After-Hours Negotiation: Can't Get Enough / An Offer She Can't Refuse. Sarah Mayberry

thing to admire breasts and thighs, but thinking that someone was cute when she smiled was moving into dangerous territory.

      “Three—Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

      “Sad, but predictable. Let me guess—you have a secret craving to travel the world, wear hats and be heroic?”

      He made a point of looking very patient and forbearing. “Four—Blade Runner. Best sci-fi movie ever made.”

      His look dared her to disagree, but she just shrugged.

      “I didn’t mind it,” she admitted.

      “You didn’t mind it? I s’pose you think the Colorado River is a nice little stream?”

      “Number five, cough it up,” she said, wisely ignoring his baiting.

      He took his time, making a big show of being very thoughtful. She didn’t buy any of it, but sat with a look that very plainly said, “I know you’re about to be very annoying, and I’m ready for it.”

      “It’s tough, very tough. A couple of good contenders. But I’m going to have to go with Porkies.”

      She managed to maintain a very creditable poker face. “That surprises me. You don’t think you’re overlooking some of the excellent work in Revenge of the Nerds? And let’s not forget that seminal classic, Bikini Shop.”

      He played along. “I did consider Bikini Shop briefly, but I decided it was too derivative. Plus there are more boob jokes in Porkies.”

      “Of course. I stand corrected.”

      The subterranean grumble of his unfed stomach hijacked the rest of the conversation. In the small confines of the lift, it seemed inordinately loud and he found himself staring at his own belly.

      “Sorry. I guess I’m hungry.”

      He hauled himself upright, aware that the waistband on his cargo pants had dropped a little with the movement. He patted his complaining stomach, then watched her eyes follow the motion. A small frown appeared between her eyebrows, just for a second, and when he glanced down he realized his scar was showing. Sighing, he braced himself for the inevitable “Wow, how’d you get that?”

      It never came. Instead, she turned to her handbag and started rummaging through it. He watched, perplexed, as her frustration grew until she finally just emptied the whole bag out onto the elevator floor. An enormous array of crap spilled out over the carpeted space between them, successfully distracting him from the increasingly hypnotic power her breasts seemed to hold over him. He surveyed the array of purse-rubble disbelievingly. This jumble of junk belonged to Claire “Crisply Ironed” Marsden?

      “Wow. You got a spare Learjet or helicopter in there we could use?” he asked as she began pawing through the debris.

      “Trust me, it’s all very valuable and necessary,” she said, intent on her search.

      He leaned forward to pick up a child-size water pistol.

      “Very handy with some clients, I’m sure.” For an insane moment, he wondered what she would do if he squirted her in the breasts with the gun, and then offered to lick the water off. Before he could so much as tighten his finger on the trigger, she reached up and took the water pistol out of his hand.

      “It’s my godchild’s. Here they are!”

      Triumphant, she held aloft a packet of mints as though she’d just found the Holy Grail itself. Very pleased with herself, she offered the pack to him.

      “Help yourself,” she encouraged him.

      She was very proud of her mints, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her they wouldn’t put a dint in his appetite. So he peeled off a mint, more than a little bemused by this new side to Claire. This godmother-to-someone’s-child, lover-of-action-movies, owner-of-a-junk-filled-handbag Claire. It didn’t gel with his previous ideas of her at all. If he’d thought about her at all—and he hadn’t, thanks to the boxy suits and the efficient way she had of cutting him dead each time she saw him—he’d have imagined her in one of those minimalist white apartments with everything arranged in tidy, geometric patterns. He’d have bet she made her bed with hospital corners, watched worthy historical dramas on public access TV and listened to opera in the original Italian.

      Now he knew that at least some of those assumptions were wrong. For starters, those ugly suits of hers had been hiding an Aladdin’s cave of earthy delights—exhibit A being those spectacular breasts, followed closely by the firm silkiness of her thighs. Plus she had a sense of humor. And she was messy, despite appearances, if her handbag was anything to go by.

      Floundering and uncomfortable with this new, far more sexy, human take on Claire Marsden, he tried gamely to cling to his old misconceptions.

      “Do you like opera?” he asked, wanting to be able to retreat to familiar, predictable territory. He made a bet with himself that she even knew Italian and had a season’s pass.

      She poked out her tongue playfully, something he’d never seen her do before. Who was this woman? And what had she done with the real Claire Marsden?

      “Hate it. And I know you’re going to call me a philistine now and tell me how beautiful and moving it is, but I’m just not into it, okay? So sue me,” she said.

      She was sucking on a mint, the action puckering her lips a little, and he had to drag his fascinated gaze away from her mouth to respond.

      “Bunch of incomprehensible screaming, if you ask me,” he said vaguely, beginning to worry again about Stockholm Syndrome.

      What if there was no cure? What if he got out of here and this feeling he was beginning to get—this sort of defrosting feeling coupled with a definite physical interest—what if it didn’t go away? He didn’t want to get to know Claire. He certainly didn’t want to like her, after all the crap she’d piled on him today. But the niggling thought that perhaps he’d misjudged her kept shouting for attention at the back of his mind. That, and the fact that he had an erection that was becoming increasingly difficult to hide.

      * * *

      HE WAS QUITE entertaining, really. But then, if you were going to be a successful playboy, she guessed you’d have to have a fair line in being charming and entertaining. Stock in trade, really.

      The movie talk had been fun. And she’d been surprised by how many movies they’d both liked. Of course, she’d expected him to be prejudiced against The Wizard of Oz. Only the truly good and insightful understood how great a movie it was.

      She finished stuffing all her bits back into her handbag, and settled once again into her lolling position on the floor. It was getting really warm now. All their talking hadn’t helped things any, sucking up all the available air. For a moment, she wondered about how airtight the lift was and imagined running out of oxygen. The walls seemed to frown in over her and all of a sudden she was finding it difficult to breathe again.

      “Claire?”

      When she didn’t answer, he nudged her foot with his, forcing her to look up. He tapped his nose, and she nodded as she remembered to follow his technique.

      After a minute or so of nostril breathing, she felt the tension in her chest easing.

      “Thanks.”

      “The nose knows.”

      She flapped a hand in front of her face, desperate for a bit of fresh air.

      “It’s just so stuffy in here. Now I know how microwave popcorn feels.”

      He shot her a look that plainly told her to quit whining.

      “I know, talking about it doesn’t make it any better. But surely we could pry the doors open a bit, get some fresh air in?” she suggested hopefully.

      But he just shook his head.

      “Sadly, I left my pry bar at home this