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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.
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 QUITE entertaining, 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 (#ulink_ee998658-24bd-5022-b328-cffbe92a43d3)
“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 stub-bled 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 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?
“Let’s just get this over with,” he suggested, impatience oozing from every pore as he swiveled his head around to look at her.
Slapping every inappropriate thought to one side, she hitched her skirt around her waist, stepped toward him, and slung her left leg over his shoulder. She almost jumped when he immediately enclosed her ankle in a warm, firm grip.
“Other leg, come on,” he ordered, leaning forward a little so she could find her balance.
She obediently slid her other leg over his shoulder, and before she could brace herself he’d locked her other ankle in place and was surging to his feet. For a scary moment she teetered on his shoulders, and instinctively she grasped at his head for balance.
His hair was thick and wavy, and she ploughed her fingers into it as she searched for a grip.
“Yow!” he howled, and she immediately loosened her death grip.
“Sorry.”
“Can you reach it?” he asked, and she tried not to register the rasp of his stubbly cheek against the tender skin of her inner thighs.
Jack Brook with his face against her thighs? She had trouble even processing the thought, let alone the sensation. Forcing herself to focus on the matter at hand, she studied the catch on the cover a moment, then flicked it open. Tentative, she pushed the cover upward, but it gave way readily, flopping open to clang loudly on the elevator car’s roof.
“Done!” she said with satisfaction.
Taking advantage of the opportunity, she shoved a hand up into the opening.
“Much cooler out there. Hopefully it’ll make a difference in here,” she reported.
She was about to suggest he put her down when he slid his hands up her shins and over her knees to grasp her firmly just above each knee. And then he began jiggling from side to side, causing her to renew her death grip on his hair.
“What are you doing?” she squeaked.
