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

as she considered what Katherine had said. Gifted… What exactly did that mean? Was that about the finger-licking thing, or the part of his trousers that was holding her attention right now?

      “You know, a fling with someone like Jack could be exactly what you need,” Katherine said.

      Claire jerked her attention back to her friend.

      “Are you insane? I wouldn’t sleep with Jack Brook if you paid me. He’s cocky, conceited, smug—and a complete man-slut.”

      “I see.”

      Katherine was smiling knowingly, and Claire bristled. Determined to prove her point, she leaned across the table.

      “If you gave me the choice of kissing Jack Brook or punching him in the face, I’d choose the punch every time,” she said firmly.

      “Ah. So you have thought about kissing Jack, then?”

      Claire was about to launch into all the reasons why she considered Jack Brook to be subhuman when Katherine’s face suddenly lit up as though she’d just thought of something funny. She laughed, nodding her head as though she’d just worked something out. Claire frowned at her, suspicious.

      “What?”

      “I just remembered something. I was talking about you with Jack once. He wanted to know why we were friends—he thought you were prissy.”

      Claire sat bolt upright in her seat and glared across at Jack. What a pig! How dare he call her prissy? What a horrible thing to say—as if she was some dried-up spinster aunt or something. She had the urge to go over and give him a piece of her mind….

      “Where does he get off talking about me like that?” she snapped, dragging her gaze away from Jack to find Katherine studying her speculatively.

      Claire suddenly felt very exposed under her friend’s knowing gaze.

      “I mean, as if I care what a jerk like him thinks about me.”

      Katherine simply quirked an eyebrow disbelievingly.

      “Can we please talk about something—anything—else?” Claire asked, fiddling with her paper napkin and cutlery.

      To her everlasting relief, their sandwiches arrived.

      “You’re lucky I’m really hungry,” Katherine said lightly. “You’re off the hook—for the moment.”

      * * *

      TWENTY MINUTES HAD turned into half an hour by the time they settled their bill and made their way back to the elevator. Claire thought Katherine had let the subject of Jack Brook drop entirely, but just as they were parting ways, Katherine suddenly got serious. Despite Claire’s protestations, Katherine insisted on explaining why she and Jack had broken up. Claire listened with arms crossed, determined not to give Katherine any more reasons to jump to ridiculous conclusions about her and Jack Brook. Given that every word her friend said just confirmed her preconceived beliefs about the man, it wasn’t hard.

      “I just want you to go in with your eyes open,” Katherine finally concluded.

      “Kat, hell will freeze over before I even consider having a polite conversation with that man,” Claire said.

      “If you say so.”

      Claire was shaking her head as she returned to her office, bewildered by Katherine’s determination to imagine some sort of…thing between her and Jack Brook.

      “Not in a million years,” she muttered to herself as she began packing her briefcase for her afternoon appointment at Hillcrest Hardware.

      “Claire! Oh, my God—I’m so glad I’ve found you!”

      It was Tom, sweaty and excited in her doorway.

      “I was checking your e-mails while you were at lunch—Morgan Beck wants to see you at two! I went straight down to the coffee shop, but you’d already left…”

      Galvanized, Claire checked her watch, then sighed with relief when she saw it was only ten to two. Plenty of time to get up to the thirtieth floor—if she hustled.

      She forced herself to suppress the many panicky thoughts that were suddenly clamoring for attention and equal-opportunity worry time in her mind and instead focused on her schedule for the rest of the afternoon. She’d have to push back that appointment with Hillcrest, then… It was no use—all she wanted to do was fret over this unprecedented call from the thirtieth floor. Why would Morgan Beck want to see her out of the blue like this? Surely Welcome Home had been well and truly signed, sealed and delivered? They’d praised her, promoted her to editor, handed the whole project over into her capable hands. What more was there to say?

      “Tom, I need you to ring Hillcrest Hardware and tell them I’ll be approximately twenty minutes late,” she said, slinging her handbag over her shoulder and grabbing her briefcase. “I’ll head straight out after seeing Mr. Beck.”

      Tom was taking notes, loving the excitement of the moment.

      “I’ll ring the traffic report and leave a message on your cell phone if there are any traffic delays,” he suggested eagerly.

      “That would be great, thanks,” she said, hiding a smile at his action-stations demeanor.

      Satisfied that she’d covered all bases, she headed for the ladies’ room, her mind working overtime trying to find the reason behind this summons. The mirror revealed that hectic color stained her cheeks and the first thing she did was sluice a great handful of cold water over her face. Patting it dry with some hand towel, she took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.

      Be calm. Everything is fine. They can’t take this off you now—it’s your idea, she told herself.

      The mantra appeared to work. Her heart climbed down from her throat and back into her chest to resume normal activities, and she quickly dabbed on some mascara and a fresh layer of lipstick. Wetting her fingers under the tap, she spruced up her short curls, ensuring her face was framed nicely. One final check over, the last-minute realization that she had a blouse button undone flashing her belly button, and then she was out of there and heading for the elevator.

      Five to two. She pressed the call button. Even if the elevator stopped on every floor, she’d be on time. Some of the tension eased out of her shoulders and she rotated her left arm a little. It was still sore from last night’s workout, but post-exercise soreness was simply the price you paid for getting stronger. And she needed strength if she was going to lift her personal best time and place in the state triathlon finals in two weeks’ time.

      Claire tried to be objective as she considered her chances of scoring a place in the final three. She’d shaved several seconds off her swim and bike legs over the past few months, but she still needed to build stamina for the long hill runs. She was confident she was getting there, though. Every training session was a gain.

      It was one of the things she loved about triathlons—for her, the races were more about beating herself than the other competitors. Each time she went out there, she was competing with her own best times—and success or failure was never a matter of opinion, but objective fact. She liked that, liked knowing that she was getting somewhere, slowly but surely. Becoming the best person she could be. And, of course, it was a great way of burning off all the stress from a hard day in the office.

      Despite all the promises she’d made herself, she couldn’t stop her mind from thinking about Harry. The closer she got to the finals, the more he crept into her thoughts. Would he come to watch her? She shook her head at her own naïveté—of course he wouldn’t. The only reason she continued to invite him to events of interest in her life was out of some bizarre sense of courtesy. It was a little game they played, she and her father, where she pretended he might be interested, and he came up with a palatable excuse for why he wasn’t.

      The elevator door pinged open in front of her, and she stepped inside and pressed the button for the thirtieth floor, suppressing the little flash of nervousness that usually accompanied