Can't Get Enough (2 page)

"Jack? What on earth have you done?" Linda asked, real worry in her voice now.

"Relax. It's nothing. Just a stupid…thing that happened. With that Claire girl from Homes and Decorating," he said.

Linda gave him a look.

"Claire Marsden , you mean?"

"Is she the sensible one? With the skinny little mouth?"

"Are we talking about the same woman? On the short side? Cute as a
button?" Linda queried. He made a dismissive noise, unprepared to think
positive things about Claire Marsden right now.

"Well, I think she's very attractive," Linda continued.

"Compared to the Russian women's weight-lifting team, you mean?"

"Whatever did she do to get you so offside?" Linda asked, her eyes wide
at his unaccustomed cruelty. He shrugged, suddenly aware that he'd
actually allowed himself to get quite worked up.

"We just had a little…transport dispute this morning."

"I see. Well, she's a nice person. My niece Ronnie spent a week doing work experience with her
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recently. Claire was very supportive and helpful, and Ronnie is really inspired to have a go at journalism now."

He paused in the act of flipping open the lid on his notebook computer.

"Why didn't you ask me about the work experience? I'd have been happy
to have Ronnie up here." Linda made a noise in the back of her throat.
He recognized it as her deeply skeptical grunt and decided he was
offended.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, come on, Jack. You're hardly the most patient of men. I didn't
want you breathing down Ronnie's neck, making her nervous. Besides,
you're far too good-looking and Ronnie's far too young and blond for my
personal comfort."

He leaned back in his chair, happy for any opportunity to crank his assistant up a little.

"Blond you say? Just how old is she?"

Linda shook her head and slapped his mail down onto his desk.

"Keep your trousers on and read your mail, Mr. Sexy," she said. He took
another big slurp of latte while he waited for his computer to boot up.
A dialogue box flashed onto the screen and he typed in his password,
flicking idly through the few letters Linda had just given him while
the computer logged in to the company network.

Nothing exciting there. In his role as managing editor, he over-saw the
production of six monthly magazine titles. It meant he got a lot of
mail—most of it dull. Today he had a complaint from one of the tour
operators they'd profiled in a recent Travel Time issue, which could go
straight in the recycling bin, and a couple of letters to the editor
from two of the other titles he managed. He turned his attention to his
e-mail, his eyebrows rising with surprise as he saw he had a message
from the Big Kahuna himself, Morgan Beck. He scanned the note quickly,
then called Linda in.

"Can you cancel mytwo o'clockand reschedule it for me? I've been summoned upstairs by God."

"Can do. Anything else?"

He flashed his most disarming smile, turning on the charm shamelessly.
To her credit, Linda remained steadfastly unaffected, instead shaking
her head ruefully.

"Don't waste your little-boy-lost routine on me. What do you want?"

"Do you think you could also swing past the post office and collect the
mail from my personal box? I haven't had a chance to get over there
since I flew back into town yesterday."

"Jack, we've been over this. I'm more than happy to collect your
personal mail for you every day during my lunch break. Just give me the
key to your box and it will be taken care of."
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Sliding the small key from his key ring, Jack hesitated before handing it over.

"I feel bad asking you to run personal errands for me," he confessed when Linda made an impatient noise.

"Well, get over it. You're a good boss, you don't treat me like a slave, and I'm happy to help you out however I can."

Overcoming his personal scruples, Jack shrugged and handed the key
over. Linda gave him an amused look as she slid it into her hip pocket.

"Don't worry—I'll let you know when you've crossed the line and turned into a heartless corporate shark."

"My deepest, darkest fear. How did you know?" Jack joked.

"I'm psychic. Which is why I suspect it's useless suggesting you tidy
yourself up a bit before your appointment with Mr. Beck," Linda said,
her tone indicating she already knew his response.

"You
are
psychic, you know. It's uncanny," he said, loving that he could annoy
her. Linda's eyes flicked down to his black, three-quarter-length cargo
pants, slip-on sandals and unironed Hawaiian shirt.

