Can't Get Enough (9 page)

A little desperate, he cast a glance around his brushed steel cell and
then suddenly got it. Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever it was called.
That thing where the people were held hostage and started to identify
with, and like, and sympathize with their captors. That's exactly what
was happening here—Stockholm Syndrome! She was his captor, and he was
starting to sympathize with her. Once he was restored to his normal
environment, nature would reassert itself. Relief washed over him. Good
old science—always there with an explanation for everything. Following
her example, he decided to try for some shut-eye. If they were going to
be in here for another five or so hours, sleeping some of it off was a
really good idea. Of course, he wasn't feeling very snoozy , but if she
could sleep, so could he.

He lay down, quickly becoming aware that the carpet was the prickly,
unforgiving type that was designed to survive a nuclear holocaust. He
sat up and spread out his shirt like a towel at the beach. Once on his
back, he stared at the ceiling, his hand automatically sliding down and
across his belly and beneath the waistband of his pants to find the
long scar that cut low across his stomach and around his side. He
couldn't feel the familiar ridge under his fingers without thinking of
Robbie, and he made a point of thinking of Robbie every day. It was the
least he could do because it was all he had left. People always talked
about feeling as though they'd lost a part of themselves when a loved
one dies, but Jack knew with rock-solid certainty that he'd lost the
best part of himself when his twin brother succumbed to kidney disease.

Even though it had been three years now, he couldn't think about it
without tasting the bitterness and anger again. It should have been
him. Robbie had always been smarter, stronger, funnier. Robbie had been
the one who'd chosen medicine, while Jack had been just bumming around,
trying to find something that held his interest. If fate had to take
someone, it should have been him.

"It's so hot in here."

It was almost a relief to be distracted from his own thoughts.

"Not much we can do about it," he replied, knowing it would annoy her. After all, it was what he was good at.

"Imagine if Robinson Crusoe had that attitude. We need to be innovative, think outside the box. Or the elevator, I guess."

His eyes still on the ceiling, he shook his head minutely in exasperation.

"This isn't
Gilligan's Island,
Mary Ann. We can't just bake a batch of coconut cream pies and wait for the Professor to find a way to get us back home."

"Ginger, if you don't mind."

"What?"

"Ginger. I always wanted to be Ginger, not Mary Ann."

That surprised him so much that he turned to look at her and found she
was on her back also, and was looking at him. Without his permission,
his eyes flickered down to her chest. Her full breasts strained at
 
the
fabric of her bra now that she was on her back, and he felt a definite
tightening in his groin. What was it with him and those breasts? He'd
seen great breasts before. And he'd see them again. Plenty of them, in
matched sets. These weren't the only breasts in the world. So why was
he suddenly so hot to see them and touch them and taste them?

"Ginger was a redhead," he said, forcing himself to concentrate on the subject at hand.

"So? On the inside, maybe I'm a redhead." Her eyes dared him to contradict her.

"Hey, it's your split personality, not mine."

"Exactly."

Their old friend silence crept back into the elevator. Jack bent his
legs and rested one ankle on the opposite knee, for something to do.
And to try and distract himself from thinking about her breasts. He bet
they were firm. Firm, and sensitive. He bet if he took her nipple into
his mouth, she'd cry out. He had a flash of Claire's eyes clouded with
desire, her lids slightly lowered, her mouth open and wet.

"Who would you have been?" she asked suddenly.

"What?" he asked, almost starting with guilt.

"On the island. Who would you have been?" she repeated.

"Mr. Howell."

"You're kidding? Ugh!"

She sounded genuinely disgusted. He had a natural skill in this area, it seemed.

"Come on, think about it. He was rich, he managed to work it so
everyone else did everything for him and he still had his main squeeze
with him on the island."

She laughed. Another surprise—she had a sense of humor.

"You're the most practical playboy I've ever met," she said. She was
smiling again, her face just an arm's length or so away. It was almost
like being in a very large bed, him on one side, her on the other. His
body had things to say about the idea of being in bed with this
new-improved, friendly, black-bra-wearing Claire Marsden , and he
ruthlessly changed the subject. And kept his eyes fixed firmly on her
face.

