Nicola Marsh - Out of Hours...Office Affairs - Can't Get Enough / Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss / Bound to the Greek

“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 ’em coming,” 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 the Colorado River is 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.