his shirt had popped open she would have been bug-eyed and slathering with lust. But he just stood there, cool as a cucumber, completely unaffected by her near nudity. The bastard.
She crossed her arms in front of her breasts but a glance down revealed that this only made them seem to pop up and out over her bra even more. Yesterday in the elevator, and now this. She wanted to die, and as quickly as possible, please.
She could feel his eyes on her, and she settled for holding the two sides of her blouse together with one clenched fist.
“I’ve just been up seeing Morgan Beck,” she announced, determined to win back the initiative.
Perhaps if she just pretended she hadn’t practically forced herself on him, it would just go away.
“Figured as much.”
His tone smacked so much of casual expectation that she felt her anger heating up all over again.
“Well, thanks for consulting me first. Thanks a lot. I get hauled up there first thing this morning and he practically accused me of making you ask to be taken off the magazine.”
He looked surprised. “Where the hell did he get that from?”
“From you, I take it.”
“Well, you’re wrong. As usual. All I told him was that I had too much on my plate to take on your project, as well.”
She puffed her cheeks out to stop from swearing out loud, almost letting go of her blouse she was so furious.
“Take on my project?” she stuttered. “Are you forgetting that you were only ever going to be the token male, wheeled out for meetings to keep that Neanderthal at Hillcrest happy? Take on my project my ass!”
He frowned at her, straightening from his lounging position against his desk. Good. Nice to see him abandon his casual observer stance and wade in at last. She hated the idea that everything she did vastly amused him, that he liked poking her with a stick and seeing what she did next.
If only her heart hadn’t leaped as he took a step closer to her, she’d feel almost happy with the turn of events.
“Lady, you have rocks in your head if you thought I was ever going to just roll over and play dead. If I’m working on something, I’m working on it. I’m not in the habit of taking credit for something I didn’t do.”
“Morgan made the terms of your involvement very clear—it’s in name only. You are not sticking your oar into my magazine,” she declared hotly.
“Which is exactly why I told Beck I didn’t have the time for the project. You should be thanking me instead of carrying on like a harpy.”
This made her so angry she needed both hands free to gesticulate at him, and she abandoned her blouse to the Fates.
“You are the most arrogant man I have ever met. I can’t believe I actually—I can’t believe I didn’t implode out of self-defense after spending more than five minutes in your company yesterday.” She refused to acknowledge what she’d almost said, instead planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.
“Ditto. Again, another good reason for us not working together.”
“Well, get over it. Because I told Morgan we could sort this out,” she fired back at him.
He looked so surprised she almost laughed.
“You did?”
“Someone has to be grown-up about this. And I’m not going to see my magazine stall because of your ego.”
“My ego?”
He stared at her, but then, almost as if some irresistible force drew his gaze downward, his eyes dropped to her chest. She’d been aware that his eyes had strayed below her neckline more than once in the past few minutes. She felt his gaze like heat on her skin, and she swallowed nervously. Or was it excitedly? She was so confused right now, it was hard to tell the difference. In a split second all her thoughts turned from being furious with him to feverishly anticipating the touch of his hands on her breasts again. She wanted to feel the welcome weight of his body on top of hers. She wanted to touch his smooth, firm skin and hold the strength of him in her hands again. In an instant her panties were damp with wet heat, and her breath was coming short and sharp. She wanted him—but he had to make the first move. She couldn’t risk making herself vulnerable again.
JACK COULDN’T STOP his gaze from dropping to her breasts. He ordered himself not to look, but it was useless. What man could resist when fate had handed him such a golden opportunity? She was wearing a cream lace bra today, and her breasts curved lovingly into it, rising and falling with each breath she took.
She was so damn hot. How was he supposed to resist her when she was running around taunting him like this? He was trying to do the right thing here, trying to be a nice guy and spare her feelings. Because it would be the easiest thing in the world to just sleep with her again, drink his fill, explore the chemistry between them and then move on. He was doing her a favor, damn it—and now she was showing him exactly what he was missing out on.
All he had to do was reach out and pull her to him. His muscles tensed in anticipation. He’d slide her shirt off, then that bra—pretty as it was, it was nothing compared to her unadorned breasts. The pale pink of her nipples, the way they puckered so responsively under his touch, the taste of her, the heat of her skin, the little hitch she got in her breathing when he sucked her nipples deep into his mouth. He’d back her against the desk, pull up that prim little skirt of hers and slide himself into her. She’d get that look in her eye, that glazed but oddly intent look, and she would tilt her hips and tighten her strong, firm legs around his hips—
He didn’t need to look down to know that he was rock hard again, his erection straining against the fly of his jeans. Something had to give—and he had a feeling it was going to be him.
“For Pete’s sake, how am I supposed to concentrate? Come here,” 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.