"You're lucky Mr. Beck likes you," she said on her way out of his
office. Jack snorted, his mood shifting abruptly as her words triggered
a memory. Luck.

What a concept. What a stupid, random, insane, cruel concept. He was
very quiet for a moment as he stared out unseeingly at his view. And
then he remembered that big smear of lipstick across Claire Marsden's
face and he laughed to himself all over again.

2

BUSY. THE THOUGHTregistered somewhere between Claire's third impromptu
meeting of the day and the fourth phone call from the client she'd been
wooing for the past six months. Now that they'd signed the contracts,
Hillcrest Hardware were keen to have their new custom magazine in their
hot little hands.

Ironic, if you had the time to appreciate such things. She'd spent so
long explaining, and illustrating, and cajoling to bring them to the
point of saying yes, and now they were more keen than she was. And she
was pretty damn keen.

Despite the fact that it was well pastmiddayand she still hadn't read
her e-mail, she paused to appreciate the larger-than-life blowup of the
front cover for the launch edition of
Welcome Home
magazine that was
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leaning against her office wall. Gleaming floorboards reflected light
from wide, white-framed windows, and a rustic wood dining setting
graced the center of the tastefully decorated room. Color Your World
read one of the cover lines, while another claimed Bring Your Garden to
Life in an Instant. A little bubble of pride blossomed in her belly.
After all the hard work, they were finally a go. Her own magazine.
Based on a concept she'd created. Executed just how she thought it
should be executed. It simply didn't get better.

She was the one who had seen the opportunity for a custom magazine
within the Hillcrest Hardware chain. She'd watched the growth in demand
for decorator magazines, and she'd found a progressive hardware
retailer in the marketplace who was looking for a new way to create
relationships with its customers. It had made sense to her to answer
one need with the other, just as it had made sense to the executives at
Hillcrest when she'd pitched it to them six months ago. Now she was
about to launch a new magazine title into the Australian marketplace,
an important, key part of her five-year plan. Soon, if she played her
cards right, the corner office and senior management status she coveted
would be hers—it was just a matter of time.

Today was Wednesday; by this time next week, she should have editorial
sign-off from her client, and the magazine should be well into
production. Another week or so later, and the first edition would be
rolling off the printing presses.

A goofy smile still wreathing her lips, Claire clicked the mouse on the
e-mail icon on her computer screen and watched as her in-box registered
way too many notifications. Sighing, she realized she was going to have
to get her assistant to prioritize them for her, alert her to the
urgent ones and print the rest off for her to read in bed later that
night. Another fascinating evening. It was just as well there was no
man also planning on sharing her bed. She paused for a moment, annoyed
with herself. Where had that thought come from? Parts of her body
twitched suggestively, and she shrugged. Okay, it had been a while. And
a bit of frustration release was necessary every now and then, but that
was what George Clooney movies were for. This was more important.
Welcome Home
was her baby, and it deserved all her attention. Besides, it wasn't as
though there was a battle going on here between the magazine and her
personal life; apart from her training regime and the actual triathlon
meets themselves, she had no personal life. There was work, and there
was the road and the pool and her bike. End of story. And it was a
nice, uncomplicated, successful story. She was fulfilled. Really. And
hadn't she made it into the state triathlon semifinals thanks to all
that focus?

Okay, maybe she was a little horny. But that could wait. Sex would always be there, but this opportunity wouldn't.

A recent memory volunteered itself suddenly—last time she'd visited her
grandmother she'd been astonished to learn that her gran was telling
everyone in the old people's home that she was a lesbian.

"Just to take the heat off them all wondering when you're getting married and having children, dear," her gran had explained.

So Claire wasn't going to be young forever. But this was important, and sometimes other things had to
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take a backseat to work. In five years' time, she'd be ensconced in
that corner office, in charge of a handful of quality magazines. The
sacrifices and loneliness were worth it. For the time being. Having
talked her nether regions into submission, she called her assistant,
Tom, in and asked him to sort through the rest of her e-mails.

