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

Linda made a noise in the back of her throat. He recognized it as her deeply skeptical grunt and decided he was offended.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, come on, Jack. You’re hardly the most patient of men. I didn’t want you breathing down Ronnie’s neck, making her nervous. Besides, you’re far too good-looking and Ronnie’s far too young and blond for my personal comfort.”

He leaned back in his chair, happy for any opportunity to crank his assistant up a little.

“Blond you say? Just how old is she?”

Linda shook her head and slapped his mail down onto his desk.

“Keep your trousers on and read your mail, Mr. Sexy,” she said.

He took another big slurp of latte while he waited for his computer to boot up. A dialogue box flashed onto the screen and he typed in his password, flicking idly through the few letters Linda had just given him while the computer logged in to the company network.

Nothing exciting there. In his role as managing editor, he oversaw the production of six monthly magazine titles. It meant he got a lot of mail—most of it dull. Today he had a complaint from one of the tour operators they’d profiled in a recent Travel Time issue, which could go straight in the recycling bin, and a couple of letters to the editor from two of the other titles he managed.

He turned his attention to his e-mail, his eyebrows rising with surprise as he saw he had a message from the Big Kahuna himself, Morgan Beck. He scanned the note quickly, then called Linda in.

“Can you cancel my two o’clock and reschedule it for me? I’ve been summoned upstairs by God.”

“Can do. Anything else?”

He flashed his most disarming smile, turning on the charm shamelessly. To her credit, Linda remained steadfastly unaffected, instead shaking her head ruefully.

“Don’t waste your little-boy-lost routine on me. What do you want?”

“Do you think you could also swing past the post office and collect the mail from my personal box? I haven’t had a chance to get over there since I flew back into town yesterday.”

“Jack, we’ve been over this. I’m more than happy to collect your personal mail for you every day during my lunch break. Just give me the key to your box and it will be taken care of.”

Sliding the small key from his key ring, Jack hesitated before handing it over.

“I feel bad asking you to run personal errands for me,” he confessed when Linda made an impatient noise.

“Well, get over it. You’re a good boss, you don’t treat me like a slave, and I’m happy to help you out however I can.”

Overcoming his personal scruples, Jack shrugged and handed the key over. Linda gave him an amused look as she slid it into her hip pocket.

“Don’t worry—I’ll let you know when you’ve crossed the line and turned into a heartless corporate shark.”

“My deepest, darkest fear. How did you know?” Jack joked.

“I’m psychic. Which is why I suspect it’s useless suggesting you tidy yourself up a bit before your appointment with Mr. Beck,” Linda said, her tone indicating she already knew his response.

“You are psychic, you know. It’s uncanny,” he said, loving that he could annoy her.

Linda’s eyes flicked down to his black, three-quarter-length cargo pants, slip-on sandals and unironed Hawaiian shirt.

“You’re lucky Mr. Beck likes you,” she said on her way out of his office.

Jack snorted, his mood shifting abruptly as her words triggered a memory.

Luck.

What a concept. What a stupid, random, insane, cruel concept. He was very quiet for a moment as he stared out unseeingly at his view. And then he remembered that big smear of lipstick across Claire Marsden’s face and he laughed to himself all over again.

CHAPTER TWO

BUSY. THE THOUGHT registered somewhere between Claire’s third impromptu meeting of the day and the fourth phone call from the client she’d been wooing for the past six months. Now that they’d signed the contracts, Hillcrest Hardware were keen to have their new custom magazine in their hot little hands.

Ironic, if you had the time to appreciate such things. She’d spent so long explaining, and illustrating, and cajoling to bring them to the point of saying yes, and now they were more keen than she was. And she was pretty damn keen.

Despite the fact that it was well past midday and she still hadn’t read her e-mail, she paused to appreciate the larger-than-life blowup of the front cover for the launch edition of Welcome Home magazine that was leaning against her office wall. Gleaming floorboards reflected light from wide, white-framed windows, and a rustic wood dining setting graced the center of the tastefully decorated room. Color Your World read one of the cover lines, while another claimed Bring Your Garden to Life in an Instant. A little bubble of pride blossomed in her belly. After all the hard work, they were finally a go.

Her own magazine. Based on a concept she’d created. Executed just how she thought it should be executed. It simply didn’t get better.

She was the one who had seen the opportunity for a custom magazine within the Hillcrest Hardware chain. She’d watched the growth in demand for decorator magazines, and she’d found a progressive hardware retailer in the marketplace who was looking for a new way to create relationships with its customers. It had made sense to her to answer one need with the other, just as it had made sense to the executives at Hillcrest when she’d pitched it to them six months ago.

Now she was about to launch a new magazine title into the Australian marketplace, an important, key part of her five-year plan. Soon, if she played her cards right, the corner office and senior management status she coveted would be hers—it was just a matter of time.

Today was Wednesday; by this time next week, she should have editorial sign-off from her client, and the magazine should be well into production. Another week or so later, and the first edition would be rolling off the printing presses.

A goofy smile still wreathing her lips, Claire clicked the mouse on the e-mail icon on her computer screen and watched as her in-box registered way too many notifications. Sighing, she realized she was going to have to get her assistant to prioritize them for her, alert her to the urgent ones and print the rest off for her to read in bed later that night. Another fascinating evening.

It was just as well there was no man also planning on sharing her bed.

She paused for a moment, annoyed with herself. Where had that thought come from? Parts of her body twitched suggestively, and she shrugged. Okay, it had been a while. And a bit of frustration release was necessary every now and then, but that was what George Clooney movies were for. This was more important. Welcome Home was her baby, and it deserved all her attention.

Besides, it wasn’t as though there was a battle going on here between the magazine and her personal life; apart from her training regime and the actual triathlon meets themselves, she had no personal life. There was work, and there was the road and the pool and her bike. End of story.

And it was a nice, uncomplicated, successful story. She was fulfilled. Really. And hadn’t she made it into the state triathlon semifinals thanks to all that focus?

Okay, maybe she was a little horny. But that could wait. Sex would always be there, but this opportunity wouldn’t.

A recent memory volunteered itself suddenly—last time she’d visited her grandmother she’d been astonished to learn that her gran was telling everyone in the old people’s home that she was a lesbian.

“Just to take the heat off them all wondering when you’re getting married and having children, dear,” her gran had explained.

So Claire wasn’t going to be young forever. But this was important, and sometimes other things had to take a backseat to work. In five years’ time, she’d be ensconced in that corner office, in charge of a handful of quality magazines. The sacrifices and loneliness were worth it. For the time being.

Having talked her nether regions into submission, she called her assistant, Tom, in and asked him to sort through the rest of her e-mails.

She was just about to plunge into her in-tray when a familiar figure propped itself against her door frame.

“We still on for lunch?”

Claire stared at her friend Katherine in dismay.