reached for the coffee he’d forgotten an hour ago. It was, of course, cold. Frustrated, he saved the data he’d been unable to concentrate on and leaned back in his chair.
Claire McGuire. The woman who had driven Ken Lawrence mad.
That was nonsense, of course. A sane man didn’t lose his grip on reality because of a woman. But the phrase had made a great sound bite, and the media had played up the femme fatale angle. They’d had help with that from Ken Lawrence’s parents, who had made Claire sound like a woman who could teach “fast” to a rabbit.
The Lawrences moved in the same circles Jacob did. He knew them socially, but they didn’t interest him. They were snobs—dull people who made up for what they lacked in imagination by owning the right things and knowing the right people.
Six years ago when the story broke, he’d felt sorry for the parents, contempt for the son and very little interest in the whole sordid story.
Yet he’d remembered her face, had known who she was within seconds of seeing her. No surprise there, he thought, opening his address book. That face was, quite simply, unforgettable. Add to that a body made for sin, and you had a combination that could make any man beg.
Almost any man, he amended mentally as he picked up the phone.
He punched in a number he used frequently in the course of business, but his mind wasn’t on what he did. Instead he saw a smooth curve of cheek and a full, unsubtle mouth. Eyes bright as the summer sky after a storm. The flare of a hip against pleated linen slacks, and a narrow waist mostly hidden by a blazer the color of those eyes.
She was nothing like Maggie. Maggie had suited him, made him relax. Claire McGuire was anything but relaxing.
“North Investigations,” a pleasant voice said into his ear.
“This is Jacob West. I need to speak to Adam North.”
“Just a moment, sir. He’s on another line.”
Jacob waited. And he saw, again, Claire’s smile. It was crooked, disturbing the symmetry of that perfect face and making her seem more human. Dangerously so. And he remembered the thought that had hit him the second he saw her, before he recognized her—before, even, the impact of her beauty had time to register.
Mine.
On her fifth morning at the West mansion, Claire awoke with her pulse throbbing between her legs and dreams sleeting off her, brightly colored images slipping away with each sleepy blink of her eyes.
Erotic images. Though she couldn’t remember the content of the dream, she knew it had been highly erotic. And she knew who had starred in it. Good grief. She stared up at the ceiling, throbbing and restless. Is this what men have to put up with every morning?
More to the point, was this what she would have to put up with every morning she stayed in this house?
Her real problem wasn’t her boss. Jacob had behaved himself. Oh, she’d caught him watching her sometimes. And sometimes, his pale eyes went from ice to white-hot for a second, before he realized he’d been spotted and promptly slammed the shutters closed again. But he never said or did anything objectionable. Aside from the occasional display of a sneaky sense of humor that a less observant woman might have missed altogether, Jacob had been a model of businesslike behavior—demanding, yes, but respectful. Distant, for the most part. Though he had begun to seem cautiously friendly the past couple of days…
She was vastly relieved that he’d picked up on her hands-off signals. And vastly aggravated, because relief wasn’t all she felt.
It was her own unruly imagination she had to watch out for. No surprise there, she thought, and grimaced. At least, it shouldn’t be. Hadn’t she always been the cause of her troubles? Her impulses, her lack of judgment, had snarled up more than just her own life.
Well, she wasn’t going to give in to any impulses with Jacob West. She was doing her damnedest not to have any impulses, but she couldn’t control her sneaky, hormone-prompted unconscious when she was asleep. Claire sighed and squinted at the clock. Time to get up. At least today was Friday. She could pick up Sheba this evening.
Claire was looking forward to having her cat with her again. She hummed as she popped under the shower—leaving the water cooler than usual, to discourage those wayward hormones and flush out the lingering traces of her dream.
Right now, her cat was at home with her cousin Danny, who was house-sitting. Sheba was a cat with attitude. She also possessed a worse set of impulses than Claire owned. The two traits had resulted in a serious disagreement with a neighbor’s German shepherd the day before Claire started working for Jacob, followed by a quick trip to the vet. The vet had stitched up Sheba and kept her a few days, but she was doing fine now.
Clean, dry, with her hair and makeup done, Claire stood in front of her open closet door and tried to find something to wear. It shouldn’t have been difficult. She liked clothes, and she’d brought a fair portion of her closet with her. But for some reason nothing looked right this morning.
Finally she settled on loosely shaped black slacks in a heavy silk that felt like pure sin against her skin, pairing them with a short yellow jacket. She slipped tiny gold hoops through her ears and glanced at the clock. She didn’t want to be late for her date this morning. With Ada.
She smiled. Ada was quite a character. So was Cosmo, though of a different stripe. Even the maid who came three days a week to help keep this huge old house clean was out of the ordinary. Maude was a grandmother with enough college credits for two degrees, and no intention of getting a “real” job. She just wanted enough money to keep taking courses in whatever interested her.
They said you could tell a lot about people by the company they kept. Claire wasn’t sure what Jacob’s odd household said about him, but it sure didn’t fit with his Iceman image.
Normally the inmates of the big old house fended for themselves at breakfast and on weekends, but during the week everyone gathered in the big kitchen for lunch and dinner. Often Jacob was there, sometimes not, depending on whether he was in town and remembered to stop working. Last night Ada had honored Claire with an invitation for breakfast. Blueberry pancakes. Claire’s stomach rumbled, but she paused on her way out, glancing at the door that joined her office to Jacob’s.
It was closed, of course. Every day when she shut off her computer she shut that door. And every morning when she opened it he was already in his office, already working. Sometimes she wondered if he slept there.
Acting on impulse, she snuck the door open and peeked inside. His office was dark, unoccupied. Of course it was. Jacob had a perfectly good bed in his bedroom on the second floor. Ada had pointed out his room when she gave Claire a tour of the house. Right now he was probably asleep in that king-size bed, stretched out beneath the silky black-and-brown comforter… Don’t go there, she ordered herself, and inched the door closed once more.
She was reaching for the other door—the one to the hall—when her phone rang.
Dang it. Well, the pancakes could wait one minute, but no more. She picked up the receiver. “This is Claire.”
“And this is your hardworking house-sitter with a good news, bad news report,” her cousin’s voice said cheerfully.
“Danny! I didn’t expect to hear from you this early.” She resigned herself to being a few minutes late. “Sheba’s okay, isn’t she?”
“Oh, she’s fine. She got her medicine last night just like the vet ordered. And don’t worry about me—the bleeding stopped eventually. You are coming to get that hell-spawned beast tonight, aren’t you?”
She chuckled. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“Not as much as I am,” he said fervently.
“You’re earning stars in your crown, as Mom used to tell us. I take it that was the good news. What’s busted? Did the disposal spit up again?”
Danny paused. “A disposal,