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“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 MINUTES had 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 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 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.
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.
Oh, boy. Jenny was renowned for being a real stickler for protocol and proper office conduct, and Claire almost winced as she imagined the arctic blast Jack was about to receive. Almost, but not quite. Instead, she leaned forward, just in case she missed a single delicious nuance. It was about time Mr. Cocky got the message that the world was not his personal love pit….
“You’d better be careful, Jack. I might just take you up on that offer one day—we’ll see how fast you run then.”
Claire blinked. Good grief, Jenny Bell was flirting with Jack Brook. Actually batting her eyelids and flicking her thick plait of gray hair over her shoulder. Claire slumped a little lower in her seat. Was she the only member of the sisterhood who was immune to Jack’s flashy charms?
“You say yes, we’ll see what happens,” Jack warned her. Claire almost gasped with outrage as he reached across and plucked the pencil from Jenny’s hands. “I’m going to keep this as a souvenir,” he said cheekily, sauntering over to take a seat beside Claire.
A delighted peal of laughter sounded from Jenny Bell.
“For that you get a coffee while you wait—black, one sugar, right?”
It was like James Bond and Ms. Moneypenny, only he was licensed to make her feel ill. Claire could feel her upper lip curling with distaste.
“How about you, Claire? Would you like a coffee, or tea perhaps?”
This came as Jenny was about to exit, an afterthought.
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Claire managed to choke out, even dredging up a smile from somewhere.
Jenny disappeared into the small kitchen behind her desk, and Claire concentrated on the magazine she’d picked up. She should have paid more attention when she’d grabbed it from the pile on the table—Big Game Fishing was hardly her bag. Worse, as she flicked through it trying to find something to grab her attention, her eye was caught by the byline on the major story—Jack Brook. She rolled her eyes. Of course he was into big game fishing. What was she thinking? The man was practically Hemingway reincarnate, with his skydiving and racy car and chain of women and travel writing. He’d probably even run with the bulls in Pamplona.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stretch out his long legs, his tanned arm resting on the couch between them. He was amusing himself with the pencil he’d taken from Jenny, rolling it back and forth between his long, strong fingers. She found herself fixating on the dexterous movement of his hands for a beat. He has a body to die for. Katherine’s words slipped insidiously into Claire’s mind. Jack Brook would be an amazing lover, of that she had no doubt. The way he looked at women, the glint in his eye, the casual, animal elegance of his walk—the man simply screamed sex. There would be nothing tentative or uncertain about his technique—he looked as though he knew exactly what buttons to push, and when, and how hard, and…
Claire blinked, stunned at the direction her thoughts had taken. She must be stressed out or something. That was the only explanation for her aberrant thoughts.
Mindlessly flipping the pages, she surreptitiously checked her watch. What was it with big bosses and the waiting game? In all her years in publishing, she’d yet to walk straight into a superior’s office at the time of her appointment. There was always the standard keep-you-waiting ploy to be played out, just to remind you of your place in the pecking order.
A big male hand suddenly grabbed the page she was staring at blankly, pulling the magazine across so that Jack could see what she was reading.
“Thought I recognized that picture,” he said, stabbing a neatly manicured index finger at the photo accompanying his big article. It showed a snow-white, luxuriously appointed yacht bobbing on a brilliant azure sea. “Hell of a boat. Crew of fifteen just to run her. Now that’s money.”
She gritted her teeth.
“Spent a full week on her. Pretty hard coming back to nine-to-five-dom after that, I can tell you.”
“I wasn’t aware you worked nine to five,” she couldn’t resist saying. The man was always off on some stupid assignment somewhere.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“I was speaking metaphorically. You know what that is, don’t you? As in—she was as sour as a lemon,” he said, and she sat up straighter. What a jerk!
“Actually, that’s a simile. A metaphor is more like—his ego was monumental,” she returned sweetly.
He was opening his mouth to respond when the door to Morgan Beck’s office swung open. Their heads swiveled as one and she didn’t need to look to know that Jack’s face wore the same friendly-not-too-sucky smile that hers did.
“Claire, Jack. Come on in,” Morgan said.
She stood, the smile almost slipping off her face. Up until this second, she’d been telling herself that Jack Brook’s visit to the thirtieth floor had nothing to do with her. And she’d almost been believing it. Now she gave free rein to the paranoid feminist within and began imagining half a dozen scenarios where she was shafted royally. Her stomach sunk below knee level as she followed Jack into Morgan Beck’s inner sanctum.
