Can't Get Enough (13 page)

For a second she allowed her mind to flash back to the elevator. A
surge of heat swept through her. She could almost feel his mouth on her
skin again, feel the wet thrill of his tongue on her breasts. Her body
tightened at the memory, and she realized that in a split second she'd
undone all the good work her nice,
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mind-numbing run had done. She briefly considered pushing herself to do
another few miles in an attempt to regain some control over her wayward
body, but she suspected it would be futile. She'd tasted Jack Brook,
and she wanted more—it was as simple as that.

How could a few hours change the way she felt about someone so much?
How could she go from thinking someone was incredibly egotistical,
cocky and overly confident to wondering if he lay awake at night
thinking about his brother?

She had no answers, but she knew that something had shifted forever in
that elevator car, and even though in her more rational moments she
regretted having given in to the crazy urge to make love to him, and
then giving him her home number, she was also glad.

When she got home and saw that no one had called she had to quell a
wash of disappointment. Maybe he had something on this evening.

Like a date.

With another woman.

She pushed the thought away all through her quick post-run shower.
There was no way he could turn his back on what had happened between
them in the lift. It had been so hot, so intense—surely he was aching
to explore what they'd discovered in the same way that she was? Or
even, on a more basic level, come back for seconds?

Determined to believe, Claire dumped the entire contents of her
underwear drawer onto her bed and searched through the tangle of silk,
satin and cotton until she found her best set of underwear—a deep
aubergine lace bra with matching panties, very elegant but
understatedly sexy at the same time. She pulled them on, sprayed her
wrists and cleavage with her favorite perfume, and spent some time
creating a smoky, seductive look with eyeliner and mascara. Surveying
herself in her bathroom mirror, she felt a surge of confidence. She was
ready for him, ready to pick up where they left off, ready to explore
the animal attraction that had sprung to life between them. The sound
of her doorbell buzzing jolted her out of her lustfilled musings, and
she dragged on a pair of jeans and a handy T-shirt before padding her
way to the door.

"I'm coming," she called out as she approached the door, then felt a
little kick of adrenaline in her belly as she wondered if it possibly
could be Jack on the other side of the door. Her breath caught in her
throat as she reached for the door handle. Maybe he'd looked up her
address, and hadn't bothered with phoning because he just hadn't been
able to put her out of his mind, the way she hadn't been able to put
him out of hers…. Between her legs, her muscles tightened and she
clenched her thighs together, reveling in the thrill of desire that
raced through her. If Jack was here, in a few minutes she'd have him
inside her again, the firm, delicious pressure of his erection
satisfying the ache that had already started at the centre of her.

"Hey there! I've brought champagne and chocolate, and I want to hear
all the details," Katherine said as she breezed past Claire.

Claire tried to ignore the leaden disappointment that had replaced the buzz in her blood. Forcing a smile,
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she went to fetch champagne glasses.

"So, three hours in a lift with Jack Brook. I want a blow-by-blow
account of every minute," Katherine said, rubbing her hands together in
mock anticipation.

Claire stared at her friend for a horrified second, praying that she
wouldn't blush. The last thing she wanted was to dissect what had
happened with Katherine—or anyone, for that matter. This was between
Claire and Jack, and she wanted to find out exactly what it was before
letting the world know anything at all.

Painfully aware that she probably looked as though she'd just sat on a
cactus, Claire attempted to shrug nonchalantly. "Nothing happened. We
argued, then we talked, then we got rescued. It was an exercise in
boredom more than anything."

Katherine sipped her champagne, her pale blue eyes sharp as they
quizzed Claire over the rim of the glass. Claire fought the urge to
squirm guiltily.

"You realize that half the building was on fire with jealousy? Stuck in
the elevator with Jack—my God, it's a whole new genre of erotic
fantasy."

Claire took a huge gulp of champagne and wrenched her eyes away from the damned phone.

