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Who had she been kidding, really, when she thought that her father had suddenly become all Brady Bunch?
Harry seemed to sense her preoccupation, and he broke off his recital to consider her. “Is something wrong, Claire? Don’t you like the wine?”
She stared at him for a beat, tempted to just let things slide like she always had. But suddenly she couldn’t bear the thought of pushing her own thoughts and feelings down again. Yesterday she’d admitted to Jack that she was the disappointment of her father’s life. But it didn’t have to be that way. She wasn’t a bad person—she was just different from what he’d wanted in a child. But did that mean she had to accept the crumbs from his table for the rest of her life?
“You know, I thought you’d asked me here to spend time with me, because you wanted to see me,” she said.
“Yes, of course, and that’s exactly what we’re doing,” her father said, the picture of surprise.
“No, it’s not. We’re having dinner because you want something from my boss. You’re not really interested in my magazine or my triathlon or anything else in my life.”
She tried hard to keep the tears out of her voice, but they were lurking there, giving her a husky vibrato. Her father was pulling an exasperated face, and shaking his head.
“I don’t know where you’re getting all this from, Claire. I was in town, I asked you to dinner—it was as simple as that.”
“Really? Fine, then tell me when my triathlon final is. I told you earlier, when you asked, because you were so interested in my life, so it shouldn’t be any big stretch for you to remember what I said.”
She held her father’s eye, challenging him.
“I can’t recall the exact details, but I know it’s soon…” her father began, and Claire pushed her chair back and stood up.
“I am your daughter, and I love you, but I am not going to be the only one participating in this relationship. I call you and e-mail you and offer to fly to visit you for Christmas every year, and you can’t even remember a conversation we had five minutes ago.”
Slinging her handbag over her shoulder, Claire turned to leave.
“You let me know if you’re prepared to put a bit of effort in, because I’m not going to make it easy for you anymore,” she said over her shoulder.
She walked straight out and didn’t look back.
She was proud of herself all the way home in the car. Then reaction set in. He would be so angry with her, she probably wouldn’t hear from him for months and months. She never, ever caused a fuss with him, because she knew how he hated having to deal with emotional messes. She understood, deep in her heart of hearts, that if she didn’t keep up the contact with her father, she would never hear from him. Whatever faint connection that existed between them would fade and shrivel, and she’d be utterly alone.
It was a scary thought, but she refused to take it to bed with her. She was a grown, adult woman. She had an exciting, vibrant life of her own. She was about to launch a new magazine. She had a real chance at winning the state triathlon finals. And she’d had dirty, wild elevator sex with the office playboy not twenty-four hours ago.
Never did she think that she would turn to those stolen, wanton moments with Jack as a source of comfort, but the world was a strange and amazing place. For some reason, thinking of him, going over their argument today, and the discussions they’d had in the elevator, made her feel a whole lot better. She had stuff going on in her life. She didn’t need her dad.
Inevitably her thoughts turned from what she and Jack had talked and argued about in the elevator to what they’d done, and before long she was imagining what might have happened in Jack’s office today if he’d kissed her again instead of stapling her shirt shut. What if he’d slid her shirt off, and then her bra? She would have reached for his jeans, because she’d been thinking about having him inside her ever since he’d withdrawn from her. Maybe she would have sunk to her knees and taken him in her mouth, loving the look on his face as she laved him with her tongue. And maybe he wouldn’t have been able to stand it for long, and he’d have pushed her onto that stupid, squishy couch in the corner and reached down between her legs to push her panties aside—too impatient to remove them entirely—then he’d be inside her again and—
Claire was panting into her pillow. Very resolute, she got out of bed and rummaged through her drawers until she found a pair of pajamas. She always slept naked, but these were desperate times. Pulling on underwear, and then the pajamas, she slid back into bed.
No more fantasies about Jack Brook, she warned herself.
Armored in cotton and determination, she finally drifted off to sleep.
