A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 9

  We had to open them. Or at least break the seal and let in some god-damn air.

  “Here, let me have a go.” His arm brushed against me, sending a frritzz of electricity through my body. My breathing, already laboured, hitched in my throat. Had he felt that, too?

  I stepped aside to let him work on the doors, but now, as if the frritzz had fried my eyes, I couldn’t shift my gaze from him. He strained to prise the doors open and I stood by admiring his biceps. His biceps, for crying out loud. What was wrong with me? Did claustrophobia make you horny? If so I was in big trouble.

  Why couldn’t this job have come with a boss who was paunchy and balding?

  “No joy.” Matt turned and leaned against the doors, arms folded, looking very relaxed about it all. “Sorry.”

  “So.” I gnawed on a fingernail, unsure whether I was worried more by the stuck doors or my reaction to Matt. “I guess we just sit back and wait.”

  “Yep.”

  “And twiddle our thumbs.”

  “Something like that.”

  But his tone told me he had plans far bigger than thumb twiddling. My fault: he must’ve caught me ogling him. But one plus one didn’t make a sexcapade. He had a hot body; I’d admired it. That’s all.

  Anyway, we didn’t have time for any of that. This was an emergency, for God’s sake! Any minute now we might be dead.

  And yet . . . a pulse pitter-pattered in my throat. If we really were about to die, why waste our last moments thumb twiddling? Heat rushed through me as I imagined it. Oh yeah. I wanted to feel his body against mine, his hair tangling in my fingers.

  I wanted to live. But if we really did have to die today I’d far rather be snogging Matt when it happened.

  I felt his eyes on me and had the sudden spooky feeling he’d just heard my thoughts. I licked my suddenly-dry lips. Dodged his gaze and gave myself a good talking-to. Yes, I was panicking. No, that did not give me licence to jump my boss. Yes, he would still be my boss tomorrow. No, we would not be dying today.

  We would not be dying today.

  So I put a lid on my lust, cast about for a G-rated time-waster, and met his gaze.

  “Let’s play Two Truths And A Lie,” I said.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I have to warn you,” said Matt. “I have a great poker face.”

  That sounded like a challenge if ever I’d heard one. I made a moue. “I hear my face is a dead giveaway.”

  “I’d noticed that.”

  My cheeks burned. Had he just seen all my x-rated thoughts in my eyes?

  He continued with barely a pause. “By the way, your hair looks great without the scarf.”

  If I blushed any hotter my toes would snap, crackle and pop. Matt was rubbing salt in my ridiculous little lie and we both knew it.

  “You start,” he said.

  “No, you start. You’re the boss.” And best I remember that.

  “Okay. Let’s see . . . fact one: I got engaged once. It lasted eight days.”

  I blinked in surprise. Really? I studied his face. Truth or lie? He studied me back, poker face par excellence.

  Hadn’t Sal said he was a determined bachelor? Determined bachelors didn’t get engaged. It must be a lie.

  Then again, maybe the failed engagement created the determined bachelor. Which would make it the truth.

  His eyes twinkled. “What do you think? Truth or lie?”

  I held his gaze. His expression told me not a damn thing, so I went with my gut. “Truth.”

  “Well done. Your turn.”

  Not so fast, Buster. I wanted to know more. “Can I ask what happened?”

  “Sure, you can ask. I asked myself the same question.”

  He shot me a lopsided smile. Looked away. Looked back again. Exhaled. “Let’s just say I don’t like sharing.”

  I grimaced. “Ouch. Did she tell you or—”

  “It was more show than tell.”

  I swallowed. Had he seen her with the other guy? He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask, because that was getting a bit too personal.

  Truthfully, I was surprised he’d even mentioned being engaged. But this game always dredged up unexpected gems.

  Unfortunately, it hadn’t revealed a way out of this wretched box. I pushed my hand against my chest, hard, as if the external pressure might somehow ease the pressure within.

  “Are you okay?”

  I blinked, started. “Fine, thanks.”

  A whopping great lie, of course, but I didn’t want him to know how much I wasn’t coping. I checked my watch. We’d been trapped in here thirty minutes. As in, half an hour. Where was a technician when you needed one? Or an inhaler?

  “Fact one: I wish I could swap places with my sister.”

  “Because she’s not stuck in a lift?”

