at least a dozen women at Beck and Wise could vouch for just how fond.
“Stupid slacker,” she ground out under her breath as she threw her car into reverse and began trawling for another spot.
Everyone knew that spot was hers. She made a point of parking there every day. Okay, so it didn’t actually have her name on it—Beck and Wise only reserved parking spaces for its very senior executives—but it was common knowledge.
And she knew for a fact that Jack Brook was fully aware of her attachment to the spot; she ignored him every time she passed him on her way to or from her car. Just last week she’d glided coolly past him, not acknowledging his presence with so much as the twitch of an eyelid. So he knew. Oh, yes, he knew.
At last she found another spot, a full five rows farther back than her usual one. She turned into it with more verve than necessary, and had to waste precious seconds correcting the error. The contents of her handbag were spread out across her passenger seat after her ad hoc repair mission in the traffic jam, and she scrabbled around until she’d stuffed them all back into her sleek black leather purse. Like much of her life, it looked perfect on the outside, its chaotic contents well hidden from prying eyes.
She broke into a fast trot as she cleared the first row of cars, but realized very quickly that no amount of training or conditioning could prepare someone for a hundred-yard dash in leather pumps. Slowing to a tight-assed scamper, she spared a glance for the gleaming red affront in her parking spot as she pushed open the door to the car park stairwell.
Jack Brook. Just thinking his name made her grind her teeth. From the moment she’d first laid eyes on him two years ago she’d had his number, and everything she’d heard or seen of him since had only confirmed that initial snap judgment.
Too good-looking for his own good—if you liked tall, dark, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered men.
Too smart for his own good, too—if you admired creative, clever, arrogant, witty minds.
And too damn aware of all of the above, as far as she was concerned.
Most of the women at Beck and Wise thought he was dreamy. Most of the men, too, come to think of it. If they weren’t admiring his latest magazine article, they were playing racquetball with him after work, or laughing at one of his jokes.
And he just made her want to spit. Call it an instinctive rejection of a type of man she’d always found incredibly unappealing. Call it the opposite of sexual magnetism. Whatever, it made her back go stiff whenever she caught sight of his dark head, it compelled her to press her full lips into a tight, ungenerous line at the mere sound of his voice, and it switched her clever tongue to take-no-prisoners mode. Not that it did her much good. Usually he’d just smirk at anything she said and throw some off-the-cuff smart comment her way—and damn him if nine times out of ten she wasn’t left floundering and feeling stupid. Another excellent reason to avoid him as much as possible.
It wasn’t that big a deal, usually. Beck and Wise was a huge publishing company, a media giant that produced hundreds of magazines for the Australian marketplace. Jack worked on a whole different floor to her—when he was in the office—on a whole different selection of magazine titles. If she put some effort into it, she could manage things so that she barely ever saw him.
But now he’d slipped his red penis-compensator into her parking spot, and she couldn’t simply assign him to his usual category of “necessary evil” and forget about him.
The automatic doors to the impressive thirty-story Beck and Wise building swished open as she entered, and she glanced longingly across at the foyer coffee shop as a hit of freshly ground coffee beans washed over her. No time for coffee today. She spared a thought for her favorite double mocha latte, eyeing the distinctive steaming cup in the hands of one lucky, contented customer. Her eyes automatically lifted to scan the coffee-lover’s face, and she felt her lips assume their usual streamlined position as she looked into Jack Brook’s deep blue eyes.
Bastard. Now he had her favorite parking spot and her favorite coffee.
She forced herself to look away, concentrating instead on the elevator bank ahead. Checking her watch, she stabbed the up button urgently, then sighed with relief as the doors in front of her opened on a cheery chime. Entering, she punched the button for her floor, then looked up to see Jack bearing down on her, his stride lengthening as he sped up to beat the doors. They made eye contact again, and the corners of his ridiculously blue eyes crinkled as he flashed one of his patented engaging grins at her.
“Could you…?” he called, just a few steps away now.
She moved instinctively, her finger reaching for the button before her conscious mind could approve or disapprove the action. He’d stolen her parking spot, after all. And he had that delicious-looking coffee in his hand…
The doors began to slide shut. Realizing what she’d done, his eyes widened with confusion and then, quickly, annoyance. She tried to despise the little zing of triumph that shot up her spine, but when the doors closed completely she didn’t fight the smile that leaped to her lips.
Take that, Smug-boy, she thought.
And then she saw her reflection in the polished steel elevator doors: a huge smear of lipstick raced up her cheek like some bizarre experiment in modern art. Groaning, she closed her eyes. Why did Jack Brook always have the last word?
* * *
JACK STOOD STARING at the closed elevator doors for a full twenty seconds. What was it with that uptight cow from the fifteenth floor? Claire Something-or-other, that was her name. Always frowning. Her lips always squished into nothingness. Her chin always high and haughty. And what was with the weird lipstick?
He shook his head, genuinely baffled. To his knowledge, he’d never done a thing to offend her. Yet every time he smiled her way she blew him off. It was as if she’d caught him double-dipping, or cheating on his taxes, or something.
He hated women like that. Women who acted as though every gesture of friendliness, every joke or helpful suggestion was about you trying to crack their defenses and get them into bed. As if he’d be interested in some tightly stitched-up chick who’d probably just lie there and stare at the ceiling anyway. Thanks, but he’d rather fly solo.
He stepped into the next elevator car and punched the button for the seventeenth floor. Claire What’s-her-name didn’t have anything to worry about where he was concerned. He liked his women young—sub-twenty, if possible—bubbly and full of life. Preferably in a bikini, but a one-piece was also acceptable. He grinned. Okay, so he was exaggerating a little, but if the hat fit…
He took a sip of his latte, then shook his head as the image of Claire’s bestriped face disappearing behind the closing elevator doors popped into his mind. God, how petty. How stupid and silly and petty.
And then he got it. He threw back his head and laughed out loud at exactly the same time that the elevator car slid to a smooth stop on the fifteenth floor—someone must have pressed the up button. Heads turned as people looked up from their work, and he saw Claire’s head snap around and her eyes narrow as she spotted him from her office doorway. He grinned and fished in his pocket, pulling his car keys out and dangling them suggestively.
Her lips practically disappeared as she glared at him, and he gave her a little finger wave as the doors closed between them for the second time that day.
She was pissed about the parking spot! He practically giggled as he relished the moment.
