Can't Get Enough (10 page)

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 QUITEentertaining, 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.

6

"COME ON,I'm not Atlas, for Pete's sake," Jack grumbled, his words
muffled by her breasts. Oh, boy.A thousand and one sensations skittered
along her nerve ends and she closed her eyes against the assault. His
stubbled cheeks rasped faintly against her skin, and she could feel his
breath, hot and moist, with each impatient word. His arms were two
strong bands around her body, his chest against her belly, her legs
hanging a foot or two off the ground.

He made an exasperated noise, and she belatedly looked toward the ceiling, but it was miles away.

"This isn't going to work," she told him, and the tension in his arms
relaxed abruptly and she dropped back down to earth, sliding along his
body all the way.

Her heart was beating out of control, and somewhere deep inside,
something long-ignored awoke and lifted its head to look around
drowsily.
Desire.
His skin had been hot and smooth and hard, and it had been way, way too
long since she'd been held by a man. She didn't need to look down at
herself to know that through the mere act of talking into her cleavage,
Jack had managed to turn her nipples into two embarrassing declarations
of arousal.

And for my next act, I shall
implode with humiliation,she thought as she hurriedly crossed her arms
to hide her traitorous nipples.

How on earth could her body react to Jack like that? It was as though she was suddenly being held
Page 50

captive by some strange alien force.
Come on,
she told her body,
the guy's a poster boy for
everything I dislike in a man. We're complete opposites. We have nothing in common. He doesn't
even like me. How can you do this to me?

But her body wasn't taking any calls. Instead, it was resolutely
hanging on to the memory of his flesh against hers, his hands splayed
firmly across her back, the prickle of his whiskers on her breasts.

"Okay, I'm sure you've got plenty of smart ideas," Jack said, his own
arms crossed over his chest now. Ideas? Boy, did she have ideas.
Instantly, her out-of-control body imagined a dozen X-rated scenarios,
all of them involving Jack naked, ready and willing. She fought the
urge to cross her legs and squirm.

"Um. Sure. You could…you could go down on all fours and I could stand
on your back," she finally managed to say past the lump of misguided
lust in her throat.

He uncrossed his arms, and she watched, almost hypnotized, as the muscles along his chest and stomach rippled in reaction.
Cool. Make him do it again,
her body urged.

"I know it would probably satisfy some deep inner need for you, but you
are not standing on my back to reach for the sky," Jack countered.

"Okay, okay." Desperately she searched around for another idea,
anything, before he realized she was acting like a crazy woman, her
eyes practically falling out of her head ogling him.

"What about a shoulder ride?" she suggested.

He gave it a moment's thought, then shrugged his lack of objection to
the idea. She tried not to get too absorbed in following the ripple of
muscle this caused down his body. But she must have been staring,
because the next thing she noticed he was giving her a really weird
look. The kind of look you give a dog when you think it might have
rabies. She almost lifted a hand to check she wasn't foaming at the
mouth.

"You want to do this now?" he asked warily.

"Sure."

Concentrate,she warned herself.
Concentrate, and we'll write off the last five minutes as some
extremely strange reaction to oxygen deprivation.

He squatted in front of her, and she froze a moment, staring at his
well-muscled back. He really was in fine shape. Most guys who had desk
jobs as he did would have let themselves go soft and run to fat, but he
either had a truly stunning metabolism, or a natural affection for
exercise. For the first time, she understood how Fiona from Legal, and
Katherine and all those other women were unable to resist him. He was
just plain sexy. Tall, and strong, and handsome, and…

"What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation?" he asked. She blinked.
What is wrong with me?