you trained hard, respected the referees and gave thanks to the support crews, you had a real chance of not only finishing, but placing well.
Picking up one of the many Beck and Wise publications displayed artfully on the coffee table nearby, she waited for Jack to explain his presence.
“Jenny, you are looking finer than ever. When are you going to give in and finally come waterskiing with me up at the cabin? You know you want to,” Jack teased, his whole attitude one of casual confidence as he leaned against Jenny’s forbidding reception desk.
Oh, boy. Jenny was renowned for being a real stickler for protocol and proper office conduct, and Claire almost winced as she imagined the arctic blast Jack was about to receive. Almost, but not quite. Instead, she leaned forward, just in case she missed a single delicious nuance. It was about time Mr. Cocky got the message that the world was not his personal love pit….
“You’d better be careful, Jack. I might just take you up on that offer one day—we’ll see how fast you run then.”
Claire blinked. Good grief, Jenny Bell was flirting with Jack Brook. Actually batting her eyelids and flicking her thick plait of gray hair over her shoulder. Claire slumped a little lower in her seat. Was she the only member of the sisterhood who was immune to Jack’s flashy charms?
“You say yes, we’ll see what happens,” Jack warned her. Claire almost gasped with outrage as he reached across and plucked the pencil from Jenny’s hands. “I’m going to keep this as a souvenir,” he said cheekily, sauntering over to take a seat beside Claire.
A delighted peal of laughter sounded from Jenny Bell.
“For that you get a coffee while you wait—black, one sugar, right?”
It was like James Bond and Ms. Moneypenny, only he was licensed to make her feel ill. Claire could feel her upper lip curling with distaste.
“How about you, Claire? Would you like a coffee, or tea perhaps?”
This came as Jenny was about to exit, an afterthought.
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Claire managed to choke out, even dredging up a smile from somewhere.
Jenny disappeared into the small kitchen behind her desk, and Claire concentrated on the magazine she’d picked up. She should have paid more attention when she’d grabbed it from the pile on the table—Big Game Fishing was hardly her bag. Worse, as she flicked through it trying to find something to grab her attention, her eye was caught by the byline on the major story—Jack Brook. She rolled her eyes. Of course he was into big game fishing. What was she thinking? The man was practically Hemingway reincarnate, with his skydiving and racy car and chain of women and travel writing. He’d probably even run with the bulls in Pamplona.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stretch out his long legs, his tanned arm resting on the couch between them. He was amusing himself with the pencil he’d taken from Jenny, rolling it back and forth between his long, strong fingers. She found herself fixating on the dexterous movement of his hands for a beat. He has a body to die for. Katherine’s words slipped insidiously into Claire’s mind. Jack Brook would be an amazing lover, of that she had no doubt. The way he looked at women, the glint in his eye, the casual, animal elegance of his walk—the man simply screamed sex. There would be nothing tentative or uncertain about his technique—he looked as though he knew exactly what buttons to push, and when, and how hard, and…
Claire blinked, stunned at the direction her thoughts had taken. She must be stressed out or something. That was the only explanation for her aberrant thoughts.
Mindlessly flipping the pages, she surreptitiously checked her watch. What was it with big bosses and the waiting game? In all her years in publishing, she’d yet to walk straight into a superior’s office at the time of her appointment. There was always the standard keep-you-waiting ploy to be played out, just to remind you of your place in the pecking order.
A big male hand suddenly grabbed the page she was staring at blankly, pulling the magazine across so that Jack could see what she was reading.
“Thought I recognized that picture,” he said, stabbing a neatly manicured index finger at the photo accompanying his big article. It showed a snow-white, luxuriously appointed yacht bobbing on a brilliant azure sea. “Hell of a boat. Crew of fifteen just to run her. Now that’s money.”
She gritted her teeth.
“Spent a full week on her. Pretty hard coming back to nine-to-five-dom after that, I can tell you.”
“I wasn’t aware you worked nine to five,” she couldn’t resist saying. The man was always off on some stupid assignment somewhere.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“I was speaking metaphorically. You know what that is, don’t you? As in—she was as sour as a lemon,” he said, and she sat up straighter. What a jerk!
“Actually, that’s a simile. A metaphor is more like—his ego was monumental,” she returned sweetly.
He was opening his mouth to respond when the door to Morgan Beck’s office swung open. Their heads swiveled as one and she didn’t need to look to know that Jack’s face wore the same friendly-not-too-sucky smile that hers did.
“Claire, Jack. Come on in,” Morgan said.
She stood, the smile almost slipping off her face. Up until this second, she’d been telling herself that Jack Brook’s visit to the thirtieth floor had nothing to do with her. And she’d almost been believing it. Now she gave