Can't Get Enough

Sarah Mayberry

Claire Marsden was hot

And Jack had never suspected it.

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 wearing only a bra. Suddenly he was thankful for the
heat inside the elevator that had necessitated her removing her shirt.

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.

She was hot. Damn hot.

His body seemed determined to worship that hotness in its own special
way, and no matter what he told himself, he was unable to stop it.

Not since the uncertain years of adolescence had his body been so at
odds with his mind. Claire wasn't his type. And they didn't get along.
So why was he wondering if she tasted as good as she looked?

Dear Reader,

How fantastic to be writing those two words! I've been reading romance
novels since I was twelve, and I'm over the moon to have my first novel
published with Harlequin. The central idea for
Can't Get Enough
came from my experience working on a TV drama inAustralia. As a
storyliner , I spent most of my time locked in a small room with four
other people, bashing around ideas and sharing incredibly incriminating
and embarrassing stories from my life. I quickly learned that despite
first impressions, it's impossible to hold on to your prejudices when
you really get to know someone. It was a great life lesson, and a
useful lesson for my characters Claire and Jack, too. I hope you enjoy
reading
Can't Get Enough
as much as I enjoyed
writing it. I'd love to hear from you. You can contact me via e-mail at
[email protected] or mail me in care of Harlequin Books, 225
Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9,Canada.

Page 1

Cheers for now,

Sarah Mayberry

1

CLAIREMARSDENwas late. She hated being late almost as much as she hated
brussels sprouts. And she hated brussels sprouts a lot. Traffic inched
forward, and she craned her head out her window, confirming that the
entrance to the company parking complex was just five car lengths
ahead. Unfortunately, there were five cars occupying those five car
lengths, and they were all moving as though they were powered by
arthritic turtles. She willed them to move faster, concentrating
intently on the shiny bumper of the pickup in front of her.

Nothing. So much for any latent powers of ESP she might have.

Might as well use the time to slap on some lipstick. She flipped her
visor mirror down and blinked in horror at the too-close image that
reflected back at her: eyes red, nose just beginning to peel thanks to
too much sun on the weekend and a hefty gob of what her godchild Oscar
rather charmingly called "eye booger" in the corner of one eye.

"Aren't you the belle of the ball," she told her reflection. A dab of
moisturizer, some judicious use of Kleenex and a swipe of lipstick went
a long way to repairing the damage. She was just completing the last
curve of pink-brown lipstick across her lips when the car behind her
honked. A jagged lipstick smear raced up her cheek before she could
control her reflexes. Realizing the lane was now clear all the way to
the coveted car park entrance, she slapped the visor up, deciding to
fix her face later. With an apologetic wave for the driver behind her,
she accelerated forward and zipped up the entrance ramp with a spurt of
speed.

Now it was simply a case of snagging her favorite spot near the
stairwell, and she could still make her first meeting of the day….

She frowned as she pulled up in front of
her
spot. A shiny red sports car gleamed smugly there, light reflecting off
its sleek curves. Its owner had gone to the trouble of reversing
in—obviously a fan of the quick getaway. The frown creasing her
forehead deepened. She knew the owner of this car, and, indeed, he was
fond of the quick getaway; at least a dozen women at Beck and Wise
could vouch for just how fond.

"Stupid slacker," she ground out under her breath as she threw her car into reverse and began trawling for another spot.

Everyone knew that spot was hers. She made a point of parking there
every day. Okay, so it didn't actually have her name on it—Beck and
Wise only reserved parking spaces for its very senior executives—but it
was common knowledge.

And she knew for a fact that Jack Brook was fully aware of her attachment to the spot; she ignored him
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every time she passed him on her way to or from her car. Just last week
she'd glided coolly past him, not acknowledging his presence with so
much as the twitch of an eyelid. So he knew. Oh, yes, he knew. At last
she found another spot, a full five rows farther back than her usual
one. She turned into it with more verve than necessary, and had to
waste precious seconds correcting the error. The contents of her
handbag were spread out across her passenger seat after her ad hoc
repair mission in the traffic jam, and she scrabbled around until she'd
stuffed them all back into her sleek black leather purse. Like much of
her life, it looked perfect on the outside, its chaotic contents well
hidden from prying eyes. She broke into a fast trot as she cleared the
first row of cars, but realized very quickly that no amount of training
or conditioning could prepare someone for a hundred-yard dash in
leather pumps. Slowing to a tight-assed scamper, she spared a glance
for the gleaming red affront in her parking spot as she pushed open the
door to the car park stairwell.

Jack Brook. Just thinking his name made her grind her teeth. From the
moment she'd first laid eyes on him two years ago she'd had his number,
and everything she'd heard or seen of him since had only confirmed that
initial snap judgment.

Too good-looking for his own good—if you liked tall, dark, blue-eyed,
broad-shouldered men. Too smart for his own good, too—if you admired
creative, clever, arrogant, witty minds. And too damn aware of all of
the above, as far as she was concerned. Most of the women at Beck and
Wise thought he was dreamy. Most of the men, too, come to think of it.
If they weren't admiring his latest magazine article, they were playing
racquetball with him after work, or laughing at one of his jokes.

