Two
Claire couldn’t hear Jacob’s footsteps when he left. The Oriental carpet in his office was too thick. She did hear the creak of leather when he sat in his chair, followed by the quiet click of keys that indicated he was using his computer. She opened the top folder. Instead of reading the contents, though, she stared straight ahead.
He wanted to put her skills to use?
The look in his eyes…well, she wouldn’t call it obvious. Jacob West was not an obvious man. But it had been personal. And sexual.
The faint tapping of keys in the other room stopped. Claire found herself listening, wondering what he was doing now. He hadn’t said a word about her past. Did that mean he wasn’t aware of it? Or was he possessed of an extraordinary degree of tact?
Jacob West didn’t strike her as a man much interested in tact. But he was interested in her. And she…but it was her body that was interested, not her. She’d get over that.
It would have been simpler if her new boss had been old or fat or interested in men, though.
She’d handle it, she assured herself. Men hated rejection. Once she’d figured that out, it had made her life a lot easier. Most men tested the waters before risking rejection with an outright pass, and she’d learned to give the right signals to discourage them. Of course, a few were so blinded by youth, hormones or sheer conceit that the only signal they would notice involved a two-by-four.
Claire didn’t think Jacob West was blind. She thought he was unusually observant. That was the problem. The man made her hot, and he knew it.
This time it was his voice that distracted her. It was pitched low, as if he were talking on the phone.
I don’t yell, he’d said. No, she thought, a man with a voice like that—crisp and smooth at the same time, like good whiskey—wouldn’t have to raise his voice.
She huffed out an exasperated breath. Enough. West had seen her response to him, and in return he’d let her know he was interested. So, okay, that was nothing to get upset about. Eventually her lustful thoughts would die a natural death. In the meantime, she would keep them to herself.
It occurred to her that this was the man her cousin had advised her to have a screaming affair with. The thought was so absurd she chuckled. No way was she that foolish.
In the other room, he stopped speaking. Leather creaked, and she pictured him shifting in his chair, maybe stretching out those long legs of his, the thigh muscles taut beneath the pressed slacks…
There was a radio on her desk next to the yellow phone. Claire punched the power button, and some country singer started crooning about a fool-hearted man.
She listened for a moment, but couldn’t hear anything from the other room over the music. Satisfied, she leaned back in her own chair and started reading.
From his office, Jacob heard the radio come on and scowled. He had five things he needed to do right now, and another ten that should be handled promptly. And all he could think about was the woman in the room next to his.
What in the hell had Sonia been thinking of?
Claire McGuire. He’d thought the name sounded familiar, but he hadn’t made the connection. Not until he saw her.
He reached for the coffee he’d forgotten an hour ago. It was, of course, cold. Frustrated, he saved the data he’d been unable to concentrate on and leaned back in his chair.
Claire McGuire. The woman who had driven Ken Lawrence mad.
That was nonsense, of course. A sane man didn’t lose his grip on reality because of a woman. But the phrase had made a great sound bite, and the media had played up the femme fatale angle. They’d had help with that from Ken Lawrence’s parents, who had made Claire sound like a woman who could teach “fast” to a rabbit.
The Lawrences moved in the same circles Jacob did. He knew them socially, but they didn’t interest him. They were snobs—dull people who made up for what they lacked in imagination by owning the right things and knowing the right people.
Six years ago when the story broke, he’d felt sorry for the parents, contempt for the son and very little interest in the whole sordid story.
Yet he’d remembered her face, had known who she was within seconds of seeing her. No surprise there, he thought, opening his address book. That face was, quite simply, unforgettable. Add to that a body made for sin, and you had a combination that could make any man beg.
Almost any man, he amended mentally as he picked up the phone.
He punched in a number he used frequently in the course of business, but his mind wasn’t on what he did. Instead he saw a smooth curve of cheek and a full, unsubtle mouth. Eyes bright as the summer sky after a storm. The flare of a hip against pleated linen slacks, and a narrow waist mostly hidden by a blazer the color of those eyes.
She was nothing like Maggie. Maggie had suited him, made him relax. Claire McGuire was anything but relaxing.
“North Investigations,” a pleasant voice said into his ear.
“This is Jacob West. I need to speak to Adam North.”
“Just a moment, sir. He’s on another line.”
Jacob waited. And he saw, again, Claire’s smile. It was crooked, disturbing the symmetry of that perfect face and making her seem more human. Dangerously so. And he remembered the thought that had hit him the second he saw her, before he recognized her—before, even, the impact of her beauty had time to register.
Mine.
On her fifth morning at the West mansion, Claire awoke with her pulse throbbing between her legs and dreams sleeting off her, brightly colored images slipping away with each sleepy blink of her eyes.
Erotic images. Though she couldn’t remember the content of the dream, she knew it had been highly erotic. And she knew who had starred in it. Good grief. She stared up at the ceiling, throbbing and restless. Is this what men have to put up with every morning?
More to the point, was this what she would have to put up with every morning she stayed in this house?
Her real problem wasn’t her boss. Jacob had behaved himself. Oh, she’d caught him watching her sometimes. And sometimes, his pale eyes went from ice to white-hot for a second, before he realized he’d been spotted and promptly slammed the shutters closed again. But he never said or did anything objectionable. Aside from the occasional display of a sneaky sense of humor that a less observant woman might have missed altogether, Jacob had been a model of businesslike behavior—demanding, yes, but respectful. Distant, for the most part. Though he had begun to seem cautiously friendly the past couple of days…
She was vastly relieved that he’d picked up on her hands-off signals. And vastly aggravated, because relief wasn’t all she felt.
It was her own unruly imagination she had to watch out for. No surprise there, she thought, and grimaced. At least, it shouldn’t be. Hadn’t she always been the cause of her troubles? Her impulses, her lack of judgment, had snarled up more than just her own life.
Well,