She was just about to plunge into her in-tray when a familiar figure propped itself against her door frame.

"We still on for lunch?"

Claire stared at her friend Katherine in dismay.

"You forgot, didn't you?" Katherine guessed, one hand resting on her slim hip.

"I'm sorry. I've got so much on, I think I should just work through
lunch," Claire apologized. But Katherine wasn't about to take no for an
answer. Swinging around, she called in reinforcements.

"Tom! Get over here and help me convince your boss she needs to eat
lunch," she called imperatively. Tom shot up from his seat as though
he'd been electrocuted, and Claire had to stifle a laugh as he stared
at Katherine slavishly. At nearly six feet tall with legs that seemed
to go on forever and a bust that would put a 1950s pinup to shame,
Katherine was every man's sexual fantasy. The fact that she was funny,
clever and worked as editor of a sports magazine were bonuses that most
men didn't seem to mind, either. At a tender twenty years, Tom was like
a bunny in the headlights of her attractiveness.

"I tell her all the time she should have a lunch break, but she thinks
a protein shake is enough," Tom said, sounding for all the world like a
worried Jewish mother.

"Are you listening to what Tom is saying, Claire?" Katherine asked, the
glint in her eye signaling that she wasn't unaware of Tom's adoration.

Shaking her head at her friend, Claire checked her watch.

"Twenty minutes," she said.

"Done. Thanks for the backup, Tom," Katherine said, giving him a big
smile. Tom just stood there, apparently stunned by such beneficence.

Claire grabbed her handbag and followed Katherine to the elevator.

"You're cruel," Claire admonished.

"How so? I was perfectly nice to him!"

Claire gave Katherine's close-fitting deep red, short-skirted suit and elegant high heels a once-over.

"You ought to be registered as a deadly weapon. Or given a handicap. How are the rest of us mere mortals supposed to compete?"

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"You do okay, from what I've seen," Katherine commented dryly.

"Right. That's why I watched three George Clooney movies this month."
The elevator door opened and they exited into the foyer, heading for
the coffee shop.

"The opportunities are there, but you choose not to see them." Claire
rolled her eyes—as if she wouldn't have noticed an eligible guy
interested in her! To prove her point, a young courier walked straight
into a potted palm because he was too busy tracking Katherine's
progress across the foyer to look where he was going.

"You see that? Nobody walks into plants for me, I can tell you."

"You don't believe me? What about Cameron Johnson in layout? And that cute security guard on the night shift?"

Claire had to rack her brain to get even a vague mental image of the
men. Needless to say, they hadn't walked into a wall, or any other
obstacle, the last time she had been in their vicinity—
that
she would have remembered.

"You're deluded."

They settled at their usual table in the far back corner of the coffee
shop and picked up a menu each, even though neither of them ever
strayed from their normal order—a chicken club sandwich.

"You don't
want
to see—that's your problem. When was the last time you had a date?" Katherine challenged.

Claire studied the menu intently. Why had she even brought this subject
up? Hadn't she just decided that she was happy with her work-oriented
world at the moment?

"Forget I said anything. I was only joking, anyway," she hedged. Katherine shook her head sympathetically.

"That long, huh?"

Desperate for some way to avoid the conversation Claire suspected was
in the offing, she scanned the coffee shop looking for a distraction.
She twitched as she noted Jack Brook propped at the lunch bar, one leg
resting comfortably on the foot rail as he chatted to a woman she
didn't recognize. He looked so confident and happy and self-assured
that she felt her toes curling in her shoes with annoyance.

"You went out with Jack Brook for a while, didn't you?" she found
herself blurting. Katherine looked surprised and she turned to follow
Claire's line of sight, quickly spotting Jack lounging at the bar.

The glance she shot Claire was unreadable.

"Yeah, I did. For a few short, spectacular weeks a couple of years ago."
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