Can't Get Enough (7 page)

Hell, maybe everyone thought she was uptight. Miserable, she hunched down against the wall.
Page 30

She racked her brain, trying to think of the last time she'd done
something spontaneous and impulsive. There'd been that time when she'd
snuck in the back way at the movies with her boyfriend…but that was
when she'd been sixteen, and didn't really count anyway as she'd
practically wet her pants with terror she was so worried about getting
caught.

What about that time she and some triathlete friends had gone
skinny-dipping after a late night beach party? Except that she had been
one of only a few who'd chosen to swim in their underwear instead of
going the full skinny….

Okay, all right. What about that crazy hat she'd worn to her best
friend Jo's party last year? She'd found it in an old magic shop, a top
hat with a bunny jumping out of it. She'd won best prize at Jo's party
with that hat.

She suppressed a groan and rested her head in her hands. A hat. She was trying to pin her personality on a stupid novelty hat.

She glared across at the man who'd started all this, focusing all her
self-doubt and insecurity on him and his big mouth and insensitive
comments. What did he know, anyway? Who was he, sitting there with
those stupid sandals and his perfect hair and his designer stubble?
Just because all of life's doors had swung open for him as he
approached, he wrote her off at a glance. So she wasn't one of the
beautiful people, and she wasn't gifted with the sort of charm that had
eased his way through life. She'd always thought those things didn't
matter—no, she
knew
they didn't matter. It was who you really were, inside and outside, that counted.

But then she blinked, and she felt a tear run down her cheek. God, she hated Jack Brook.

4

JACK STRETCHEDhis neck to one side and resisted the urge to check his
watch, knowing it would only read five minutes past the last time he'd
checked. Time dragged as only time could when you were bored out of
your mind and stuck in a small, enclosed space with someone who was
obviously thirsting for your blood.

He didn't need to be a mind reader to know that Claire Marsden was
mentally sticking pins in his voodoo doll doppelganger right now. He'd
intercepted one glance from her that was practically dripping with
animosity and got the message straight off. Well, she could stew in it,
for all he cared. It wasn't his problem.

Except, he couldn't seem to stop glancing across at her every now and
then. Just now she looked sad, infinitely sad, as she contemplated the
toes of her shoes. He felt a twinge of guilt about what he'd said.
Maybe he shouldn't have been so up-front. People had to have their
illusions about themselves, after all. And maybe, in her universe, she
was a barrel of laughs, the life and soul of the party. Maybe, in her
world, with her friends, she was considered a crazy caper merchant in
her conservative suits and sensible, safe car. What was it to him,
anyway?

Page 31

A trickle of sweat ran down his back and he became conscious of the
increasing stuffiness of the elevator. Without thinking, he slipped
open the buttons on his shirt and flapped the two sides to create a
breeze. Across the car, Claire glanced at him and then averted her eyes
as though he'd just dropped his pants and announced his intention to
have group sex with her favorite aunt. Uptight, that was what he was
talking about.

Almost as though she could hear his thoughts, Claire suddenly stood and
toed off her shoes. She looked taller from his position on the floor,
and he had a mighty fine view as she reached for the hem of her skirt.
Instinctively, she must have sensed this and she began turning toward
the wall. She hesitated for a moment, an obvious battle going on inside
her.

What was she up to? He wasn't sure, but it beat the hell out of not looking at his watch for entertainment.

She glanced across at him, their eyes locking as she wrangled with her
better instincts, and then he saw a muscle move in her jaw as she
steeled herself. With great deliberation, she hoisted her skirt up in
full view of him, reached for the waistband of her panty hose, and
tugged them down. He scored a flash of black underwear—lace? He
couldn't be sure—before her skirt dropped down discreetly like the
curtain at a peep show. Of their own accord, his eyes followed her
hands as she rolled each leg of her panty hose down, down, down to the
ground where she stepped out of them daintily. Aware he'd just been
staring like a horny adolescent, he snapped his gaze away and
contemplated the unmoving floor indicator instead.

