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

Linda looked up with a smile when Claire stopped at her desk.

“I need to see Jack,” she said baldly.

Linda’s smile faded as she registered Claire’s mood, and Claire immediately felt like a jerk.

Perhaps she was taking this pushy thing a little too far….

“I mean—how are you?” she tried again, summoning a smile of her own.

“Fine. Jack’s not in right now,” Linda volunteered.

She shifted her gaze to the closed door over Linda’s shoulder.

“Is that a he’s-in-but-doesn’t-want-to-be-disturbed not in, or a real not in?” she asked, trying to keep the annoyance out of her voice.

“He’s in a meeting down in Sports,” Linda expanded.

“Right.” Claire stood for a moment, tapping her toe as she considered her options. She could leave a message for him, go back down to her office, get stuck into some work.

She shook her head. She could just imagine him screwing up any message she left him and tossing it in the bin as he headed out to an executive racquetball game.

“I’ll wait,” she announced suddenly. Then she pointed to Jack’s office door. “In there.”

Linda opened her mouth to protest, but Claire sailed past and into Jack’s inner sanctum. She did a quick survey of the room, aware that Linda had followed her and was standing behind her.

“Can I get you a coffee while you wait?” Linda asked politely, nothing in her tone giving away her true feelings.

“I’m fine, thanks,” she said.

Linda gave a small nod and exited, closing the door behind her.

So she can warn him without me overhearing , Claire guessed. Well, tough. He’d have to come back here some time.

She glanced at the two seating options—a hard-looking chair at the front of Jack’s desk, or a squishy-looking sofa in the corner. She opted for the squishy sofa, throwing herself into it impatiently. It embraced her like an overly affectionate uncle, its cushions giving way alarmingly so that her butt sank low enough to lift her feet off the carpet.

Only Jack Brook could have a bucket-seat couch, she thought, struggling to lever herself up and out of its tenacious hold. She’d worked herself into a sweat and only managed to wriggle her hips forward, finally getting her high heels on the ground, when the door swung open and Jack entered. His blue gaze swung around like a spotlight and she felt the completeness of his scrutiny, becoming painfully aware of her flushed cheeks, the way her skirt was rucked up and the fact that the buttons at the front of her blouse were strained and gaping open because of the way her arms were levered behind her. This was not the way she’d imagined seeing him for the first time after what had happened between them. Neither had she imagined that her body would instantly go onto high alert, eager for any signal from him. Suddenly her breasts felt tight and sensitized in her bra, and she was aware of the brush of her silk shirt against her skin.

She gritted her teeth against the knowing smile dancing around Jack’s lips and pushed herself up and out of the sofa with a surge of power. It was like coming out of quicksand, and she staggered a little before finding her balance.

Jack just watched her all the while, one hip braced against his desk, his arms folded across his chest. She stood panting before him, pushing her skirt back down.

“That’s the most stupid couch in all the world,” she said, aware that any advantage she’d had was long gone.

“I like it,” he said simply.

“You would.”

She tried to regain the towering anger and feeling of self-righteousness she’d had when she arrived not two minutes ago. Unfortunately, most of her was too busy remembering what it had felt like to be pressed up against his chest, to have his hands on her skin and his tongue in her mouth. A floodgate of sense memories threatened to engulf her—the look on his face as he slid inside her; the small noise of appreciation he’d made when he’d first seen her bare breasts; the moist heat of his breath against the skin of her neck as he shuddered out his climax. She blinked, overwhelmed for a moment by a surge of desire. Fortunately for her dignity, close on the heels of those searing memories came the painful reminder of how humiliated she’d felt when he didn’t call last night.

Snap out of it , she told herself, squaring her shoulders and looking him in the eye. The effect was ruined somewhat when one of her blouse buttons popped off, performing a little somersault in the air between them before tumbling to land at his feet. The cool breeze on her torso told her that once again her underwear was on display, and she was unable to stop the flush of heat that was even now flooding her face.

“We really have to stop meeting like this,” he drawled, stooping to pick up her button.

She hated him for his casual nonchalance—if his shirt had popped open she would have been bug-eyed and slathering with lust. But he just stood there, cool as a cucumber, completely unaffected by her near nudity. The bastard.

She crossed her arms in front of her breasts but a glance down revealed that this only made them seem to pop up and out over her bra even more. Yesterday in the elevator, and now this. She wanted to die, and as quickly as possible, please.

She could feel his eyes on her, and she settled for holding the two sides of her blouse together with one clenched fist.

“I’ve just been up seeing Morgan Beck,” she announced, determined to win back the initiative.

Perhaps if she just pretended she hadn’t practically forced herself on him, it would just go away.

“Figured as much.”

His tone smacked so much of casual expectation that she felt her anger heating up all over again.

“Well, thanks for consulting me first. Thanks a lot. I get hauled up there first thing this morning and he practically accused me of making you ask to be taken off the magazine.”

He looked surprised. “Where the hell did he get that from?”

“From you, I take it.”

“Well, you’re wrong. As usual. All I told him was that I had too much on my plate to take on your project, as well.”

She puffed her cheeks out to stop from swearing out loud, almost letting go of her blouse she was so furious.

“Take on my project?” she stuttered. “Are you forgetting that you were only ever going to be the token male, wheeled out for meetings to keep that Neanderthal at Hillcrest happy? Take on my project my ass!”

He frowned at her, straightening from his lounging position against his desk. Good. Nice to see him abandon his casual observer stance and wade in at last. She hated the idea that everything she did vastly amused him, that he liked poking her with a stick and seeing what she did next.

If only her heart hadn’t leaped as he took a step closer to her, she’d feel almost happy with the turn of events.

“Lady, you have rocks in your head if you thought I was ever going to just roll over and play dead. If I’m working on something, I’m working on it. I’m not in the habit of taking credit for something I didn’t do.”

“Morgan made the terms of your involvement very clear—it’s in name only. You are not sticking your oar into my magazine,” she declared hotly.

“Which is exactly why I told Beck I didn’t have the time for the project. You should be thanking me instead of carrying on like a harpy.”

This made her so angry she needed both hands free to gesticulate at him, and she abandoned her blouse to the Fates.

“You are the most arrogant man I have ever met. I can’t believe I actually—I can’t believe I didn’t implode out of self-defense after spending more than five minutes in your company yesterday.” She refused to acknowledge what she’d almost said, instead planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.