Can't Get Enough (3 page)

The waiter stopped by their table, and Claire and Katherine both
ordered the chicken club sandwich. Silence fell. Aware that Katherine
was now thinking completely the wrong thing, Claire felt honor-bound to
correct her.

"He parked in my space this morning," she explained. "He's such an arrogant jerk, I just wondered what you saw in him."

"That's simple—pretty much what every other woman sees in him. He's
gorgeous." Claire pulled a face, her eyes sliding across to contemplate
Jack's profile.

"He really does nothing for me," she said airily.

Katherine made a small disbelieving noise.

"Then you're officially the walking dead. Whether or not Jack Brook is
gorgeous is not a matter of subjective opinion. He has those amazing
eyes, and a body to die for—fantastic skin, great arms. And he's a
great lover. Really…gifted, if you get what I mean," Katherine said,
wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Claire shifted in her seat, but she was unable to stop her gaze from
sneaking over to him. He was teasing his lunch companion, reaching out
to swipe a bit of frosting off her cake. As Claire watched he slid his
chocolate-coated finger into his mouth and licked it, his actions
completely unconscious and completely erotic. She flicked her eyes away
from the blatant display, but, again, they slid back to him of their
own accord. Now he was shoving his hand into his pants pocket as he
leaned casually on the bar. The fabric tightened across his thighs and,
unbelievably, she felt herself blushing as she considered what
Katherine had said. Gifted…
What
exactly did that mean? Was that about the finger-licking thing, or the
part of his trousers that was holding her attention right now?

"You know, a fling with someone like Jack could be exactly what you
need," Katherine said. Claire jerked her attention back to her friend.

"Are you insane? I wouldn't sleep with Jack Brook if you paid me. He's cocky, conceited, smug—and a complete man-slut."

"I see."

Katherine was smiling knowingly, and Claire bristled. Determined to prove her point, she leaned across the table.

"If you gave me the choice of kissing Jack Brook or punching him in the
face, I'd choose the punch every time," she said firmly.

"Ah. So you have thought about kissing Jack, then?"

Claire was about to launch into all the reasons why she considered Jack
Brook to be subhuman when Katherine's face suddenly lit up as though
she'd just thought of something funny. She laughed, nodding her head as
though she'd just worked something out. Claire frowned at her,
suspicious.
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"What?"

"I just remembered something. I was talking about you with Jack once.
He wanted to know why we were friends—he thought you were prissy."

Claire sat bolt upright in her seat and glared across at Jack. What a pig! How dare he call her prissy?

What a horrible thing to say—as if she was some dried-up spinster aunt
or something. She had the urge to go over and give him a piece of her
mind….

"Where does he get off talking about me like that?" she snapped,
dragging her gaze away from Jack to find Katherine studying her
speculatively.

Claire suddenly felt very exposed under her friend's knowing gaze.

"I mean, as if I care what a jerk like him thinks about me." Katherine simply quirked an eyebrow disbelievingly.

"Can we please talk about something—anything—else?" Claire asked, fiddling with her paper napkin and cutlery.

To her everlasting relief, their sandwiches arrived.

"You're lucky I'm really hungry," Katherine said lightly. "You're off the hook—for the moment."

TWENTY MINUTEShad turned into half an hour by the time they settled
their bill and made their way back to the elevator. Claire thought
Katherine had let the subject of Jack Brook drop entirely, but just as
they were parting ways, Katherine suddenly got serious. Despite
Claire's protestations, Katherine insisted on explaining why she and
Jack had broken up. Claire listened with arms crossed, determined not
to give Katherine any more reasons to jump to ridiculous conclusions
about her and Jack Brook. Given that every word her friend said just
confirmed her preconceived beliefs about the man, it wasn't hard.

"I just want you to go in with your eyes open," Katherine finally concluded.

"Kat, hell will freeze over before I even consider having a polite conversation with that man," Claire said.

"If you say so."

Claire was shaking her head as she returned to her office, bewildered by Katherine's determination to imagine some sort of…
thing
between her and Jack Brook.

"Not in a million years," she muttered to herself as she began packing
her briefcase for her afternoon appointment at Hillcrest Hardware.

"Claire! Oh, my God—I'm so glad I've found you!"

It was Tom, sweaty and excited in her doorway.

"I was checking your e-mails while you were at lunch—Morgan Beck wants to see you at two! I went
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straight down to the coffee shop, but you'd already left…"

Galvanized, Claire checked her watch, then sighed with relief when she
saw it was only ten to two. Plenty of time to get up to the thirtieth
floor—if she hustled.

