time, she questioned some of the stories she’d heard about him, and some of her value judgments. So, he dated a lot. Was that so bad? And then she remembered twenty-three-year-old Fiona from Legal, her heart-shaped face blotched with tears as she explained how Jack had made an excuse for not staying the night in her bed after they’d done it. He’d ended their short romance the next day at lunchtime.
He didn’t deserve sympathy. Fiona deserved sympathy—as well as a good kick in the wazoo for letting herself be suckered in by Mr. Silvertongue.
Claire was considering trying to take a nap when movement caught her eye and she looked up to see Jack shrugging out of his shirt.
“What?” he asked defensively. “You want me to ask permission or something?”
What a jerk.
“You can take it all off for all I care,” she told him stiffly.
He raised an eyebrow, obviously doubting her. “Feel free to take off whatever you want, too,” he said idly, the glint of his eyes giving away the fact that he was mocking her.
She could feel her lips disappearing again and she forced them to behave before he noticed. He was sooooo annoying. She’d truly never met anyone else who could get her so riled so quickly.
What was it about him that got up her nose so much? She studied him through her eyelashes, trying to work it out, and found her gaze drawn to the broad expanse of hairy chest he’d just exposed. All that huntin’-shootin’-fishin’ obviously agreed with him because he was in pretty good shape, his pecs nicely defined, his stomach flat, the hint of strong abdominal muscles showing as he breathed. She knew from experience how tough it was to get lean enough to see those ab muscles, and she reassessed her notion of his sybaritic lifestyle. Okay, maybe he wasn’t out wining and dining every night. Every second night, probably. He’d need to, just to fit in all his office romances.
It was nice to see a bit of hair on a chest, she decided idly, feeling drowsy in the stuffy atmosphere. Most male triathletes made a habit of waxing their chests to gain a little less drag in the water, and it had been a while since she’d seen a nicely haired male chest. He had a good tan, too, and the hairs looked healthy and dark and springy against his brown skin. Her eyes followed the trail of hair as it narrowed over those taut abs of his until it was just a promise as it disappeared altogether beneath the waistband of his pants. She found herself staring at a point just below his waistband, wondering again about exactly how gifted Jack was supposed to be….
“Can I help you with anything?”
She started out of her daze, suddenly realizing she was staring unashamedly at his crotch. Flaming embarrassment swept up her body in a burning wave, and she was powerless to do anything about it.
She was a good blusher, she’d learned to her detriment over the years. Even her ears glowed when she was totally humiliated. Like now. She felt almost incandescent with heat and she resolutely kept her gaze away from his as she fought to control her own body.
But the more she thought about it, the more she seemed to sizzle and glow, and she tried not to think about how guilty and pathetic she must seem to him.
At last the flush seemed to dissipate, but it left her feeling unbearably hot. Her blouse felt sticky, confining and oppressive. Briefly, she flicked an envious gaze across at Jack’s bare chest, only to be caught in the knowing beam of his blue eyes.
A small residual flood of color washed her cheeks as she tore her gaze from him. He was laughing at her! Why, oh, why had she stared at him like that? Was she so hard up that the first bit of decent male action to come her way sent her into zombie-drool mode? Even if that male action was attached to the world’s most annoying personality?
She flapped her blouse ineffectually, succeeding only in moving around more hot air.
“Take it off.”
It was a dare, not a suggestion. A challenge, and the expression on his handsome, smug face told her that he knew she wouldn’t take him up on it.
Her hands were on her buttons before she could think. One button, two, three. And he just sat there, his lips quirked to one side, apparently vastly amused by everything she did. She tried to remember which bra she’d put on this morning. Not the stretched-out one with the pills and the no-nonsense, no-trim elastic. Please, not that one. She wanted so badly to peek beneath her blouse to check, but then he’d know. The man was psychic. He’d definitely know.
Four buttons, only three to go now. A patch of black bra showed in her peripheral vision. Maybe if she glanced down casually, just as though she wasn’t sure where the next button was? She risked it, sighing with relief when she saw her unexciting but presentable plain black bra. It was a simple, smooth cup style that was more about good design and elegance than frills and see-through bits, and she was damn grateful that she’d put it on this morning. More confident now, she slipped the last button loose, tugged her blouse open and began working on the buttons on her cuff.
He was still watching her, she could feel it. Trying to pay her back for gawking at him earlier, obviously. She could handle it. It was just like wearing a crop top during training, and while she wasn’t into showing off her body and flashing it around, she was quietly confident that it was in good shape.
She shrugged the damp silk from her shoulders and slid it off her arms as nonchalantly as possible. Determined to prove she was not the uptight prude he thought she was, she sighed loudly.
“You’re right, that’s much better.”
She even circled her shoulders around, as if she was warming up for a swim. His eyes were glued to her, and she was loving it.
“Yep, that’s definitely better,” she repeated, mostly just to annoy him.
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