And he just made her want to spit. Call it an instinctive rejection of
a type of man she'd always found incredibly unappealing. Call it the
opposite of sexual magnetism. Whatever, it made her back go stiff
whenever she caught sight of his dark head, it compelled her to press
her full lips into a tight, ungenerous line at the mere sound of his
voice, and it switched her clever tongue to take-no-prisoners mode. Not
that it did her much good. Usually he'd just smirk at anything she said
and throw some off-the-cuff smart comment her way—and damn him if nine
times out of ten she wasn't left floundering and feeling stupid.
Another excellent reason to avoid him as much as possible.

It wasn't that big a deal, usually. Beck and Wise was a huge publishing
company, a media giant that produced hundreds of magazines for the
Australian marketplace. Jack worked on a whole different floor to
her—when he was in the office—on a whole different selection of
magazine titles. If she put some effort into it, she could manage
things so that she barely ever saw him. But now he'd slipped his red
penis-compensator into her parking spot, and she couldn't simply assign
him to his usual category of "necessary evil" and forget about him. The
automatic doors to the impressive thirty-story Beck and Wise building
swished open as she entered, and she glanced longingly across at the
foyer coffee shop as a hit of freshly ground coffee beans washed over
her. No time for coffee today. She spared a thought for her favorite
double mocha latte, eyeing the distinctive steaming cup in the hands of
one lucky, contented customer. Her eyes automatically lifted to scan
the coffee-lover's face, and she felt her lips assume their usual
streamlined position as she looked into Jack Brook's deep blue eyes.

Page 3

Bastard. Now he had her favorite parking spot
and
her favorite coffee. She forced herself to look away, concentrating
instead on the elevator bank ahead. Checking her watch, she stabbed the
up button urgently, then sighed with relief as the doors in front of
her opened on a cheery chime. Entering, she punched the button for her
floor, then looked up to see Jack bearing down on her, his stride
lengthening as he sped up to beat the doors. They made eye contact
again, and the corners of his ridiculously blue eyes crinkled as he
flashed one of his patented engaging grins at her.

"Could you…?" he called, just a few steps away now.

She moved instinctively, her finger reaching for the button before her
conscious mind could approve or disapprove the action. He'd stolen her
parking spot, after all. And he had that delicious-looking coffee in
his hand…

The doors began to slide shut. Realizing what she'd done, his eyes
widened with confusion and then, quickly, annoyance. She tried to
despise the little zing of triumph that shot up her spine, but when the
doors closed completely she didn't fight the smile that leaped to her
lips. Take that, Smug-boy,she thought.

And then she saw her reflection in the polished steel elevator doors: a
huge smear of lipstick raced up her cheek like some bizarre experiment
in modern art. Groaning, she closed her eyes. Why did Jack Brook always
have the last word?

JACK STOODstaring at the closed elevator doors for a full twenty
seconds. What was it with that uptight cow from the fifteenth floor?
Claire Something-or-other, thatwas her name. Always frowning. Her lips
always squished into nothingness. Her chin always high and haughty. And
what was with the weird lipstick?

He shook his head, genuinely baffled. To his knowledge, he'd never done
a thing to offend her. Yet every time he smiled her way she blew him
off. It was as if she'd caught him double-dipping, or cheating on his
taxes, or something.

He hated women like that. Women who acted as though every gesture of
friendliness, every joke or helpful suggestion was about you trying to
crack their defenses and get them into bed. As if he'd be interested in
some tightly stitched-up chick who'd probably just lie there and stare
at the ceiling anyway. Thanks, but he'd rather fly solo.

He stepped into the next elevator car and punched the button for the seventeenth floor. Claire What's

-her-name didn't have anything to worry about where he was concerned. He liked his women young—

subtwenty, if possible—bubbly and full of life. Preferably in a bikini,
but a one-piece was also acceptable. He grinned. Okay, so he was
exaggerating a little, but if the hat fit…

He took a sip of his latte, then shook his head as the image of
Claire's bestriped face disappearing behind the closing elevator doors
popped into his mind. God, how petty. How stupid and silly and petty.
And then he got it. He threw back his head and laughed out loud at
exactly the same time that the elevator car slid to a smooth stop on
the fifteenth floor—someone must have pressed the up button. Heads
turned as people looked up from their work, and he saw Claire's head
snap around and her eyes
Page 4

narrow as she spotted him from her office doorway. He grinned and
fished in his pocket, pulling his car keys out and dangling them
suggestively.

Her lips practically disappeared as she glared at him, and he gave her
a little finger wave as the doors closed between them for the second
time that day.

She was pissed about the parking spot! He practically giggled as he
relished the moment. Imagine being that invested in something so
mundane. Imagine wanting to take revenge over something so small and
insignificant. Admittedly, the thought that the space he'd reversed
into this morning was usually filled by her sensible sedan had crossed
his mind at the time. And just as quickly exited at the other end. It
would do her good to have a bit of variety, he'd thought. She looked as
though she was a creature of habit, always in the same sensible boxy
suits, always with her dark, curly hair cut sensibly short. So he was
practically doing her a favor, forcing her to break her routine. She
might even thank him for the new perspective he was offering her.

Or not. He was still smiling as he stepped out onto the seventeenth
floor, raising his latte in greeting at his assistant Linda as he
passed by.

"Why are you looking particularly naughty this morning? What trouble
have you just stirred up?" she demanded as she followed him into his
corner office.

He smiled mysteriously and waggled his eyebrows at her, glancing out
the window at his fantastic view of the city of Melbourne . The sky was
blue, fluffy clouds floated across the sky…and seventeen floors down,
if only he had X-ray vision, he could spot his car…in her spot….