THE NEXT MORNING she was feeling distinctly jittery about having cut off communication with her father and about seeing Jack again. First, there was that irritating thing her heart did whenever Jack was in the room—it was almost as though it missed a beat now and then, lurching around inside her chest like a drunken sailor. Then there was the powerful physical awareness she seemed to have developed for him ever since they’d gotten down and dirty. You’d think that jumping on each other would have put an end to any sexual tension, but, if anything, it was worse. Now when she looked at his strong thighs and long fingers and broad shoulders she knew exactly how devastating they could be. And, to her shame, she wanted to be devastated. Badly. Hence the fact that he suddenly had top billing in all her sexual fantasies. Slowly but surely, he was driving her crazy.
Combine that with the fact that she was almost one hundred percent certain that he wouldn’t be happy about her gift tie, and she had plenty of justification for the butterflies winging their way around her midsection.
Then there was her father. Why had she laid down the gauntlet like that? Why couldn’t she have just eaten her dinner like a good girl and maintained the status quo? Really, it was getting to the point where she shouldn’t be allowed out without a keeper.
She spent the time before her first meeting with Jack and Hillcrest Hardware looking up whenever anyone walked near her office, and jumping every time her phone rang. She felt like a sitting duck, waiting to be ambushed by Jack from one side, or her father on the other.
By a quarter to ten, she had talked herself around to a reasonable state of calm. If her father was going to make contact with her, it wouldn’t be for some time. He’d want to leave a nice long buffer between her angry words and any future conversation to ensure she was calm and over whatever madness had had her in its grip. As for Jack—Well, she had no choice but to be ready to face him, tie or no tie.
Except he didn’t come. As the time drew closer to 10:00 and her appointment with Hillcrest, she had to use stronger and stronger arguments for not reaching for the phone to confirm Jack’s presence. She had to trust him; he was a successful, experienced executive; he wouldn’t bail on her. On the last count she couldn’t be so confident, however. They’d fought almost every time they’d been alone together for more than five minutes. There was a chance he’d see this as an extension of their battle of wills.
At 10:00 on the dot her assistant Tom told her that the Hill-crest executives were in the foyer. Caving at last, she reached for the phone and called Jack’s office. The moment Linda picked up the call she knew Jack had hung her out to dry.
“Jack, is that you?” Linda demanded anxiously.
Claire took a moment to remind herself not to shoot the messenger. “No, Linda, this is Claire Marsden. I have a ten o’clock with Jack and Hillcrest Hardware, but I’m guessing that I’m going to be handling this alone…?”
There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone, then, “I’m sorry, Claire, but your appointment isn’t in Jack’s diary. I guess you made it with him directly. Otherwise I would have called you earlier to let you know…he seems to be running a little late today….”
The usually competent and professional Linda sounded extremely rattled, but Claire didn’t have time to deal with the other woman’s concern for her no-good, lazy, sneaky boss. The big rat was probably relaxing somewhere, lazing around enjoying his self-appointed long weekend.
Ending the call as nicely as possible, she headed in to take on Hillcrest and his honchos.
It wasn’t a pleasant meeting, mostly because Hank Hillcrest managed to convey his deep skepticism about the appointment of Jack Brook to the magazine. The old man’s repeated references to the “so-called Jack Brook,” as though she and Morgan had made him up, became almost more than she could bear during the one-hour torture session. Somehow she managed to placate her client, spinning a yarn about Jack flying back in from a big-game safari in Africa and his flight being delayed. By the time she’d finished, Hank Hillcrest was so intrigued she began to suspect she’d have to cough up a genuine lion’s head trophy just to shut the man up.
At last she shook hands with the now-cheerful Hillcrest executives and saw them out into the foyer amid assurances that she would bring Jack out to meet them at their head office next week.
No sooner had the elevator doors closed on them than she let her smile drop. She couldn’t remember ever being so furious with anyone. She was so angry, in fact, that she was a little scared of herself, and she deliberately took the stairs to Jack’s floor in order to give herself some time to calm down. Her shirt was already clinging to her thanks to the tense meeting, and she slung her jacket over her arm as she exited the stairwell and made her way purposefully to Linda’s desk.
Linda was looking harried, and she glanced up at Claire distractedly. Almost as though she was talking to herself, Linda explained that she’d managed to reschedule all but one of Jack’s meetings, but she still hadn’t heard from him.
