Free Can't Get Enough by Sarah Mayberry Page B

sight of Claire Marsden in a bra. Whoever designed her
suits and blouses was a master of disguise, that was for sure. The CIA
should be talking to that guy. Hollywood should be using him instead of
all that computer gimmickry they were all so fond of these days.
    Because Claire was hot, and Jack had never even suspected it. From the
soft, even tan across her chest and torso to the gentle rise of her
breasts from one of the sexiest bras he'd ever seen, she was a
revelation.
    Hot. Damn hot.
    It wasn't just that she was built—although that had a lot to do with
it. Her breasts were definitely on the generous side, definitely a very
nice handful. And it wasn't just the ripple of highly toned muscles on
her stomach—although that was pretty damn good, also. It was more that
it all fit together so well. She was small but perfect, and generous in
all the areas she should be.
    In short, hot.
    His body seemed determined to worship that hotness in its own very special way, and no matter what he told himself— she's a shrew, she hates me, she probably irons her underwear —he
was unable to stop it. Thank God he was sitting with his knees drawn up
and his back against the wall. Thank God she'd decided to go to sleep,
and that she'd rolled to face the wall. Perhaps with those breasts out
of his immediate view he could get a grip on himself. Figuratively
speaking. It was a bit disconcerting, really. Not since the uncertain
years of adolescence had his body been so at odds with his mind.
Because she just wasn't his type. And they didn't get along, at all.
And, if he was being completely honest, she annoyed him. She was bossy,
and defensive, and too quick with a smart comeback. Too much trouble,
all round. So it was very strange to be annoyed and irritated by her,
but also wonder what color her nipples were, and if she tasted as good
as she looked. Very confusing. Disturbing, even.
    He checked his watch, then returned to studying her back. Damn if she
didn't have a nice back, too—smooth, unblemished skin, nicely shaped
vertebrae—
    He pulled himself up short. Nicely shaped vertebrae? Was he going insane?
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A little desperate, he cast a glance around his brushed steel cell and
then suddenly got it. Stockholm Syndrome, or whatever it was called.
That thing where the people were held hostage and started to identify
with, and like, and sympathize with their captors. That's exactly what
was happening here—Stockholm Syndrome! She was his captor, and he was
starting to sympathize with her. Once he was restored to his normal
environment, nature would reassert itself. Relief washed over him. Good
old science—always there with an explanation for everything. Following
her example, he decided to try for some shut-eye. If they were going to
be in here for another five or so hours, sleeping some of it off was a
really good idea. Of course, he wasn't feeling very snoozy , but if she
could sleep, so could he.
    He lay down, quickly becoming aware that the carpet was the prickly,
unforgiving type that was designed to survive a nuclear holocaust. He
sat up and spread out his shirt like a towel at the beach. Once on his
back, he stared at the ceiling, his hand automatically sliding down and
across his belly and beneath the waistband of his pants to find the
long scar that cut low across his stomach and around his side. He
couldn't feel the familiar ridge under his fingers without thinking of
Robbie, and he made a point of thinking of Robbie every day. It was the
least he could do because it was all he had left. People always talked
about feeling as though they'd lost a part of themselves when a loved
one dies, but Jack knew with rock-solid certainty that he'd lost the
best part of himself when his twin brother succumbed to kidney disease.
    Even though it had been three years now, he couldn't think about it
without tasting the bitterness and anger again. It should have been
him. Robbie had always been smarter, stronger, funnier. Robbie had