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

Two reader-favorite office romance stories about mixing business with pleasure…

Can’t Get Enough by Sarah Mayberry

Jack Brook and Claire Marsden have to work together, but they don’t have to like it! Of course, that all changes when they get stuck in an elevator and have the best sex ever! Back in the office they’re still butting heads, but with an all-new awareness. How long can they resist before having another round of sexy indulgence?

An Offer She Can’t Refuse by Shoma Narayanan

Her interview with Darius Mistry, Mumbai’s most prestigious investment fund director, isn’t what businesswoman Mallika was expecting. Is he flirting with her? Is she flirting back? Their scorching chemistry makes turning down his job offer difficult, but Mallika has responsibilities. Ones not even Darius’s killer charm can make her abandon…

HARLEQUIN OFFICE ROMANCE COLLECTION

Who says you can’t mix business with pleasure? Definitely not these couples…

Office politics can be messy as it is, but mix in a handsome boss or irresistible coworker and work life becomes plain messy. And the stakes have never been higher for these couples. Not only are their careers on the line, but so are their hearts.

These men and women may have started out with opposing agendas, intending to keep things professional, but once the spark is lit, they know that life on the job is going to be anything but business as usual.

Professional rivalry never felt so good…or so complicated!

After-Hours Negotiation

Can’t Get Enough

Sarah Mayberry

An Offer She Can’t Refuse

Shoma Narayanan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CAN’T GET ENOUGH Can’t Get Enough

Sarah Mayberry

AN OFFER SHE CAN’T REFUSE Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.

Shoma Narayanan

Many thanks to the gang at Neighbours , and to my friends and family for always believing. Special thanks to La-La, and to Wanda for making my writing better. Lastly, thanks to Chris, who has taught me so much about storytelling. You’re my romantic hero, and I love you.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

CLAIRE MARSDEN WAS LATE. She hated being late almost as much as she hated brussels sprouts. And she hated brussels sprouts a lot. Traffic inched forward, and she craned her head out her window, confirming that the entrance to the company parking complex was just five car lengths ahead. Unfortunately, there were five cars occupying those five car lengths, and they were all moving as though they were powered by arthritic turtles. She willed them to move faster, concentrating intently on the shiny bumper of the pickup in front of her.

Nothing. So much for any latent powers of ESP she might have.

Might as well use the time to slap on some lipstick. She flipped her visor mirror down and blinked in horror at the too-close image that reflected back at her: eyes red, nose just beginning to peel thanks to too much sun on the weekend and a hefty gob of what her godchild Oscar rather charmingly called “eye booger” in the corner of one eye.

“Aren’t you the belle of the ball,” she told her reflection.

A dab of moisturizer, some judicious use of Kleenex and a swipe of lipstick went a long way to repairing the damage. She was just completing the last curve of pink-brown lipstick across her lips when the car behind her honked. A jagged lipstick smear raced up her cheek before she could control her reflexes.

Realizing the lane was now clear all the way to the coveted car park entrance, she slapped the visor up, deciding to fix her face later. With an apologetic wave for the driver behind her, she accelerated forward and zipped up the entrance ramp with a spurt of speed.

Now it was simply a case of snagging her favorite spot near the stairwell, and she could still make her first meeting of the day….

She frowned as she pulled up in front of her spot. A shiny red sports car gleamed smugly there, light reflecting off its sleek curves. Its owner had gone to the trouble of reversing in—obviously a fan of the quick getaway. The frown creasing her forehead deepened. She knew the owner of this car, and, indeed, he was fond of the quick getaway; at least a dozen women at Beck and Wise could vouch for just how fond.

“Stupid slacker,” she ground out under her breath as she threw her car into reverse and began trawling for another spot.

Everyone knew that spot was hers. She made a point of parking there every day. Okay, so it didn’t actually have her name on it—Beck and Wise only reserved parking spaces for its very senior executives—but it was common knowledge.

And she knew for a fact that Jack Brook was fully aware of her attachment to the spot; she ignored him every time she passed him on her way to or from her car. Just last week she’d glided coolly past him, not acknowledging his presence with so much as the twitch of an eyelid. So he knew. Oh, yes, he knew.

At last she found another spot, a full five rows farther back than her usual one. She turned into it with more verve than necessary, and had to waste precious seconds correcting the error. The contents of her handbag were spread out across her passenger seat after her ad hoc repair mission in the traffic jam, and she scrabbled around until she’d stuffed them all back into her sleek black leather purse. Like much of her life, it looked perfect on the outside, its chaotic contents well hidden from prying eyes.

She broke into a fast trot as she cleared the first row of cars, but realized very quickly that no amount of training or conditioning could prepare someone for a hundred-yard dash in leather pumps. Slowing to a tight-assed scamper, she spared a glance for the gleaming red affront in her parking spot as she pushed open the door to the car park stairwell.

Jack Brook. Just thinking his name made her grind her teeth. From the moment she’d first laid eyes on him two years ago she’d had his number, and everything she’d heard or seen of him since had only confirmed that initial snap judgment.

Too good-looking for his own good—if you liked tall, dark, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered men.

Too smart for his own good, too—if you admired creative, clever, arrogant, witty minds.

And too damn aware of all of the above, as far as she was concerned.

Most of the women at Beck and Wise thought he was dreamy. Most of the men, too, come to think of it. If they weren’t admiring his latest magazine article, they were playing racquetball with him after work, or laughing at one of his jokes.