  I gave him a rueful grin. “Yeah, that too.”

  He looked at me for one beat, two. My pulse kicked up. I felt naked, exposed.

  Eventually he spoke. “That’s the truth. But why?”

  “Never mind,” I muttered. “Your turn.”

  “Hang on, back up a bit. What’s with your sister?”

  I should never have suggested this stupid game. “Nothing. She’s just got an awesome job . . .”

  “As do you.”

  “. . . And she’s absolutely gorgeous . . .”

  “As are you.” Said with a gentle finger’s-touch to the tip of my nose. My body warmed.

  . . . And no way would I tell him the other reason. She’d always had a way with men; I’d always been a bumbling idiot. But I’d take that with me to my lift-plunging grave.

  “Hey,” he said. “Don’t change. You’re perfect just the way you are.”

  I couldn’t decide if my heart’s over-loud thunking wasn’t solely about confinement anymore.

  Confinement . . . confinement . . . The thought tripped in my mind like a broken record. “Your turn.”

  “Fact two: I run a weekend outdoor ed. centre for at-risk teens.”

  I stared at him. “Wow. Really?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  That wasn’t the sort of thing you made up for kicks. It had to be true. I gave him a slit-eyed look. He grinned back.

  Then again, maybe he was just an extremely good liar.

  Truth or lie? Instinct told me there was a lot more to this man than hot womanising boss. He was kind and warm-hearted, and he seemed to genuinely care about people, me included. But could I see him devoting his weekends to problem kids?

  “It’s the truth.”

  “You’re sounding very confident there, Ms Jordan.”

  I smiled. “Yes. But I’m right, right?”

  “Right.”

  I liked Matt. I liked his looks, I liked his company, I liked the way he made me feel special because I was me. And I really liked this other side to him; this giving, nurturing side I kept catching glimpses of.

  I wanted more. That wasn’t good.

  “Tell me about this centre of yours. What sort of stuff do you do?”

  “Lots of team building, trust and confidence activities. I’ll show you some time if you want.”

  As in, socially? No way. Bad, bad, bad idea.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d like that.” Which just showed how stupid I really was.

  “Excellent,” he said, and his smile sent pleasurable little tingles all the way down my spine. “Your turn.”

  He stretched his arms out sideways, and his hands made contact with both lift walls.

  Both walls? The tingles stopped dead. Uneasiness descended. God, this lift was tiny. Really tiny. I swallowed. Was it strong enough to take our weight? For how long? What about oxygen? How long until we’d used it all up?

  Fear crept through me, cold, clammy, crushing. I screwed my eyes closed and brought a defensive hand to my throat. I’d better forewarn him.

  “Fact two,” I said. “I’m not feeling so good. I sometimes get a bit claustrophobic in spaces this small.”

  “Christ! You should’v
e said.” With one stride he closed the gap between us. “Becky . . .”

  My eyes flew open.

  “It’s okay.” He clasped my shoulders. “We’re going to be fine.”

  I tasted bile in the back of my throat. Please don’t let me vomit. If the lift didn’t kill me, the shame would.

  “Do you think there’s enough air in here to last us?” I couldn’t keep the alarm out of my voice.

  “We’ve got plenty of air. It’s well ventilated in here.” He stroked my arms reassuringly.

  I rested my forehead against his chest, so strong, so solid. “I hope so.” My voice was muffled.

  His own voice rang clear and confident. “I know so.”

  He held me close and I felt safe, secure, protected. The nausea abated. For a while I stayed exactly where I was, against his chest, cocooned in his arms, because here I could cope with anything—claustrophobia, lions on the loose, alien visitations, SSW’s . . .

  I sighed and lifted my head to thank him, but his lips brushed my forehead and my words dissolved. Our eyes met. My insides turned to jelly, claustrophobia forgotten.

  “Becky.” My name was a sigh on his breath. He caressed my cheek.

  My breath caught. I couldn’t drag my eyes from his. Long seconds passed. Blood pumped, hot and loud, in my ears. Every nerve ending stretched to breaking point.

  I braced my hands against his chest but, instead of putting distance between us, it somehow drew us closer. Heaven.

  No: danger.

  I arched back against his encircling arm, but the movement dragged my hips against his.

  Matt’s eyes darkened and dropped to my mouth. Raw heat flooded me.