“Probably too scared to turn up now,” Claire suggested coolly.
Linda gave her an impatient look.
“You don’t understand. Jack has never ever done anything like this before. I know he looks casual and laid-back, but he’s always punctual, he always meets his deadlines and he always lets me know what’s going on. I’ve worked for him for two years now, and this has never happened, ever. I’m worried.”
Which made two of them, because as Linda spoke an awful image of Jack’s stupid red sports car wrapped around a tree popped into Claire’s brain.
“I take it he’s not answering his home line or his cell phone?” she ventured reluctantly.
“His home line just rings out, and his cell phone goes straight through to his voice mail.”
She saw the worry in Linda’s eyes and patted the other woman’s arm reassuringly.
“Have you checked his office? Maybe he left a note or something in there and forgot to put it on your desk.”
“I had a quick scout around, but nothing struck me,” Linda said doubtfully.
As one they turned toward Jack’s closed office door, and, at Linda’s nod, Claire stepped forward and pushed it open. Jack’s desk was a mess, which didn’t seem too unusual, but she couldn’t fail to see the tie she’d sent him strewn on the floor like an old sock.
She automatically bent to pick it up, smoothing the silk through her fingers as she continued surveying Jack’s desk. Linda frowned at the tie, curious.
“What’s a tie doing in Jack’s office? He never wears a tie. I wonder if…?” Linda’s startled eyes connected with Claire’s, and Claire could see the other woman was busy constructing an Agatha Christie plot.
“It’s okay. I bought it for him,” she explained.
Linda’s eyes went round with surprise, then her hand snuck up to cover her mouth. She was laughing, Claire realized.
“I’m sorry. I was imagining his face. It’s just…Jack never wears a tie. I don’t think he even owns one.”
“I know. That’s why I bought him one. For the Hillcrest meeting.”
Linda shot her a speculative look, and Claire guessed what the other woman was thinking. “Oh, no—it’s nothing like that. I was just trying to annoy him,” she hastily explained.
Linda looked unconvinced. “Right.”
“No, really. I wanted him to wear a tie to the Hillcrest meeting, he said he didn’t have one…It was just a joke, really.”
Linda nodded, but Claire got the distinct impression that the other woman didn’t believe her. Unwilling to dig a bigger hole for herself, she began surveying the desk again. Linda joined in straight away, but Claire was aware of her lingering scrutiny and she kept her face carefully blank.
“I don’t see anything, do you?” Linda said after a futile few minutes.
Claire was shaking her head, about to agree with Linda, when she spotted the discarded birthday card.
Frowning, she plucked it from amongst the mess and flipped it open.
Dearest Jack, thinking of you on this special day. Please be kind to yourself—our love is with you. Don’t feel as though you have to go it alone. Lots of love, Mom and Dad.
She turned to Linda, urgent now. “Did this come yesterday?”
Linda shrugged. “How could I know? He may have had it for weeks. Except—Hang on a minute.”
Linda scuffled through the papers until she found the torn lavender envelope. Matching it to the card, she nodded once. “Yes. This definitely came yesterday, because I remember the purple envelope. It was in the mail I collected from Jack’s personal mailbox. Claire, what’s going on? What’s this about?”
Claire closed her eyes briefly. This had to be it. Jack’s birthday was Robbie’s birthday. She opened her eyes, even more worried now than she was before.
Because what on earth happened to a man when all the grief he’d stuffed down deep inside threatened to escape?
She grabbed Linda’s arm, imperative. “I need Jack’s home address, pronto.”
HE LIVED IN A HOUSE. Another surprise. A big old rambling house with a yard and trees and a white picket fence. Parking her car in front, she felt a moment of shame for all the clichés she’d ascribed to Jack. She’d always imagined him in a penthouse apartment, with lots of gleaming chrome and black leather furniture and mood lighting.
Girding her loins, she made her way up the path to the front door and leaned on the doorbell. Nothing. She waited, then tried again. Still nothing. She tried knocking next, and when this was still ineffective, she stepped back and surveyed the house. It was possible he wasn’t here at all, of course. Lord, he could be anywhere. But his car gleamed redly at the end of the drive, and she had a gut instinct about this—Jack was very private, and she doubted he’d take his grief to a public place.