"Sorry to disappoint, but it was hot and airless and dull. Very dull."
Unbidden, an image of Jack sliding his pants down his hips popped into
her mind, the length of him proud and hard and ready for action. She
felt a blush stealing into her cheeks, and she shot a look at her
friend. Fortunately, Katherine was studying the lid of the chocolate
box, trying to make a selection.

"I like the hard-centered ones—something to chew on," she muttered as she plucked her selection from the box.

Claire took advantage of Katherine's distraction to broaden the conversation.

"Do you know who else was trapped? Anyone we know?" she asked, sitting
back in her chair and pretending she had all the time in the world.

All the while her mind was working overtime—what if Jack called while
Katherine was here? What if he wanted to come over, and she couldn't
get rid of Katherine?

"One of the lifts had ten women in it. Can you imagine? Apparently they took turns hyperventilating and freaking out."

Claire forced a smile.

"Wow."

Her eyes strayed to the wall clock over Katherine's shoulder.Eight o'clock. When was Jack going to call?

Two and a half hours later, and she knew the answer to that question:
never. Katherine was full of champagne and chocolate, and Claire had
sore cheek muscles from forcing smiles she didn't believe in.
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Moaning about having eaten too much, Katherine finally rubbed her
stomach one last time and called it a night. Claire closed the door on
her and turned to contemplate her empty apartment. It was10:30. So much
for her hot night. The empty champagne bottle and almost-empty
chocolate box mocked her.

She felt heavy, a bit dazed. Vaguely she realized she felt humiliated.
She dragged off her clothes, and moved into her en suite to prepare for
bed. The sight of herself decked out in her very best underwear was a
slap in the face.

What had she been thinking, for Pete's sake?

And what on earth had she been thinking when she tore her clothes off
and climbed Jack Brook like a cat on a curtain? Had she lost all
semblance of self-respect in that tiny, airless space? Suddenly she
groaned as she recalled pressing her business card into his hand. She
never did stuff like that, ever. All of her life she'd been careful,
modest, demure. And now she'd just blotted her copybook spectacularly.
Worst of all, while she'd been sitting here all night, wrapped up in
some fantasy world where hot sex equaled spiritual meaning, he'd
probably been thinking of the hot blonde he was no doubt taking to
dinner.

She stared at her reflection for a beat, forcing herself to face the
brutal facts. A sophisticated guy like Jack—he knew the rules. He knew
that what had happened in the elevator was a one-off, never to be
repeated. He must have been amazed when she gave him her number. She
closed her eyes against the wash of humiliation that threatened.

Why, oh, why had she been so stupid?

By the time she'd cleansed and brushed and flossed and crawled into
bed, she'd convinced herself it was good riddance to bad rubbish. The
man had disaster written all over him. He was a self-confessed
commitaphobe with a very short attention span. He was so closed off and
protected, she doubted he'd ever let an emotion stronger than pleasure
or satisfaction breach his defenses. Yes, the physical attraction
between them had been hot, but that wasn't the only thing in life,
right? It certainly wasn't worth humiliating herself over, that was for
sure. Nope, she was very, very lucky he'd never taken her up on her
stupid, ill-informed, ill-considered, impulsive, deranged invitation.
She thumped her pillow decisively, determined to put the whole
experience behind her.

But then she started thinking about work tomorrow. About seeing Jack
for the first time. About looking at him, and remembering, and knowing.
Her eyes popped open and she stared at the ceiling. What if he told
someone else at work what had happened? What if she walked into the
building tomorrow and people stopped talking as she approached? She had
a vivid picture of her business card taped up in the men's restroom—
For a good time, call Claire
Marsden
.
For a moment she felt sick to her stomach, but then reason returned.
She didn't know how she knew, but she knew—absolutely—that Jack
wouldn't tell anyone what had happened between them while they were
trapped. The realization calmed her. No matter what else she'd managed
to misinterpret between
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them, she knew that she had this right—what happened in the elevator,
stayed in the elevator. And long might it stay that way. Relieved, she
rolled onto her side and willed herself to sleep. She was just drifting
off when she remembered that she was supposed to work with Jack for the
next few weeks or however long Beck deemed it was necessary to salve
old man Hillcrest's ego. That was something of a stumbling block. An
Everest-size stumbling block. She sat bolt-upright in bed. If she was
honest, she wanted very badly to tell Morgan Beck to shove his stupid
arrangement. But that wasn't the way she worked. What Beck had asked
from her was wrong, and unfair, and she was still deeply ashamed about
sitting through that initial meeting with Jack and Beck without making
her feelings clear.

