Sarah Mayberry - After-Hours Negotiation - Can't Get Enough / An Offer She Can't Refuse

“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.

She’d instinctively clamped her thighs tighter around his neck as soon as her balance was in jeopardy, and she could actually feel him grin.

“Victory dance,” he said, and she held her breath as he twirled them both around in a little circle.

What a goof. But she couldn’t help smiling: ridiculous as it seemed, opening a stupid utility hatch felt like an achievement. She smiled as she felt the shifting of his strong shoulders beneath her as he danced a few more steps, and even managed a little bongo-drum accompaniment on his head.

She was still smiling when he announced he was going to let her down. He crouched low, and she maneuvered first one then the other leg off his shoulders, hastily pulling her skirt back down where it belonged before he turned around to face her, a jubilant smile on his face.

He’s beautiful. She tried to squelch the thought, to pretend it had never entered her mind.

“Feels better already. Way to go, team,” he said, holding his hand up in the classic high-five position.

She slapped his open palm, all the while trying to forget the feel of his hands on her thighs. And his hands sliding up her legs. And his face against her breasts.

Stop it, stop it, stop it.

This had to be caused by some weird combination of claustrophobia and lack of oxygen. That’s all this hyperawareness of him was. Hell, they probably did laboratory experiments like this all the time. At NASA or something. The Effects of Enforced Intimacy on Hardworking Female Executives. Or something like that.

Find something else to think about. Her frazzled brain sought desperately for a diversion as they both returned to their opposite sides of the elevator. She found her eyes tracking to the scar that slashed across his abdomen, and before she knew it the words had popped out. “That’s a pretty decent scar you’ve got there.”

She wished the words back the moment they were uttered. How rude! How invasive and nosy and rude! Wondering what sort of a kisser he was was better than being nosy. She could tell by the way his eyes dropped to the floor that he was thinking of some way to palm her off—which she deserved—and she rushed into speech again.

“Ignore me. I didn’t mean to say that. I think I’m oxygen deprived,” she blathered.

She could feel him watching her, assessing her, and then he shook his head minutely as though shaking something off.

“It’s okay. It’s pretty noticeable. Someone once told me it looked like a shark had attacked me.”

She made a disbelieving noise.

“Hardly. Unless sharks are getting medical training these days.”

He smiled a little, just a quirk of one side of his mouth. Then he said, “I donated a kidney to someone. My brother.”

She could tell it had cost him a lot to say it. And she could feel the weight of a long and sad story dragging the words down. This was not a story with a happy ending, she sensed.

“That’s pretty incredible. And scary. Your brother was lucky you were a match,” she offered, deeply uncertain about what to say.

He’d crossed his arms across his chest, the classic “locked off” signal in body language. She didn’t need it to know she was deep in territory he normally kept very private.

“Yeah. Well, not really. We were twins. Perfect match.”

His face was so carefully blank, but she could tell. There was a lot of anger and pain pent up in this man, and she guessed why.

“He died?” There was no other explanation for Jack referring to his brother in the past tense.

“Yeah.”

“What was his name?”

“Robbie. Or Robert, according to Mom.”

She was totally at sea. And she just knew she was going to say the wrong thing any second now. But she also knew she was being given a very privileged insight into Jack’s life. No one at work had ever gossiped about this stuff, and she knew absolutely that he didn’t talk about it. Normally.

But this wasn’t a normal situation, as she was beginning to appreciate more and more with each passing moment.

“I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” she volunteered. “I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose someone so close to you. Especially a twin. Was he a writer like you?”

He barked out a bitter little laugh, and she could see so clearly the anger inside him.

I bet you blame the world for Robbie being gone. I bet you blame God, Buddha, modern medicine and anyone else who comes to mind. But most of all, I bet you blame yourself.

“He was a doctor. A pediatrician. He just loved kids, and even though it cut him up when he couldn’t help someone, he always stayed in there, fighting away. But them’s the breaks, right? Fate, luck, destiny. Whatever. The doctor dies, the writer lives.”

The words could have peeled paint. She just let the anger wash over her. It wasn’t for her, anyway.

He ran a hand over his face, almost as though he was removing a mask or wiping something away.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Of course, it did. In fact, it was probably what shaped his life. She cocked her head to one side, considering. All her preconceptions, and observations, and judgments reorganized themselves and settled into a new pattern to accommodate this information, and she suddenly understood why Jack shied away from commitment, and drove a sports car, and skated by on the surface of things: he already had a world of pain to deal with, and he just didn’t have the room, or the time, or the inclination to handle any more.