Out of Hours...Office Affairs: Can't Get Enough / Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss / Bound to the Greek. Кейт Хьюит
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one sugar, right?”
It was like James Bond and Ms. Moneypenny, only he was licensed to make her feel ill. Claire could feel her upper lip curling with distaste.
“How about you, Claire? Would you like a coffee, or tea perhaps?”
This came as Jenny was about to exit, an afterthought.
“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Claire managed to choke out, even dredging up a smile from somewhere.
Jenny disappeared into the small kitchen behind her desk, and Claire concentrated on the magazine she’d picked up. She should have paid more attention when she’d grabbed it from the pile on the table—Big Game Fishing was hardly her bag. Worse, as she flicked through it trying to find something to grab her attention, her eye was caught by the byline on the major story—Jack Brook. She rolled her eyes. Of course he was into big game fishing. What was she thinking? The man was practically Hemingway reincarnate, with his skydiving and racy car and chain of women and travel writing. He’d probably even run with the bulls in Pamplona.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stretch out his long legs, his tanned arm resting on the couch between them. He was amusing himself with the pencil he’d taken from Jenny, rolling it back and forth between his long, strong fingers. She found herself fixating on the dexterous movement of his hands for a beat. He has a body to die for. Katherine’s words slipped insidiously into Claire’s mind. Jack Brook would be an amazing lover, of that she had no doubt. The way he looked at women, the glint in his eye, the casual, animal elegance of his walk—the man simply screamed sex. There would be nothing tentative or uncertain about his technique—he looked as though he knew exactly what buttons to push, and when, and how hard, and…
Claire blinked, stunned at the direction her thoughts had taken. She must be stressed out or something. That was the only explanation for her aberrant thoughts.
Mindlessly flipping the pages, she surreptitiously checked her watch. What was it with big bosses and the waiting game? In all her years in publishing, she’d yet to walk straight into a superior’s office at the time of her appointment. There was always the standard keep-you-waiting ploy to be played out, just to remind you of your place in the pecking order.
A big male hand suddenly grabbed the page she was staring at blankly, pulling the magazine across so that Jack could see what she was reading.
“Thought I recognized that picture,” he said, stabbing a neatly manicured index finger at the photo accompanying his big article. It showed a snow-white, luxuriously appointed yacht bobbing on a brilliant azure sea. “Hell of a boat. Crew of fifteen just to run her. Now that’s money.”
She gritted her teeth.
“Spent a full week on her. Pretty hard coming back to nine-to-five-dom after that, I can tell you.”
“I wasn’t aware you worked nine to five,” she couldn’t resist saying. The man was always off on some stupid assignment somewhere.
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“I was speaking metaphorically. You know what that is, don’t you? As in—she was as sour as a lemon,” he said, and she sat up straighter. What a jerk!
“Actually, that’s a simile. A metaphor is more like—his ego was monumental,” she returned sweetly.
He was opening his mouth to respond when the door to Morgan Beck’s office swung open. Their heads swiveled as one and she didn’t need to look to know that Jack’s face wore the same friendly-not-too-sucky smile that hers did.
“Claire, Jack. Come on in,” Morgan said.
She stood, the smile almost slipping off her face. Up until this second, she’d been telling herself that Jack Brook’s visit to the thirtieth floor had nothing to do with her. And she’d almost been believing it. Now she gave free rein to the paranoid feminist within and began imagining half a dozen scenarios where she was shafted royally. Her stomach sunk below knee level as she followed Jack into Morgan Beck’s inner sanctum.
“Now, Jack, how much do you know about Claire’s new project for the Hillcrest Hardware chain?” Morgan asked, toying with an expensive-looking fountain pen as he leaned back in his well-padded executive chair.
“I understand it’s a custom magazine job, a monthly decorator title to be sold only in their stores at a cheaper than usual cover price to create customer loyalty,” Jack said.
She resisted the urge to stare at him. How did he know all this? She couldn’t have named a single title he worked for. Apart from Big Game Fishing, of course.
“Sounds like he’s got the important bits right, doesn’t it, Claire?”
She nodded, too anxious to trust her voice.
“Before we go any further, I want to acknowledge that this project has been yours, Claire, from the word go. But unfortunately, we’ve hit a bit of a snag. I’ve had my thinking cap on, though, and I’ve come to the conclusion that Jack might be the man to help us out.”
She swallowed hard and forced air into her lungs.
“This is a problem from Hillcrest, I’m assuming?” she asked, trying to find her feet.
“Yes, but don’t go getting too fussed about it. Old Hank Hill-crest is a dyed-in-the-wool sexist and he’s got some pretty wacky ideas. One of those is that the magazine’s outlook is too feminine.”
Claire frowned. Too feminine? Over half of the magazine’s content was aimed at offering heavy-duty building projects to experienced DIYers, along with reviews of new hardware and building products. In fact, the only feminine parts of the magazine were the decorator segments, and a small cookery section which was designed to showcase Hillcrest’s kitchen products.
She said as much to Morgan, and he nodded his head sympathetically.
“Claire, I know all this. They know all this. Hell, even cranky old Hillcrest knows all this. But he just doesn’t have it in him to let this go without putting his sticky fingerprints all over it. So, as I said, I had an idea.
“You probably don’t know this, but Jack started out his career with us in the Homes and Decorating division, writing up projects for our DIY titles. Over the years, he’s branched out, moved on. But I bet I wouldn’t be wrong if I suggested you still keep your hand in with a bit of DIY work here and there, right, Jack?”
She found herself turning to look at Jack, all the words of protest catching at the back of her throat. She was going to be sick. She was truly going to puke her guts up all over Morgan Beck’s polished walnut desk.
“Sure, Morgan, I’ve got a few projects on the go. But it sounds to me like you’ve got a done deal with Hillcrest already. And by the looks of things, Claire’s put in all the hard yards on this project,” Jack said.
Underneath the sick feeling and the anger and the dread, she managed to be surprised at this response from Jack. He actually sounded uncomfortable, reluctant.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, people. I’m not suggesting for a moment that Claire be cut out of this thing. We would never do that to you, Claire—please be assured of that.”
Morgan took a moment to simply make eye contact with her, his faded blue eyes powerfully sincere. She held his gaze, wanting him to see she had what it took to survive this last hiccup.
“What exactly are you suggesting then, Mr. Beck?” she asked carefully.
“I want to assign Jack to Welcome Home as an associate editor for a while—six months, tops. Just so he can have a few meetings with old man Hillcrest, shoot the breeze, all that stuff Jack does so well. It’ll be purely window dressing. Jack’ll write up a few articles, and then we’ll just downplay his involvement until he simply disappears altogether.”
She tried to get her head around it. They wanted to give half the credit for her magazine, based on her concept, sold to the client by her,