Out of Hours...Office Affairs: Can't Get Enough / Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss / Bound to the Greek. Кейт Хьюит
Читать онлайн книгу.
he said, reaching toward her impatiently.
Before Claire could object she’d been forcibly hauled forward by the lapels of her shirt. His body was hard and warm against hers, and for a beat they stood pressed against each other, neither saying a word, their eyes locked together. Her mind was racing. Was he going to kiss her again? God, she wanted him to—even after the humiliation of last night, she wanted him, bad. A muscle twitched in his jaw, and she inhaled sharply, feeling the fullness of her breasts press against his chest. Then he grabbed something from his desk, jamming it between them. A metallic click sounded, and he pushed her away.
She blinked down at her shirt, staring in growing indignation at the staple now holding her blouse together more modestly. Two messy hunks of fabric stuck out on either side of the staple—a five-year-old with bad eyesight could have done a better job.
“This is a Gucci shirt,” she said slowly, enunciating carefully so he understood exactly what he’d done.
“I was doing you a favor. I know how uptight you are about public displays of underwear.”
She felt a stress twitch break out below her left eye. She was sure that if she had her lawyers introduce the ruined Gucci shirt as exhibit A during her murder trial, she could fully justify turning his stupid desk stapler on him till he died the death of a thousand tiny puncture wounds.
She managed to ignore the fact that once again she had been putty in his hands, while he remained supremely unaffected. She could bring that realization out later and really soak up the rejection. But for now, there was her favorite shirt to consider….
He seemed to sense the surge of homicidal feeling rising within her, because he wisely moved away until the desk was between them.
“As much as I enjoy having you carp at me, I do have another meeting in five minutes. So if you don’t mind…?” he said carelessly.
She stood there, her hands curled into two tight fists by her sides.
“I’m not leaving this office until we’ve sorted this out. I need a man to talk golf and football with Hillcrest, and you are a man. But that’s all I need. I don’t want you writing big-game-fishing articles for Welcome Home, I don’t want you interfering in the design process and I certainly don’t want you having any say over editorial content.”
He cocked his head to one side as though he was actually considering it. “Gee, you make it sound like such an attractive gig. No.”
She glared at him, reading the determination in every line of his body. He was even breathing a little faster, just like her. He was like her in many ways, she realized, remembering all the things they’d found in common yesterday. And before she could stop herself, she was considering how she’d react if he came to her with this offer. What if there was some female-oriented magazine he was working on, and he needed a Trojan horse woman to get him in under the client’s radar…?
Some of her self-righteous anger faded as she acknowledged that she’d have told him to stick his stupid offer where only the doctor could surgically retrieve it. Kind of like he just had, after ruining her favorite shirt. Forcing herself to push her personal feelings of humiliation and rejection to one side, Claire decided to be pragmatic. She wanted to get her magazine up and running, and to do that, she needed to do a deal with this devil.
“Okay, what’s it going to take?” she asked suddenly, changing tactics midstream.
He eyed her warily. “Don’t tell me you’re that desperate.”
“Jack, Beck has given me no choice on this. So…what’s it going to take?”
A significant pause stretched between them. She could see his mind ticking away, no doubt trying to come up with the most outrageous demand he could formulate. She braced herself.
“Give me a project every issue. You’ve got a furniture-making section, yeah? Give me something in that, and I’ll press the flesh and laugh at old man Hillcrest’s bad jokes. It’s that, or nothing. I can’t take credit for something I didn’t even touch.”
She was aware that her jaw was hanging slackly and she made an effort to not look too witless and stunned. She’d been expecting something offensive at best. This was…well, very reasonable.
“That’s it? That’s all you want?” she clarified.
“Don’t sound so disappointed.”
Once again she was on the back foot. Why did that always happen with this man?
“I just…I thought you would…Look, it doesn’t matter. The project idea is good. Actually, it’ll be helpful. I’m sort of breaking in a project guy, and he’s a bit nervous about taking on the full workload,” she stumbled, trying hard to regain some kind of professional footing.
A hard task when your most prominent fashion accessory is a stapled cleavage.
“Fine. Can I have my office back now?”
He sounded bored. Her back went up again like clockwork.
“Of course. Just say the word,” she said, aware her voice came out hard and tight.
“I thought I did,” he drawled.
She blinked at him, aware that his casualness had caught her on the raw. Just when she thought he was a decent human being, he had to go and be like this.
She heard a heavy sigh from him behind her as she headed for the door.
“Claire, hang on a minute. About last night—” he began to say, and she realized with horror that he was about to offer her some sop for not calling.
“It’s fine, Jack. Already forgotten,” she said briskly.
“I want to explain. I just think that you’re—” he tried again.
She spun around, desperate to stop him from saying something about how mistaken she was, how she’d misunderstood him. “Forget it. Okay? I wish the whole thing had never happened. Enough said.”
He held her gaze for a moment, and she hoped she looked suitably indifferent. If humiliation resembled indifference in any way, she figured she had a chance.
“Your call,” he said, and she shot him a look. Had he meant to choose those words, exactly?
Impossible to tell. She attempted to reassemble a little dignity and self-respect around herself.
“I’ve got a meeting scheduled with Hillcrest tomorrow at ten,” she said coolly, already turning toward the door.
“Fine. I’ll be there.”
She paused on the threshold of his office.
“And please wear a tie. Hillcrest is a traditional man.”
“Hillcrest will have to learn to loosen up a little. Do him good.” He had a dangerous, indolent air, along with a definite “give it your best shot” glint in his eye.
She took a deep breath and reached for some patience. “Jack. Please. Just once. Is it so painful to be conventional, even for just five minutes?”
He shrugged, oozing innocence from every pore. “Hey—I don’t even own a tie. So it’s irrelevant.”
She made an exasperated noise in the back of her throat. He was laughing at her again, leaning against his desk, his broad shoulders silhouetted against his stunning corner-office view.
“Fine. Come in your best holey T-shirt and grass-stained jeans, forget to shave, stink of beer and scratch your furry face through the whole meeting. See if I care.”
With that, she wheeled out of his office, slamming the door behind her. Or at least trying to. Except it had one of those nifty pneumatic door closers on it, and all she got was a bit of kickback when she tried to force the mechanism.
She could still hear his laughter when the elevator doors closed on her. She headed straight