"Okay, Desert Island Top Five," he announced.

"I don't think we need to pretend we're trapped on a desert island, do you?" She had a point.

"Trapped in an Elevator Top Five, then. All-time favorite movies," he said.
Page 42

She shot him a look, seemed about to say something, hesitated and then spat it out anyway.

"I thought you were angry with me."

He shrugged. "You want to spend another five hours arguing or sitting here glaring at each other?"

"Good point. Okay. Top five movies. The first one is easy—
The Big Sleep,
definitely." He couldn't help himself. "Surprise, surprise."

"Excuse me?"

"Everyone picks a black-and-white movie, preferably something with Bogie in it. Gives you street cred ."

"But it's my favorite movie!" She sounded outraged.

He made sure there was a heavy dose of doubt in his tone. "Of course it is."

"Wait till it's your turn," she warned him. "Second movie would be
When Harry Met Sally.
I can watch it over and over and it's still clever and funny."

"So predictable, not even worth commenting on."

She threw him an exasperated look.

"You know what's predictable? You not agreeing with a word I say. I
swear if I said the sky was blue, you'd disagree with me just for the
sake of it."

"Depends."

She snorted with exasperation this time, and he found he was enjoying needling her like this.

"On what, pray tell?"

"If it was nighttime or daytime."

She half laughed at his lame joke, and he tried not to notice how
pretty she looked and the way her breasts jiggled invitingly.
Those damn breasts!

"Okay, third movie. Getting tougher now. Have to have a comedy in there, otherwise it's just way too boring."

She stretched one leg in the air, waggling it around aimlessly as she
considered her options. Jack's eyes followed the hem of her skirt as it
slid down to reveal more of her thighs. As if her breasts weren't doing
him enough damage. But it was impossible to keep his eyes from the
sleek, tanned firmness of her legs. She really had great legs. They
looked strong, and flexible. Like they could grip a man hard around the
hips as he—

"There's Something About Mary!"she said suddenly, and he threw a mental bucket of cold water on himself.

She was watching for his reaction, so he simply looked thoughtful,
although he was really quietly impressed. And not a little surprised.
The lady didn't mind a good dose of potty humor. Not what he would have
picked from her at all. Great breasts, great thighs and fond of puerile
comedy. If they hadn't been stuck in this elevator together, she would
have taken those secrets to her grave.

"Hmm."

She shook her head and continued. "Fourth movie…Something I can watch again and again, but is still fun…
Con Air.
"

He nearly sat up he was so shocked. "No way!"

"What?"

"You do not like
Con Air.
"

"I think I do."

"No way."

"Jack, I think I know if I like a movie or not. And I want
Con Air
as my number four."

"But—"

She was lying on her side now, leaning on her elbow. Her hand on her
face made her cheek squish up, making her look almost cherubic and more
than a little naughty as her eyes sparkled across at him.

"What's your problem?" she demanded.

"I was going to have
Con Air,
" he admitted.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Wow. Something in common. Scary," she said.

"You're telling me."

"Don't worry, I'm sure it'll never happen again. And you can have
Con Air
on your list, too."

"But then we'll have two copies of the same movie."

She almost laughed at his little gag, the twisting of her lips giving it away.

"Fifth and last movie…
The Wizard of Oz.
"

"The singing munchkins? The wicked witch of the west? You're not watching that in my elevator, I can tell you."

She was getting better at not reacting to his jibes.

"Your turn."

She sat up, rubbing her hands together with exaggerated anticipation,
obviously looking forward to shooting him down in flames. He found
himself admiring the dancing light in her eyes, and the way she leaned
forward slightly, ready to take him on. The fact that her new position
also gave him a great look at her cleavage was irrelevant. Completely
irrelevant.

"Number one—
His Girl Friday,
with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell." He enjoyed watching her indignation grow.

"But you picked on me for having a black-and-white movie!"

"That's just me, I guess. I'm a contrary bastard."