“Now, Jack, how much do you know about Claire’s new project for the Hillcrest Hardware chain?” Morgan asked, toying with an expensive-looking fountain pen as he leaned back in his well-padded executive chair.
“I understand it’s a custom magazine job, a monthly decorator title to be sold only in their stores at a cheaper than usual cover price to create customer loyalty,” Jack said.
She resisted the urge to stare at him. How did he know all this? She couldn’t have named a single title he worked for. Apart from Big Game Fishing, of course.
“Sounds like he’s got the important bits right, doesn’t it, Claire?”
She nodded, too anxious to trust her voice.
“Before we go any further, I want to acknowledge that this project has been yours, Claire, from the word go. But unfortunately, we’ve hit a bit of a snag. I’ve had my thinking cap on, though, and I’ve come to the conclusion that Jack might be the man to help us out.”
She swallowed hard and forced air into her lungs.
“This is a problem from Hillcrest, I’m assuming?” she asked, trying to find her feet.
“Yes, but don’t go getting too fussed about it. Old Hank Hillcrest is a dyed-in-the-wool sexist and he’s got some pretty wacky ideas. One of those is that the magazine’s outlook is too feminine.”
Claire frowned. Too feminine? Over half of the magazine’s content was aimed at offering heavy-duty building projects to experienced DIYers, along with reviews of new hardware and building products. In fact, the only feminine parts of the magazine were the decorator segments, and a small cookery section which was designed to showcase Hillcrest’s kitchen products.
She said as much to Morgan, and he nodded his head sympathetically.
“Claire, I know all this. They know all this. Hell, even cranky old Hillcrest knows all this. But he just doesn’t have it in him to let this go without putting his sticky fingerprints all over it. So, as I said, I had an idea.
“You probably don’t know this, but Jack started out his career with us in the Homes and Decorating division, writing up projects for our DIY titles. Over the years, he’s branched out, moved on. But I bet I wouldn’t be wrong if I suggested you still keep your hand in with a bit of DIY work here and there, right, Jack?”
She found herself turning to look at Jack, all the words of protest catching at the back of her throat. She was going to be sick. She was truly going to puke her guts up all over Morgan Beck’s polished walnut desk.
“Sure, Morgan, I’ve got a few projects on the go. But it sounds to me like you’ve got a done deal with Hillcrest already. And by the looks of things, Claire’s put in all the hard yards on this project,” Jack said.
Underneath the sick feeling and the anger and the dread, she managed to be surprised at this response from Jack. He actually sounded uncomfortable, reluctant.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, people. I’m not suggesting for a moment that Claire be cut out of this thing. We would never do that to you, Claire—please be assured of that.”
Morgan took a moment to simply make eye contact with her, his faded blue eyes powerfully sincere. She held his gaze, wanting him to see she had what it took to survive this last hiccup.
“What exactly are you suggesting then, Mr. Beck?” she asked carefully.
“I want to assign Jack to Welcome Home as an associate editor for a while—six months, tops. Just so he can have a few meetings with old man Hillcrest, shoot the breeze, all that stuff Jack does so well. It’ll be purely window dressing. Jack’ll write up a few articles, and then we’ll just downplay his involvement until he simply disappears altogether.”
She tried to get her head around it. They wanted to give half the credit for her magazine, based on her concept, sold to the client by her, to this crinkle-shirted lothario slouching next to her?
“This…this really…” She struggled to find a way to finish her sentence that didn’t have the word “sucks” in it.
“I’ve got to agree with Claire, Morgan. Surely we can just tough this out? Once Hillcrest have the first edition of their new magazine in hand, they’ll be so dazzled they’ll forget any objections,” Jack said.
Morgan nodded, almost as though he was giving Jack’s suggestion some thought.
“We’ve gone over all this, Jack, believe me. What I’m suggesting is painless, simple and foolproof. I think we can all work together to pull this off, don’t you?”
There was no mistaking the sudden glint of steel in Morgan’s eyes now. She found herself fixating on the small tufts of hair remaining on his otherwise bald head. She’d always thought of them indulgently as pseudo teddy-bear ears, but now she realized he probably cultivated them to cover the scars from where he’d had his twin horns surgically removed.
“I’ll leave the details of all this up to you two, and I know I can rely upon you both to be discreet about this…arrangement.”
Somehow she managed to find her feet. Her legs felt numb and heavy, and the distance between her chair and the doors leading back to the reception area seemed a mile off. Morgan leaned forward and shook her hand, again going for the meaningful eye contact. He’d probably look that way as he was pushing her out of a lifeboat on the Titanic—deeply moved, but completely committed to saving his own backside.