He simultaneously became conscious of the fact that his heart rate had
just increased and he was sweating a little more. And he almost did a
visual double take on himself when he realized that another part of his
anatomy hadn't been exactly unmoved by her actions, either. Wow, he
must be really bored. This was Claire Marsden , after all, almost the
antithesis of everything he considered attractive in a woman: she was
brunette, he preferred blondes; she was serious, he preferred giggles;
she was short, he preferred statuesque….

His list of his favorite attributes trickled to a halt as he glanced
across at her and caught a flash of extremely toned, tanned thighs as
she settled down on the floor.

A tan. Claire Marsden had a tan. His mind boggled. He simply couldn't
imagine her in a swimsuit. Another assessing glance at her. Nope,
couldn't do it. Her long-sleeved, high-necked, roomy blouse defied his
attempts to make it disappear, and, for the life of him, he couldn't
come up with a mental image of what her body might be like. Well, apart
from kind of square and boxy, like her car and her suits. Given his
many years of training and expertise in imagining women naked or in
their underwear, he decided this was another point in favor of his
argument for boredom being the cause of any…interest his body might
have displayed over the panty hose incident. Case closed. Still, her
legs were in pretty good shape…He gave himself a mental slap. What, was
he in high school again? Could he perhaps think of something that did
not pertain to the bare-legged woman sitting opposite him?

He was surprised how much effort it took for him to keep his gaze away
from those legs and that tan. Concentrating fiercely, he imagined the
next stage in restoring the antique dining table he was working on as a
surprise for his mom for Christmas. It would look great in the corner
of her living room, and he knew she would love it. Not that he'd be
there to see her reaction. His parents were expecting him to fly home
Page 32

to Sydney , but he would send the table instead. He wasn't up for the
big family get-together this year. The gruff sadness of his dad, the
empty place at the table, the grief in everyone's eyes when they looked
at him and saw Robbie. Jack had enough trouble with his own grief
without dealing with the weight of theirs.

For starters, there'd be the inevitable kitchen-sink conversation with
his mom as she washed the vegetables for dinner. It was her favorite
territory for heart-to-hearts, although in a pinch she'd take whatever
venue was offered. She'd fix him with her knowing blue eyes and tell
him it had been three years now, and he needed to let go. But she
didn't know how it felt. None of them did. Then his dad would invite
him to tour the garage to check out his latest power tool acquisitions.
And in between explaining the clutch on his new hammer drill, he'd make
some kind of reference to Robbie and hope that Jack would open up. But
that was never going to happen. His grief was like a rock inside him,
granite hard and permanent, a part of him now.

No. He wasn't going home for Christmas this year. He'd find somewhere
in theCaribbeaninstead, and go scuba diving and dally with bikini-clad
tourists. His parents would understand. They'd have to. Across the car,
Claire shifted and cleared her throat.

"Do you think we should make contact with Ted again, see how things are
going?" she asked. He checked his watch. They'd been stuck in here for
an hour now. He shrugged.

"Guess it couldn't hurt."

Standing, he reached for the phone, quickly becoming aware of how much warmer it was in the top half of the car.

"I'll never bitch about air-conditioning again," he murmured as he waited for Ted to pick up.

"What did you say?"

He glanced at her, caught by the arrested expression on her face.

"Air-conditioning. Usually I don't like it—dries everything out. But
I'm beginning to understand why it's a necessary evil in a building
this size."

She gaped at him, surprise in every line of her body.

"That was true?" she said, something like awe in her voice. He frowned. What on earth was she talking about?

"What?"

She seemed to suddenly realize what she'd said. She shrugged,
elaborately casual, dropping her eyes to avoid meeting his. "Nothing.
Is Ted not answering?"

He frowned, aware that something had just happened there. He was about
to pursue it, but Ted chose that moment to pick up the phone.

Page 33

"Yes, number six?"