Her eyes narrowed and she made an encouraging motion with her hand. "Keep ' emcoming," she prodded him.

"Number two—
Rocky.
But only the first one. I hate sequels." She rolled her eyes. "Typical. Macho movie about men being manly."

"You finished?"

She smiled brightly. "Not really. But it'll keep."

Boy, she was pretty cute when she smiled. He caught the thought and
gave himself a mental slap. This Stockholm Syndrome thing was getting
out of control. It was one thing to admire breasts and thighs, but
thinking that someone was cute when she smiled was moving into
dangerous territory.

"Three—
Raiders of the Lost
Ark. "

"Sad, but predictable. Let me guess—you have a secret craving to travel the world, wear hats and be heroic?"

He made a point of looking very patient and forbearing. "Four—
Blade Runner.
Best sci-fi movie ever made."

His look dared her to disagree, but she just shrugged.

"I didn't mind it," she admitted.

"You didn't
mind
it? I s'pose you think theColorado Riveris a nice little stream?"

"Number five, cough it up," she said, wisely ignoring his baiting. He
took his time, making a big show of being very thoughtful. She didn't
buy any of it, but sat with a look that very plainly said, "I know
you're about to be very annoying, and I'm ready for it."

"It's tough, very tough. A couple of good contenders. But I'm going to have to go with
Porkies .
" 

She managed to maintain a very creditable poker face. "That surprises
me. You don't think you're overlooking some of the excellent work in
Revenge of the Nerds?
And let's not forget that seminal classic, Bikini Shop."

He played along. "I did consider
Bikini Shop
briefly, but I decided it was too derivative. Plus there are more boob jokes in
Porkies .
"

"Of course. I stand corrected."

The subterranean grumble of his unfed stomach hijacked the rest of the
conversation. In the small confines of the lift, it seemed inordinately
loud and he found himself staring at his own belly.

"Sorry. I guess I'm hungry."

He hauled himself upright, aware that the waistband on his cargo pants
had dropped a little with the movement. He patted his complaining
stomach, then watched her eyes follow the motion. A small frown
appeared between her eyebrows, just for a second, and when he glanced
down he realized his scar was showing. Sighing, he braced himself for
the inevitable "Wow, how'd you get that?" It never came. Instead, she
turned to her handbag and started rummaging through it. He watched,
perplexed, as her frustration grew until she finally just emptied the
whole bag out onto the elevator floor. An enormous array of crap
spilled out over the carpeted space between them, successfully
distracting him from the increasingly hypnotic power her breasts seemed
to hold over him. He surveyed the array of purse-rubble disbelievingly.
This jumble of junk belonged to Claire "Crisply Ironed" Marsden ?

"Wow. You got a spare Learjet or helicopter in there we could use?" he asked as she began pawing through the debris.

"Trust me, it's all very valuable and necessary," she said, intent on
her search. He leaned forward to pick up a child-size water pistol.

"Very handy with some clients, I'm sure." For an insane moment, he
wondered what she would do if he squirted her in the breasts with the
gun, and then offered to lick the water off. Before he could so much as
tighten his finger on the trigger, she reached up and took the water
pistol out of his hand.

"It's my godchild's. Here they are!"

Triumphant, she held aloft a packet of mints as though she'd just found
the Holy Grail itself. Very pleased with herself, she offered the pack
to him.

"Help yourself," she encouraged him.

She was very proud of her mints, and he didn't have the heart to tell
her they wouldn't put a dint in his appetite. So he peeled off a mint,
more than a little bemused by this new side to Claire. This
godmother-to-someone's-child, lover-of-action-movies,
owner-of-a-junk-filled-handbag Claire. It didn't gel with his previous
ideas of her at all. If he'd thought about her at all—and he hadn't,
thanks to the boxy suits and the efficient way she had of cutting him
dead each time she saw him—he'd have imagined her in one of those
minimalist white apartments with everything arranged in tidy, geometric
patterns. He'd have bet she made her bed with hospital corners, watched
worthy historical dramas on public access TV and  listened to opera in the original Italian.