She tried the front door, but it was solidly locked, so she headed boldly up the drive, emerging into a beautifully landscaped backyard. Fruit trees and roses, climbing jasmine on the fence and a rustic outdoor setting created a little oasis of calm and tranquility. She smiled at the laughing Buddha statue half-hidden in amongst some irises, then frowned as she saw the back door open and swinging in the breeze.
Well, at least she wasn’t breaking and entering….
Feeling a little more tentative now, she stuck her head in the darkened doorway and glanced up and down the hallway. In front of her, old floorboards gleamed all the way down the central hallway to the front door.
“Jack? Jack, are you here?” she called out.
Nothing. Sighing, she stepped properly into the house. The kitchen was on her right. It was old but serviceable, and Jack was obviously in the process of renovating it, with half the tiles removed and the wallpaper stripped down to bare plaster.
Two empty tequila bottles lay on their sides on the kitchen table. Oh, goody. Nothing like a tequila hangover.
She found him in the living room, slumped on the couch, his posture defeated and closed. At first she thought he was asleep, but he lifted his head when she put her hand on his shoulder, giving her a minor heart attack.
“Jack!” she said, startled, and he blinked up at her owlishly.
“What are you doing here?” he slurred, and she pulled back from the truly impressive haze of alcohol he was exuding.
Amazingly, he still managed to look dangerously attractive, despite his bleary-eyed, bestubbled, incoherent state.
“I was worried about you,” she said, not bothering to edit herself. She’d be stunned if he remembered any of this.
“Were you? That’s nice.”
His head sank back down, and she allowed herself a small moment to simply rest her hand on his head, feeling for him. He held too much to himself, blocked himself off too much….
“Jack, I think we should make you some coffee. And some food. You feel like some food?” she suggested, forcing herself to take her hand off his silky, springy hair.
“Don’t want anything,” he said, childishly.
“I’m sure you don’t. But I promise you’ll feel better if you eat some food.”
“Don’t want to feel better.”
I bet you don’t. She stared down at his still-bowed head, then made a decision. “Why don’t we get you in the shower?”
He didn’t respond to this, and she crouched down to peer up into his face. “Jack? Jack?”
Slowly he opened his eyes again.
“Don’t want shower.”
She nodded as though she was agreeing with him. “Sure. But you trust me, don’t you? And I think you should have a shower,” she said.
He just stared at her, and she leaned forward and slid her arm around his shoulders, bracing herself and ensuring a strong grip on his well-muscled side.
“Come on, now. Let’s stand.”
It took a few more minutes of coaxing and some serious counterweight balancing to get him to his feet. She cursed herself immediately for not having done a bit of recon and worked out where the shower was before she got him standing, but he was swaying on his feet so much that there was no way she could trust him to stay upright if she went for a quick scout.
So they staggered up the hallway, and she found the bathroom behind the second door she tried. She tried to make him understand she wanted him to sit on the edge of the tub while she took off his boots, but he just stared at her blankly.
“Jack, how much have you had to drink?” she asked suddenly, beginning to wonder if he’d had the whole two bottles of tequila. How much did it take before a person got alcohol poisoning? She didn’t have a head for drink herself, and the thought of so much strong spirit made her wince.
He shrugged, clearly disinterested, and she was forced to get down on her knees and lift his feet up one at a time to drag off his expensive-looking boots. The rest of him could go in the shower as is, but the boots just looked too good to ruin, and she knew he wouldn’t thank her if she destroyed them. Hell, he was unlikely to thank her anyway, but she was here now….
She’d just tugged his last boot off when Jack swayed alarmingly and staggered backward. There wasn’t far for him to go in the small space; his legs kicked forward, catching the heel of the boot she held and flicking it toward her face, and he slammed against the tiled wall and slid down until his butt was in the tub and his legs were dangling over the edge.
White light exploded behind her eyes as the boot connected with her right cheekbone, and she reeled backward from her crouching position, connecting with the wall behind her.