But innate self-honesty forced her to admit that even if she'd had
prior warning about the agenda of the meeting, she wouldn't have kicked
up a fuss. Her philosophy in her working life had always been to give
her bosses what they asked for. While there were limits to this
philosophy—both moral and legal—it had held her in good stead until
now.

But did her ethos stretch to swallowing this blatant vote of no confidence without voicing an objection?

She shook her head in her silent apartment.

"No. I don't have to just lie down and take it," she told her darkened
bedroom. Tomorrow she'd let him know in no uncertain terms that she
wouldn't accept Jack on her project. She tried to imagine herself
stalking into her boss's office and laying her cards confidently on the
table. And failed. Miserably.

Perhaps if she really talked it through with Beck, they could come up
with another solution. As grown adults, seeing eye to eye. Discussing
the issues rationally.

This felt much more her style. It still made her feel nervous, but it
was doable. Of course, sticking up for herself would mean that she
didn't have to work with Jack anymore, too. How convenient. She could
simply ignore him for a few weeks in the car park and editorial
meetings and the elevator, just like old times, and pretty soon he'd
forget that Claire Marsden had ever torn his clothes off and had sex
with him.

And that was absolutely what she wanted.

So, she was decided. First thing tomorrow, she'd make an appointment
with Morgan and see if she could regain control of her life. It should
have been the last thing she thought of before she drifted off to
sleep. But instead, just as she gave herself up to sleep, memories from
the elevator came back to haunt her. The firm, knowing pressure of his
clever fingers as he circled her swollen wetness; the sweet, addictive
tug of desire between her thighs as he suckled on her breasts; the deep
satisfaction of having all of him inside her, and his strongly muscled
body tense and passionate above hers. She moaned frustratedly into the
pillow and rolled over. But the memories kept on coming: the wet velvet
sweep of his tongue on her neck. That first thrill as he pressed the
palm of his hand against her damp mound. The rising excitement as they
taunted each other with what they really wanted….
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Claire thumped a pillow with her fist. "Get out of my head, Jack
Brook," she muttered. But it was no good. She was too turned on to
sleep. Despite every rational reason for disliking the man, her body
had other ideas.

She rolled over again, her nipples brushing against the cotton of her
sheets. They wanted Jack's touch, the heat of his tongue and mouth, and
they sat tight and proud, waiting for something that was never going to
happen. Claire slid a hand over each breast and pressed them into her
chest. Stop it,she urged her body.
Forget him.

But instead of calming her overheated body, the pressure triggered a
pulse of desire between her legs. Claire's eyes flickered open, and she
glared at the ceiling.

"Damn you," she told an absent Jack Brook.

Then she gave in to her desire and slid a hand down the length of her
body and between her legs. Closing her eyes as she slicked a finger
over her own wetness, she imagined it was Jack touching her, and that
any moment now she would feel the warm, velvet nudge of his erection
against her outer folds. As her body thrummed tighter and tighter with
tension, she remembered the taste of Jack, and the strength of Jack,
and the feeling of being filled by him. The way he'd tugged so tightly
on her nipples. The way he'd run his hands over her body as though he
couldn't get enough. The feel of him beneath her hands, the hard,
smooth power of his body.

She gasped out her release, her orgasm an echo of the one she'd shared
with him earlier. It should have been the end of it, but she lay awake
for a long time afterward, angry with herself for wanting a man who
clearly didn't want her.