"Ted, we were just wondering how things are going? Rescue team in action yet? Any news on when the power might be back?"

"Negative on the power situation. Not expected to be up and running
until O–one hundred. Rescue team is in place, and setting up. Estimated
extraction time per car—half an hour to an hour." Jack suppressed a
smile at Ted's military-style reporting. This was probably about as
exciting as it got in Ted's line of work.

"Right. So, when can we expect to be, uh, extracted?"

"Car six has only two occupants, and, as such, is a low priority at this stage," Ted said evasively.

"How long, Ted?" Jack insisted.

A pause.

"Let me check on that for you. Hold on."

He rolled his eyes.

"Because I have so many other places I can be right now," he muttered.

"What's he saying?" Claire asked, hope in her voice.

"Don't get excited," he warned her just as Ted picked up the receiver at the other end again.

"Best estimate is between three to five hours, Mr. Brook."

"Thanks, Ted. Don't be a stranger."

Jack put the receiver down and turned to face Claire. She was standing
now, and he saw how short she was without her high heels on. Tiny,
really—she barely came up to his armpits.

"Three hours is the minimum, I'm afraid."

He watched her closely, worried she might flip out again.

"Relax, I'm not going to freak out again," she assured him. "In fact, this little experience may have cured me for good."

They sank down into their opposing corners again, and he made a special
effort to avoid looking at her as she settled. It didn't stop him from
imagining
her thighs again, of course, but it gave him the illusion of self-control….

Silence took over again, and he replayed the small moment before Ted had picked up the phone. What had really happened then?

"Before, when I was talking about the air-conditioning, you said something," he prompted, watching her
Page 34

face carefully.

She was all surprise, widening her eyes innocently as she
tried
to remember. Pity she sucked as an actress.

"Did I? I don't remember," she said.

"Right. And you never inhaled, either."

His challenge hung between them for a moment, then she shrugged.

"Fine. You want it, you got it. When you broke up with Judy Gillespie
from Accounts, she told everyone about how you made her turn off her
air-conditioning when you stayed the night, even though she got heat
rash if it got too warm. I didn't believe it at the time." He just
stared at her, his mind numbed for a moment by this revelation. She
raised her eyebrows at him, obviously expecting an answer.

"Nice to know my private life is public property," he finally managed
to say. She laughed, one of those short, sharp mocking laughs that
women use to cut men off at the knees.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" he squawked. He sounded more than a
little defensive, and he forced his shoulders to relax.

"Come on. You've dated more than half the eligible females in the
building. You think they don't talk about you, compare notes? You think
they don't warn every new woman who joins the company?" Compare
notes?For a moment he felt exposed and vulnerable, and then he reminded
himself that he had nothing to be ashamed or worried about. He prided
himself on the fact that no woman left his bed unsatisfied. If half the
women's magazine complaints he'd read over the years were true, he was
doing okay.

"Yeah? What do they say?"

He could see his cockiness got under her skin, and he felt on firmer ground now.

"You want the truth?" she asked, daring him.

How tough could it be? Maybe a few complaints about him breaking up
with some of them, but most of his office flings had been just that—two
adults satisfying a mutual curiosity. He was confident he could handle
a bit of woman-scorned bitterness.

"Sure. Hit me."

Her expression should have warned him. She actually looked wary, almost as though she was afraid of what she was about to say.

"They say that you're fun and adventurous, but as soon as anything
serious develops you run scared. Also, that you're afraid of
commitment, afraid of feelings and impossible to talk to. That even
though you're good in bed, they never really felt as if you were really
there with them. That—"
Page 35

"Okay, thanks, I think I get the drift," he cut in, holding up a hand
to stem the tide. A profound silence settled between them as his brain
whirled round and round trying to process, adjust and justify her
words.

"You did ask."

She actually sounded guilty.

"Hey, don't worry about me. I think I know enough about human nature to understand where those kind of comments come from."