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

“It’s okay. I bought it for him,” she explained.

Linda’s eyes went round with surprise, then her hand snuck up to cover her mouth. She was laughing, Claire realized.

“I’m sorry. I was imagining his face. It’s just…Jack never wears a tie. I don’t think he even owns one.”

“I know. That’s why I bought him one. For the Hillcrest meeting.”

Linda shot her a speculative look, and Claire guessed what the other woman was thinking. “Oh, no—it’s nothing like that. I was just trying to annoy him,” she hastily explained.

Linda looked unconvinced. “Right.”

“No, really. I wanted him to wear a tie to the Hillcrest meeting, he said he didn’t have one…It was just a joke, really.”

Linda nodded, but Claire got the distinct impression that the other woman didn’t believe her. Unwilling to dig a bigger hole for herself, she began surveying the desk again. Linda joined in straight away, but Claire was aware of her lingering scrutiny and she kept her face carefully blank.

“I don’t see anything, do you?” Linda said after a futile few minutes.

Claire was shaking her head, about to agree with Linda, when she spotted the discarded birthday card.

Frowning, she plucked it from amongst the mess and flipped it open.

Dearest Jack, thinking of you on this special day. Please be kind to yourself—our love is with you. Don’t feel as though you have to go it alone. Lots of love, Mom and Dad.

She turned to Linda, urgent now. “Did this come yesterday?”

Linda shrugged. “How could I know? He may have had it for weeks. Except—Hang on a minute.”

Linda scuffled through the papers until she found the torn lavender envelope. Matching it to the card, she nodded once. “Yes. This definitely came yesterday, because I remember the purple envelope. It was in the mail I collected from Jack’s personal mailbox. Claire, what’s going on? What’s this about?”

Claire closed her eyes briefly. This had to be it. Jack’s birthday was Robbie’s birthday. She opened her eyes, even more worried now than she was before.

Because what on earth happened to a man when all the grief he’d stuffed down deep inside threatened to escape?

She grabbed Linda’s arm, imperative. “I need Jack’s home address, pronto.”

HE LIVED IN A HOUSE. Another surprise. A big old rambling house with a yard and trees and a white picket fence. Parking her car in front, she felt a moment of shame for all the clichés she’d ascribed to Jack. She’d always imagined him in a penthouse apartment, with lots of gleaming chrome and black leather furniture and mood lighting.

Girding her loins, she made her way up the path to the front door and leaned on the doorbell. Nothing. She waited, then tried again. Still nothing. She tried knocking next, and when this was still ineffective, she stepped back and surveyed the house. It was possible he wasn’t here at all, of course. Lord, he could be anywhere. But his car gleamed redly at the end of the drive, and she had a gut instinct about this—Jack was very private, and she doubted he’d take his grief to a public place.

She tried the front door, but it was solidly locked, so she headed boldly up the drive, emerging into a beautifully landscaped backyard. Fruit trees and roses, climbing jasmine on the fence and a rustic outdoor setting created a little oasis of calm and tranquility. She smiled at the laughing Buddha statue half-hidden in amongst some irises, then frowned as she saw the back door open and swinging in the breeze.

Well, at least she wasn’t breaking and entering….

Feeling a little more tentative now, she stuck her head in the darkened doorway and glanced up and down the hallway. In front of her, old floorboards gleamed all the way down the central hallway to the front door.

“Jack? Jack, are you here?” she called out.

Nothing. Sighing, she stepped properly into the house. The kitchen was on her right. It was old but serviceable, and Jack was obviously in the process of renovating it, with half the tiles removed and the wallpaper stripped down to bare plaster.

Two empty tequila bottles lay on their sides on the kitchen table. Oh, goody. Nothing like a tequila hangover.

She found him in the living room, slumped on the couch, his posture defeated and closed. At first she thought he was asleep, but he lifted his head when she put her hand on his shoulder, giving her a minor heart attack.

“Jack!” she said, startled, and he blinked up at her owlishly.

“What are you doing here?” he slurred, and she pulled back from the truly impressive haze of alcohol he was exuding.

Amazingly, he still managed to look dangerously attractive, despite his bleary-eyed, bestubbled, incoherent state.

“I was worried about you,” she said, not bothering to edit herself. She’d be stunned if he remembered any of this.

“Were you? That’s nice.”

His head sank back down, and she allowed herself a small moment to simply rest her hand on his head, feeling for him. He held too much to himself, blocked himself off too much….

“Jack, I think we should make you some coffee. And some food. You feel like some food?” she suggested, forcing herself to take her hand off his silky, springy hair.

“Don’t want anything,” he said, childishly.

“I’m sure you don’t. But I promise you’ll feel better if you eat some food.”

“Don’t want to feel better.”

I bet you don’t. She stared down at his still-bowed head, then made a decision. “Why don’t we get you in the shower?”

He didn’t respond to this, and she crouched down to peer up into his face. “Jack? Jack?”

Slowly he opened his eyes again.

“Don’t want shower.”

She nodded as though she was agreeing with him. “Sure. But you trust me, don’t you? And I think you should have a shower,” she said.

He just stared at her, and she leaned forward and slid her arm around his shoulders, bracing herself and ensuring a strong grip on his well-muscled side.

“Come on, now. Let’s stand.”

It took a few more minutes of coaxing and some serious counterweight balancing to get him to his feet. She cursed herself immediately for not having done a bit of recon and worked out where the shower was before she got him standing, but he was swaying on his feet so much that there was no way she could trust him to stay upright if she went for a quick scout.

So they staggered up the hallway, and she found the bathroom behind the second door she tried. She tried to make him understand she wanted him to sit on the edge of the tub while she took off his boots, but he just stared at her blankly.

“Jack, how much have you had to drink?” she asked suddenly, beginning to wonder if he’d had the whole two bottles of tequila. How much did it take before a person got alcohol poisoning? She didn’t have a head for drink herself, and the thought of so much strong spirit made her wince.

He shrugged, clearly disinterested, and she was forced to get down on her knees and lift his feet up one at a time to drag off his expensive-looking boots. The rest of him could go in the shower as is, but the boots just looked too good to ruin, and she knew he wouldn’t thank her if she destroyed them. Hell, he was unlikely to thank her anyway, but she was here now….

She’d just tugged his last boot off when Jack swayed alarmingly and staggered backward. There wasn’t far for him to go in the small space; his legs kicked forward, catching the heel of the boot she held and flicking it toward her face, and he slammed against the tiled wall and slid down until his butt was in the tub and his legs were dangling over the edge.

White light exploded behind her eyes as the boot connected with her right cheekbone, and she reeled backward from her crouching position, connecting with the wall behind her.