designer stubble?
Just because all of life's doors had swung open for him as he
approached, he wrote her off at a glance. So she wasn't one of the
beautiful people, and she wasn't gifted with the sort of charm that had
eased his way through life. She'd always thought those things didn't
matter—no, she knew they didn't matter. It was who you really were, inside and outside, that counted.
But then she blinked, and she felt a tear run down her cheek. God, she hated Jack Brook.
4
JACK STRETCHEDhis neck to one side and resisted the urge to check his
watch, knowing it would only read five minutes past the last time he'd
checked. Time dragged as only time could when you were bored out of
your mind and stuck in a small, enclosed space with someone who was
obviously thirsting for your blood.
He didn't need to be a mind reader to know that Claire Marsden was
mentally sticking pins in his voodoo doll doppelganger right now. He'd
intercepted one glance from her that was practically dripping with
animosity and got the message straight off. Well, she could stew in it,
for all he cared. It wasn't his problem.
Except, he couldn't seem to stop glancing across at her every now and
then. Just now she looked sad, infinitely sad, as she contemplated the
toes of her shoes. He felt a twinge of guilt about what he'd said.
Maybe he shouldn't have been so up-front. People had to have their
illusions about themselves, after all. And maybe, in her universe, she
was a barrel of laughs, the life and soul of the party. Maybe, in her
world, with her friends, she was considered a crazy caper merchant in
her conservative suits and sensible, safe car. What was it to him,
anyway?
Page 31
A trickle of sweat ran down his back and he became conscious of the
increasing stuffiness of the elevator. Without thinking, he slipped
open the buttons on his shirt and flapped the two sides to create a
breeze. Across the car, Claire glanced at him and then averted her eyes
as though he'd just dropped his pants and announced his intention to
have group sex with her favorite aunt. Uptight, that was what he was
talking about.
Almost as though she could hear his thoughts, Claire suddenly stood and
toed off her shoes. She looked taller from his position on the floor,
and he had a mighty fine view as she reached for the hem of her skirt.
Instinctively, she must have sensed this and she began turning toward
the wall. She hesitated for a moment, an obvious battle going on inside
her.
What was she up to? He wasn't sure, but it beat the hell out of not looking at his watch for entertainment.
She glanced across at him, their eyes locking as she wrangled with her
better instincts, and then he saw a muscle move in her jaw as she
steeled herself. With great deliberation, she hoisted her skirt up in
full view of him, reached for the waistband of her panty hose, and
tugged them down. He scored a flash of black underwear—lace? He
couldn't be sure—before her skirt dropped down discreetly like the
curtain at a peep show. Of their own accord, his eyes followed her
hands as she rolled each leg of her panty hose down, down, down to the
ground where she stepped out of them daintily. Aware he'd just been
staring like a horny adolescent, he snapped his gaze away and
contemplated the unmoving floor indicator instead.
He simultaneously became conscious of the fact that his heart rate had
just increased and he was sweating a little more. And he almost did a
visual double take on himself when he realized that another part of his
anatomy hadn't been exactly unmoved by her actions, either. Wow, he
must be really bored. This was Claire Marsden , after all, almost the
antithesis of everything he considered attractive in a woman: she was
brunette, he preferred blondes; she was serious, he preferred giggles;
she was short, he preferred statuesque….
His list of his favorite attributes trickled to a halt as he glanced
across at her and caught a flash of extremely toned, tanned thighs as
she
Just because all of life's doors had swung open for him as he
approached, he wrote her off at a glance. So she wasn't one of the
beautiful people, and she wasn't gifted with the sort of charm that had
eased his way through life. She'd always thought those things didn't
matter—no, she knew they didn't matter. It was who you really were, inside and outside, that counted.
But then she blinked, and she felt a tear run down her cheek. God, she hated Jack Brook.
4
JACK STRETCHEDhis neck to one side and resisted the urge to check his
watch, knowing it would only read five minutes past the last time he'd
checked. Time dragged as only time could when you were bored out of
your mind and stuck in a small, enclosed space with someone who was
obviously thirsting for your blood.
He didn't need to be a mind reader to know that Claire Marsden was
mentally sticking pins in his voodoo doll doppelganger right now. He'd
intercepted one glance from her that was practically dripping with
animosity and got the message straight off. Well, she could stew in it,
for all he cared. It wasn't his problem.
Except, he couldn't seem to stop glancing across at her every now and
then. Just now she looked sad, infinitely sad, as she contemplated the
toes of her shoes. He felt a twinge of guilt about what he'd said.
Maybe he shouldn't have been so up-front. People had to have their
illusions about themselves, after all. And maybe, in her universe, she
was a barrel of laughs, the life and soul of the party. Maybe, in her
world, with her friends, she was considered a crazy caper merchant in
her conservative suits and sensible, safe car. What was it to him,
anyway?
Page 31
A trickle of sweat ran down his back and he became conscious of the
increasing stuffiness of the elevator. Without thinking, he slipped
open the buttons on his shirt and flapped the two sides to create a
breeze. Across the car, Claire glanced at him and then averted her eyes
as though he'd just dropped his pants and announced his intention to
have group sex with her favorite aunt. Uptight, that was what he was
talking about.
Almost as though she could hear his thoughts, Claire suddenly stood and
toed off her shoes. She looked taller from his position on the floor,
and he had a mighty fine view as she reached for the hem of her skirt.
Instinctively, she must have sensed this and she began turning toward
the wall. She hesitated for a moment, an obvious battle going on inside
her.
What was she up to? He wasn't sure, but it beat the hell out of not looking at his watch for entertainment.
She glanced across at him, their eyes locking as she wrangled with her
better instincts, and then he saw a muscle move in her jaw as she
steeled herself. With great deliberation, she hoisted her skirt up in
full view of him, reached for the waistband of her panty hose, and
tugged them down. He scored a flash of black underwear—lace? He
couldn't be sure—before her skirt dropped down discreetly like the
curtain at a peep show. Of their own accord, his eyes followed her
hands as she rolled each leg of her panty hose down, down, down to the
ground where she stepped out of them daintily. Aware he'd just been
staring like a horny adolescent, he snapped his gaze away and
contemplated the unmoving floor indicator instead.
He simultaneously became conscious of the fact that his heart rate had
just increased and he was sweating a little more. And he almost did a
visual double take on himself when he realized that another part of his
anatomy hadn't been exactly unmoved by her actions, either. Wow, he
must be really bored. This was Claire Marsden , after all, almost the
antithesis of everything he considered attractive in a woman: she was
brunette, he preferred blondes; she was serious, he preferred giggles;
she was short, he preferred statuesque….
His list of his favorite attributes trickled to a halt as he glanced
across at her and caught a flash of extremely toned, tanned thighs as
she
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