She forced herself to suppress the many panicky thoughts that were
suddenly clamoring for attention and equal-opportunity worry time in
her mind and instead focused on her schedule for the rest of the
afternoon. She'd have to push back that appointment with Hillcrest,
then…It was no use—all she wanted to do was fret over this
unprecedented call from the thirtieth floor. Why would Morgan Beck want
to see her out of the blue like this? Surely
Welcome Home
had been well and truly signed, sealed and delivered? They'd praised
her, promoted her to editor, handed the whole project over into her
capable hands. What more was there to say?

"Tom, I need you to ring Hillcrest Hardware and tell them I'll be
approximately twenty minutes late," she said, slinging her handbag over
her shoulder and grabbing her briefcase. "I'll head straight out after
seeing Mr. Beck."

Tom was taking notes, loving the excitement of the moment.

"I'll ring the traffic report and leave a message on your cell phone if there are any traffic delays," he suggested eagerly.

"That would be great, thanks," she said, hiding a smile at his
action-stations demeanor. Satisfied that she'd covered all bases, she
headed for the ladies' room, her mind working overtime trying to find
the reason behind this summons. The mirror revealed that hectic color
stained her cheeks and the first thing she did was sluice a great
handful of cold water over her face. Patting it dry with some hand
towel, she took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

Be calm. Everything is fine. They can't take this off you now—it's your
idea,she told herself. The mantra appeared to work. Her heart climbed
down from her throat and back into her chest to resume normal
activities, and she quickly dabbed on some mascara and a fresh layer of
lipstick. Wetting her fingers under the tap, she spruced up her short
curls, ensuring her face was framed nicely. One final check over, the
last-minute realization that she had a blouse button undone flashing
her belly button, and then she was out of there and heading for the
elevator.

Five to two. She pressed the call button. Even if the elevator stopped
on every floor, she'd be on time. Some of the tension eased out of her
shoulders and she rotated her left arm a little. It was still sore from
last night's workout, but post-exercise soreness was simply the price
you paid for getting stronger. And she needed strength if she was going
to lift her personal best time and place in the state triathlon finals
in two weeks' time.

Claire tried to be objective as she considered her chances of scoring a
place in the final three. She'd shaved several seconds off her swim and
bike legs over the past few months, but she still needed to build
stamina for the long hill runs. She was confident she was getting
there, though. Every training session was a gain.

It was one of the things she loved about triathlons—for her, the races
were more about beating herself than the other competitors. Each time
she went out there, she was competing with her own best times—and
success or failure was never a matter of opinion, but objective fact.
She liked that, liked
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knowing that she was getting somewhere, slowly but surely. Becoming the
best person she could be. And, of course, it was a great way of burning
off all the stress from a hard day in the office. Despite all the
promises she'd made herself, she couldn't stop her mind from thinking
about Harry. The closer she got to the finals, the more he crept into
her thoughts. Would he come to watch her? She shook her head at her own
naïveté—of course he wouldn't. The only reason she continued to invite
him to events of interest in her life was out of some bizarre sense of
courtesy. It was a little game they played, she and her father, where
she pretended he might be interested, and he came up with a palatable
excuse for why he wasn't.

The elevator door pinged open in front of her, and she stepped inside
and pressed the button for the thirtieth floor, suppressing the little
flash of nervousness that usually accompanied any trip in an elevator.
The trick was to think about something else, she'd learned over the
years. She was figuring out tonight's training regime when the elevator
pinged to a halt just two floors up, and she raised preoccupied eyes
and felt her lips instinctively disappearing. She deliberately avoided
making eye contact with Jack Brook as he stepped in beside her, but it
seemed he wasn't about to let her off so easily.

"Good afternoon," he said cheerily, and there was no mistaking the smug
self-satisfaction in his tone. She tried to manage an acknowledging
smile and nod, but she was too busy feeling self-conscious after her
lunchtime conversation with Katherine. Suddenly she found herself very
aware of how close to him she was standing. She could practically feel
the heat coming off his body—was that even possible?—and the woody,
tangy scent of his aftershave teased at her. Easing a step away, she
searched for something to help restore her usual equilibrium where Jack
Brook was concerned. Her gaze fell on his bare toes peeking out from
his slip-on sandals, and she found herself seizing on his typically
unprofessional office attire as a way to distract herself.

His ridiculous getup had barely registered earlier, but now she gave it
her full, disdainful attention. Suits and other acceptable office wear
were obviously not cool enough for Jack "The Man" Brook, she noted. He
probably thought he was being really cutting edge in those
three-quarter cargo pants. And the sandals—how
European
of him. As for the artfully creased shirt…

She smiled minutely, pleased to realize that the strange,
self-conscious feeling had evaporated and she was once again in control
of the situation and herself. Then he spoke.

"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.
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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.