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

Smiling sweetly at him, she spread her shirt out on the scratchy industrial carpet, then rerolled her jacket into a tighter pillow.

“I’m going to see if I can get some sleep,” she told him blithely.

He was still just sitting there, an unreadable expression on his face. Probably didn’t know what to say now that she’d proved him wrong. Typical.

CHAPTER FIVE

JACK CONCENTRATED FIERCELY on the idea of puppies frolicking in fresh snow. He conjured up an image of a fresh alpine stream, clear water burbling over mossy rocks. He even resorted to imagining a photograph of his grandmother, the one where she was looking very stern and schoolmarmish. None of it stopped the rest of his body from whooping it up over the sight of Claire Marsden in a bra. Whoever designed her suits and blouses was a master of disguise, that was for sure. The CIA should be talking to that guy. Hollywood should be using him instead of all that computer gimmickry they were all so fond of these days.

Because Claire was hot, and Jack had never even suspected it. From the soft, even tan across her chest and torso to the gentle rise of her breasts from one of the sexiest bras he’d ever seen, she was a revelation.

Hot. Damn hot.

It wasn’t just that she was built—although that had a lot to do with it. Her breasts were definitely on the generous side, definitely a very nice handful. And it wasn’t just the ripple of highly toned muscles on her stomach—although that was pretty damn good, also. It was more that it all fit together so well. She was small but perfect, and generous in all the areas she should be.

In short, hot.

His body seemed determined to worship that hotness in its own very special way, and no matter what he told himself—she’s a shrew, she hates me, she probably irons her underwear—he was unable to stop it. Thank God he was sitting with his knees drawn up and his back against the wall. Thank God she’d decided to go to sleep, and that she’d rolled to face the wall. Perhaps with those breasts out of his immediate view he could get a grip on himself. Figuratively speaking.

It was a bit disconcerting, really. Not since the uncertain years of adolescence had his body been so at odds with his mind. Because she just wasn’t his type. And they didn’t get along, at all. And, if he was being completely honest, she annoyed him. She was bossy, and defensive, and too quick with a smart comeback. Too much trouble, all round. So it was very strange to be annoyed and irritated by her, but also wonder what color her nipples were, and if she tasted as good as she looked.

Very confusing. Disturbing, even.

He checked his watch, then returned to studying her back. Damn if she didn’t have a nice back, too—smooth, unblemished skin, nicely shaped vertebrae—

He pulled himself up short. Nicely shaped vertebrae? Was he going insane?

A little desperate, he cast a glance around his brushed steel cell and then suddenly got it. Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever it was called. That thing where the people were held hostage and started to identify with, and like, and sympathize with their captors. That’s exactly what was happening here—Stockholm Syndrome! She was his captor, and he was starting to sympathize with her. Once he was restored to his normal environment, nature would reassert itself.

Relief washed over him. Good old science—always there with an explanation for everything.

Following her example, he decided to try for some shut-eye. If they were going to be in here for another five or so hours, sleeping some of it off was a really good idea. Of course, he wasn’t feeling very snoozy, but if she could sleep, so could he.

He lay down, quickly becoming aware that the carpet was the prickly, unforgiving type that was designed to survive a nuclear holocaust. He sat up and spread out his shirt like a towel at the beach. Once on his back, he stared at the ceiling, his hand automatically sliding down and across his belly and beneath the waistband of his pants to find the long scar that cut low across his stomach and around his side. He couldn’t feel the familiar ridge under his fingers without thinking of Robbie, and he made a point of thinking of Robbie every day. It was the least he could do because it was all he had left.

People always talked about feeling as though they’d lost a part of themselves when a loved one dies, but Jack knew with rock-solid certainty that he’d lost the best part of himself when his twin brother succumbed to kidney disease.

Even though it had been three years now, he couldn’t think about it without tasting the bitterness and anger again. It should have been him. Robbie had always been smarter, stronger, funnier. Robbie had been the one who’d chosen medicine, while Jack had been just bumming around, trying to find something that held his interest. If fate had to take someone, it should have been him.

“It’s so hot in here.”

It was almost a relief to be distracted from his own thoughts.

“Not much we can do about it,” he replied, knowing it would annoy her. After all, it was what he was good at.

“Imagine if Robinson Crusoe had that attitude. We need to be innovative, think outside the box. Or the elevator, I guess.”

His eyes still on the ceiling, he shook his head minutely in exasperation.

“This isn’t Gilligan’s Island, Mary Ann. We can’t just bake a batch of coconut cream pies and wait for the Professor to find a way to get us back home.”

“Ginger, if you don’t mind.”

“What?”

“Ginger. I always wanted to be Ginger, not Mary Ann.”

That surprised him so much that he turned to look at her and found she was on her back also, and was looking at him. Without his permission, his eyes flickered down to her chest. Her full breasts strained at the fabric of her bra now that she was on her back, and he felt a definite tightening in his groin. What was it with him and those breasts? He’d seen great breasts before. And he’d see them again. Plenty of them, in matched sets. These weren’t the only breasts in the world. So why was he suddenly so hot to see them and touch them and taste them?

“Ginger was a redhead,” he said, forcing himself to concentrate on the subject at hand.

“So? On the inside, maybe I’m a redhead.” Her eyes dared him to contradict her.

“Hey, it’s your split personality, not mine.”

“Exactly.”

Their old friend silence crept back into the elevator. Jack bent his legs and rested one ankle on the opposite knee, for something to do. And to try and distract himself from thinking about her breasts.

He bet they were firm. Firm, and sensitive. He bet if he took her nipple into his mouth, she’d cry out. He had a flash of Claire’s eyes clouded with desire, her lids slightly lowered, her mouth open and wet.

“Who would you have been?” she asked suddenly.

“What?” he asked, almost starting with guilt.

“On the island. Who would you have been?” she repeated.

“Mr. Howell.”

“You’re kidding? Ugh!”

She sounded genuinely disgusted. He had a natural skill in this area, it seemed.

“Come on, think about it. He was rich, he managed to work it so everyone else did everything for him and he still had his main squeeze with him on the island.”

She laughed. Another surprise—she had a sense of humor.

“You’re the most practical playboy I’ve ever met,” she said.

She was smiling again, her face just an arm’s length or so away. It was almost like being in a very large bed, him on one side, her on the other. His body had things to say about the idea of being in bed with this new-improved, friendly, black-bra-wearing Claire Marsden, and he ruthlessly changed the subject. And kept his eyes fixed firmly on her face.

“Okay, Desert Island Top Five,” he announced.

“I don’t think we need to pretend we’re trapped on a desert island, do you?”

She had a point.

“Trapped in an Elevator Top Five, then. All-time favorite movies,” he said.