Out of Hours...Office Affairs: Can't Get Enough / Wild Nights with her Wicked Boss / Bound to the Greek

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

2

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Can’t Get Enough (#u27c57533-21bc-5fe2-a350-f0355e48fd35)

SARAH MAYBERRY was born in Melbourne, Australia, and is the middle of three children. From the time that she first ‘stole’ paper from kindergarten and stapled it together to make ‘books,’ Sarah has always wanted to be a writer. In line with this ambition, on graduation from high school she completed a bachelor of arts degree majoring in professional writing, then sat down to write a book. When inspiration didn’t strike, she began to wonder if, perhaps, she needed to live some life first before writing about it.

This still left the burning question of how to pay the rent. She found her way into trade journalism, working off the principle that it was better to write anything for a living than nothing at all. Her time there led to the opportunity to launch a new decorator magazine for one of Australia’s major retailers, an invaluable and gruelling experience that she found very rewarding.

But the opportunity to write fiction for a living soon lured Sarah away. She took up a post as storyliner on Australia’s longest running soap, Neighbours. Over two years she helped plot more than two hundred and forty hours of television, as well as writing freelance scripts. She remembers her time with the show very fondly—especially the dirty jokes and laughter around the story table—and still writes scripts on a freelance basis.

In 2003 she relocated to New Zealand for her partner’s work. There Sarah served as storyliner and story editor on the country’s top-rating drama, Shortland Street, before quitting to pursue writing full time.

Sarah picked up a love of romance novels from both her grandmothers and has submitted manuscripts to Mills & Boon many times over the years. She credits the invaluable story-structuring experience she learned on Neighbours as the key to her eventual success—along with the patience of her fantastic editor, Wanda.

Sarah is revoltingly happy with her partner of twelve years, Chris, who is a talented scriptwriter. Not only does he offer fantastic advice and solutions to writing problems, but he’s also handsome, funny and sexy. When she’s not gushing over him, she loves to read romance and fantasy novels, go to the movies, sew and cook for her friends. She has also become a recent convert to Pilates, which she knows she should do more often.

She would love to hear from readers via her e-mail address at sarahjmayberry@hotmail.com (mailto:sarahjmayberry@hotmail.com).

1 (#u27c57533-21bc-5fe2-a350-f0355e48fd35)

CLAIRE MARSDEN was late. She hated being late almost as much as she hated brussels sprouts. And she hated brussels sprouts a lot. Traffic inched forward, and she craned her head out her window, confirming that the entrance to the company parking complex was just five car lengths ahead. Unfortunately, there were five cars occupying those five car lengths, and they were all moving as though they were powered by arthritic turtles. She willed them to move faster, concentrating intently 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 her visor mirror down and blinked in horror at the too-close image that reflected back at her: eyes red, nose just beginning to peel thanks to too much sun on the weekend and a hefty gob of what her godchild Oscar rather charmingly called “eye booger” in the corner of one eye.

“Aren’t you the belle of the ball,” she told her reflection.

A dab of moisturizer, some judicious use of Kleenex and a swipe of lipstick went a long way to repairing the damage. She was just completing the last curve of pink-brown lipstick across her lips when the car behind her honked. A jagged lipstick smear raced up her cheek before she could control her reflexes.

Realizing the lane was now clear all the way to the coveted car park entrance, she slapped the visor up, deciding to fix her face later. With an apologetic wave for the driver behind her, she accelerated forward and zipped up the entrance ramp with a spurt of speed.

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

She frowned as she pulled up in front of her spot. A shiny red sports car gleamed smugly there, light reflecting off its sleek curves. Its owner had gone to the trouble of reversing in—obviously a fan of the quick getaway. The frown creasing her forehead deepened. She knew the owner of this car, and, indeed, he was fond of the quick getaway; at least a dozen women at Beck and Wise could 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 there every day. Okay, so it didn’t actually have her name on it—Beck and Wise only reserved parking spaces for its very senior executives—but it was common knowledge.

And she knew for a fact that Jack Brook was fully aware of her attachment to the spot; she ignored him every time she passed him on her way to or from her car. Just last week she’d glided coolly past him, not acknowledging his presence with so much as the twitch of an eyelid. So he knew. Oh, yes, he knew.

At last she found another spot, a full five rows farther back than her usual one. She turned into it with more verve than necessary, and had to waste precious seconds correcting the error. The contents of her handbag were spread out across her passenger seat after her ad hoc repair mission in the traffic jam, and she scrabbled around until she’d stuffed them all back into her sleek black leather purse. Like much of her life, it looked perfect on the outside, its chaotic contents well hidden from prying eyes.

She broke into a fast trot as she cleared the first row of cars, but realized very quickly that no amount of training or conditioning could prepare someone for a hundred-yard dash in leather pumps. Slowing to a tight-assed scamper, she spared a glance for the gleaming red affront in her parking spot as she pushed open the door to the car park stairwell.

Jack Brook. Just thinking his name made her grind her teeth. From the moment 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 that initial snap judgment.

Too good-looking for his own good—if you liked tall, dark, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered men.

Too smart for his own good, too—if you admired creative, clever, arrogant, witty minds.

And too damn aware of all of the above, as far as she was concerned.

Most of the women at Beck and Wise 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 playing racquetball with him after work, or laughing at one of his jokes.

And he just made her want to spit. Call it an instinctive rejection of a type of man she’d always found incredibly unappealing. Call it the opposite of sexual magnetism. Whatever, it made her back go stiff whenever she caught sight of his dark head, it compelled her to press her full lips into a tight, ungenerous line at the mere sound of his voice, and it switched her clever tongue to take-no-prisoners mode. Not that it did her much good. Usually he’d just smirk at anything she said and throw some off-the-cuff smart comment her way—and damn him if nine times 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 publishing company, a media giant that produced hundreds of magazines for the Australian marketplace. Jack worked on a whole different floor to her—when he was in the office—on a whole different selection of magazine titles. If she put some effort into it, she could manage things so that she barely ever saw him.

But now he’d slipped his red penis-compensator into her parking spot, and she couldn’t simply assign him to his usual category of “necessary evil” and forget about him.