Sarah Mayberry - Cant Get Enough (Harlequin Blaze #211)

Sarah Mayberry

Claire Marsden was hot

And Jack had never suspected it.

He conjured up an image of a fresh Alpine stream, clear water burblingover mossy rocks. He even resorted to imagining a photograph of hisgrandmother, the one where she was looking very stern and schoolmarmish. None of it stopped the rest of his body from whooping it up over thesight of Claire wearing only a bra. Suddenly he was thankful for theheat inside the elevator that had necessitated her removing her shirt.

From the soft, even tan across her chest and torso to the gentle riseof her breasts from one of the sexiest bras he'd ever seen, she was arevelation.

She was hot. Damn hot.

His body seemed determined to worship that hotness in its own specialway, and no matter what he told himself, he was unable to stop it.

Not since the uncertain years of adolescence had his body been so atodds with his mind. Claire wasn't his type. And they didn't get along.So why was he wondering if she tasted as good as she looked?

Dear Reader,

How fantastic to be writing those two words! I've been reading romancenovels since I was twelve, and I'm over the moon to have my first novelpublished with Harlequin. The central idea for Can't Get Enoughcame from my experience working on a TV drama inAustralia. As astoryliner , I spent most of my time locked in a small room with fourother people, bashing around ideas and sharing incredibly incriminatingand embarrassing stories from my life. I quickly learned that despitefirst impressions, it's impossible to hold on to your prejudices whenyou really get to know someone. It was a great life lesson, and auseful lesson for my characters Claire and Jack, too. I hope you enjoyreading Can't Get Enough as much as I enjoyedwriting it. I'd love to hear from you. You can contact me via e-mail atsarahjmayberry@hotmail.com or mail me in care of Harlequin Books, 225Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9,Canada.

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Cheers for now,

Sarah Mayberry

CLAIREMARSDENwas late. She hated being late almost as much as she hatedbrussels sprouts. And she hated brussels sprouts a lot. Traffic inchedforward, and she craned her head out her window, confirming that theentrance to the company parking complex was just five car lengthsahead. Unfortunately, there were five cars occupying those five carlengths, and they were all moving as though they were powered byarthritic turtles. She willed them to move faster, concentratingintently on the shiny bumper of the pickup in front of her.

Nothing. So much for any latent powers of ESP she might have.

Might as well use the time to slap on some lipstick. She flipped hervisor mirror down and blinked in horror at the too-close image thatreflected back at her: eyes red, nose just beginning to peel thanks totoo much sun on the weekend and a hefty gob of what her godchild Oscarrather charmingly called "eye booger" in the corner of one eye.

"Aren't you the belle of the ball," she told her reflection. A dab ofmoisturizer, some judicious use of Kleenex and a swipe of lipstick wenta long way to repairing the damage. She was just completing the lastcurve of pink-brown lipstick across her lips when the car behind herhonked. A jagged lipstick smear raced up her cheek before she couldcontrol her reflexes. Realizing the lane was now clear all the way tothe coveted car park entrance, she slapped the visor up, deciding tofix her face later. With an apologetic wave for the driver behind her,she accelerated forward and zipped up the entrance ramp with a spurt ofspeed.

Now it was simply a case of snagging her favorite spot near thestairwell, and she could still make her first meeting of the day.

She frowned as she pulled up in front of herspot. A shiny red sports car gleamed smugly there, light reflecting offits sleek curves. Its owner had gone to the trouble of reversinginobviously a fan of the quick getaway. The frown creasing herforehead deepened. She knew the owner of this car, and, indeed, he wasfond of the quick getaway; at least a dozen women at Beck and Wisecould 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 thereevery day. Okay, so it didn't actually have her name on itBeck andWise only reserved parking spaces for its very senior executivesbut itwas common knowledge.

And she knew for a fact that Jack Brook was fully aware of her attachment to the spot; she ignored him Page 2

every time she passed him on her way to or from her car. Just last weekshe'd glided coolly past him, not acknowledging his presence with somuch as the twitch of an eyelid. So he knew. Oh, yes, he knew. At lastshe found another spot, a full five rows farther back than her usualone. She turned into it with more verve than necessary, and had towaste precious seconds correcting the error. The contents of herhandbag were spread out across her passenger seat after her ad hocrepair mission in the traffic jam, and she scrabbled around until she'dstuffed them all back into her sleek black leather purse. Like much ofher life, it looked perfect on the outside, its chaotic contents wellhidden from prying eyes. She broke into a fast trot as she cleared thefirst row of cars, but realized very quickly that no amount of trainingor conditioning could prepare someone for a hundred-yard dash inleather pumps. Slowing to a tight-assed scamper, she spared a glancefor the gleaming red affront in her parking spot as she pushed open thedoor to the car park stairwell.

Jack Brook. Just thinking his name made her grind her teeth. From themoment 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 thatinitial snap judgment.

Too good-looking for his own goodif you liked tall, dark, blue-eyed,broad-shouldered men. Too smart for his own good, tooif you admiredcreative, clever, arrogant, witty minds. And too damn aware of all ofthe above, as far as she was concerned. Most of the women at Beck andWise 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 playingracquetball with him after work, or laughing at one of his jokes.

And he just made her want to spit. Call it an instinctive rejection ofa type of man she'd always found incredibly unappealing. Call it theopposite of sexual magnetism. Whatever, it made her back go stiffwhenever she caught sight of his dark head, it compelled her to pressher full lips into a tight, ungenerous line at the mere sound of hisvoice, and it switched her clever tongue to take-no-prisoners mode. Notthat it did her much good. Usually he'd just smirk at anything she saidand throw some off-the-cuff smart comment her wayand damn him if ninetimes 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 publishingcompany, a media giant that produced hundreds of magazines for theAustralian marketplace. Jack worked on a whole different floor toherwhen he was in the officeon a whole different selection ofmagazine titles. If she put some effort into it, she could managethings so that she barely ever saw him. But now he'd slipped his redpenis-compensator into her parking spot, and she couldn't simply assignhim to his usual category of "necessary evil" and forget about him. Theautomatic doors to the impressive thirty-story Beck and Wise buildingswished open as she entered, and she glanced longingly across at thefoyer coffee shop as a hit of freshly ground coffee beans washed overher. No time for coffee today. She spared a thought for her favoritedouble mocha latte, eyeing the distinctive steaming cup in the hands ofone lucky, contented customer. Her eyes automatically lifted to scanthe coffee-lover's face, and she felt her lips assume their usualstreamlined position as she looked into Jack Brook's deep blue eyes.