After-Hours Negotiation: Can't Get Enough / An Offer She Can't Refuse. Sarah Mayberry
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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.
She shot him a look, seemed about to say something, hesitated and then spat it out anyway.
“I thought you were angry with me.”
He shrugged. “You want to spend another five hours arguing or sitting here glaring at each other?”
“Good point. Okay. Top five movies. The first one is easy—The Big Sleep, definitely.”
He couldn’t help himself. “Surprise, surprise.”
“Excuse me?”
“Everyone picks a black-and-white movie, preferably something with Bogie in it. Gives you street cred.”
“But it’s my favorite movie!” She sounded outraged.
He made sure there was a heavy dose of doubt in his tone. “Of course it is.”
“Wait till it’s your turn,” she warned him. “Second movie would be When Harry Met Sally. I can watch it over and over and it’s still clever and funny.”
“So predictable, not even worth commenting on.”
She threw him an exasperated look.
“You know what’s predictable? You not agreeing with a word I say. I swear if I said the sky was blue, you’d disagree with me just for the sake of it.”
“Depends.”
She snorted with exasperation this time, and he found he was enjoying needling her like this.
“On what, pray tell?”
“If it was nighttime or daytime.”
She half laughed at his lame joke, and he tried not to notice how pretty she looked and the way her breasts jiggled invitingly. Those damn breasts!
“Okay, third movie. Getting tougher now. Have to have a comedy in there, otherwise it’s just way too boring.”
She stretched one leg in the air, waggling it around aimlessly as she considered her options. Jack’s eyes followed the hem of her skirt as it slid down to reveal more of her thighs. As if her breasts weren’t doing him enough damage. But it was impossible to keep his eyes from the sleek, tanned firmness of her legs. She really had great legs. They looked strong, and flexible. Like they could grip a man hard around the hips as he—
“There’s Something About Mary!” she said suddenly, and he threw a mental bucket of cold water on himself.
She was watching for his reaction, so he simply looked thoughtful, although he was really quietly impressed. And not a little surprised. The lady didn’t mind a good dose of potty humor. Not what he would have picked from her at all. Great breasts, great thighs and fond of puerile comedy. If they hadn’t been stuck in this elevator together, she would have taken those secrets to her grave.
“Hmm.”
She shook her head and continued. “Fourth movie… Something I can watch again and again, but is still fun… Con Air.”
He nearly sat up he was so shocked. “No way!”
“What?”
“You do not like Con Air.”
“I think I do.”
“No way.”
“Jack, I think I know if I like a movie or not. And I want Con Air as my number four.”
“But—”
She was lying on her side now, leaning on her elbow. Her hand on her face made her cheek squish up, making her look almost cherubic and more than a little naughty as her eyes sparkled across at him.
“What’s your problem?” she demanded.
“I was going to have Con Air,” he admitted.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Something in common. Scary,” she said.
“You’re telling me.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll never happen again. And you can have Con Air on your list, too.”
“But then we’ll have two copies of the same movie.”
She almost laughed at his little gag, the twisting of her lips giving it away.
“Fifth and last movie…The Wizard of Oz.”
“The singing munchkins? The wicked witch of the west? You’re not watching that in my elevator, I can tell you.”
She was getting better at not reacting to his jibes.
“Your turn.”
She sat up, rubbing her hands together with exaggerated anticipation, obviously looking forward to shooting him down in flames. He found himself admiring the dancing light in her eyes, and the way she leaned forward slightly, ready to take him on. The fact that her new position also gave him a great look at her cleavage was irrelevant. Completely irrelevant.
“Number one—His Girl Friday, with Cary Grant and Rosalind Russell.”
He enjoyed watching her indignation grow.
“But you picked on me for having a black-and-white movie!”
“That’s just me, I guess. I’m a contrary bastard.”
Her eyes narrowed and she made an encouraging motion with her hand. “Keep ’em coming,” she prodded him.
“Number two—Rocky. But only the first one. I hate sequels.”
She rolled her eyes. “Typical. Macho movie about men being manly.”
“You finished?”
She smiled brightly. “Not really. But it’ll keep.”