  He lowered his head millimetre by tortuous millimetre. I trembled. At last our lips grazed. My nipples hardened against his chest.

  He drew back slightly. His gaze held mine, searing me, branding me. His.

  “Becky,” he said with a break in his voice, and his mouth came down on mine in a hot, demanding kiss.

  Desire stormed through me. Dizziness threatened. My arms snaked around his neck, and our bodies locked even closer. Close enough to feel every lean, hard inch of him. Our kiss deepened and I tasted peppermint and coffee and something uniquely, deliciously him.

  When eventually we drew apart, both of us breathing heavily, Matt rested his forehead against mine a few moments.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  We kissed again, but this time it was less urgent and more emotional; slow and soft and intimate.

  He cupped my face in his hand, then ran his thumb over my sensitised lips.

  “Jesus,” he repeated, then took my lips in a soul-deep kiss. His thumb caressed my throat, my neckline, trailing inexorably closer to my breasts.

  I forgot to breathe. My nipples ached for release. My fingers dragged through his hair. Through the fabric of my shirt, his thumb sought first one ready breast, then the other. I gasped, shuddered, arching into his touch. What was it about this man? Any closer and we’d be in each other’s skin, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly enough.

  He slipped his hand up under my shirt and over my ribs, cupping a breast. His groan, raw and sensual, did delicious things to my body. Oh yeah. I’d take a fortnight of this, even knowing he was my boss.

  My boss. The thought whipped me back to reality with stopped-by-the-cops speed.

  Would I never learn?

  “You’re trouble,” Matt murmured, his lips in the hollow of my neck.

  Why, oh why, did he have to be my boss? I came to, feeling like the cat that almost got the cream, only to have it whipped out from under its nose.

  “Your claustrophobia’s got a lot to answer for,” he said.

  The C-word was a thumping return to reality. Passion? What passion? I was stuck. In mid-air. Suspended in a little box. With no space. No air.

  Suddenly the pressure in my chest was overwhelming. How had I managed to breathe all this time? I needed air. Now.

  I pushed my hands against him, hard, and backed up, desperate for breathing space. Came up short against the wall and stared at him with naked terror, my breathing shallow and far too rapid.

  “Oh shit,” he said. “Fuck. Stupid comment.”

  He hesitated. “I don’t suppose another kiss would help?”

  I strained for air, unable to respond, my palms flat to the wall. How could he even joke about it? I slid down the wall, planting myself on the floor, and my mood came down with me, unleashing the full force of the claustrophobia I’d kept in check until now. Panic rose in my throat. I closed my eyes to block out the reality of my confinement, hands pressed flat against the floor, my back rigid against the wall. This was the longest I’d ever been trapped in a small space. Tears slid down my face as I fought not to be lose myself in a mindless screaming frenzy.

  Matt crouched down in front of me.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” I moaned.

  He gathered me into his arms and I fell apart, clawing at him as I sobbed and wailed and screamed into his shirt. I clung to him, one minute pleading with him to get me out of this hell, the next beating my fists against his chest and blaming him.

  As I teetered on the edge of complete hysteria, he pulled me away from him and held me firmly at arm’s length.

  “Becky,” he said then, with a gentle shake, “Becs. Stop.”

  I couldn’t. I’d gone well past the point of self-control. The sting of his hand on my cheek wasn’t pleasant, but it was effective. I gasped, my eyes wide in shock and hurt and disbelief.

  “Sorry, honey, I had to do that. You were hysterical.”

  I was no longer hysterical, but I was dizzy and nauseous and there wasn’t enough air.

  “Becs, slow down, you’re hyperventilating.”

  Great. A medical condition. Just what I needed. I closed my eyes again, one hand to my forehead.

  “Come on. Slow. Down.”

  What was happening to me? Why did I feel so ill? What did he mean, slow down? The tears started again, accompanied by big, blubbery, I-can’t-cope-any-more sobs.

  “Becs, listen to me,” he said, more gently. “You’re going to be fine. You just need to breathe. Slowly.”

  Dizzy blackness threatened to overwhelm me. I slumped back any old how.

  “Whoa, careful.” He grasped my shoulders and eased me to the floor. “Lie down, it’ll stop the dizziness. Knees up. That’s it.”

  He stroked my hair, and it felt stifling and reassuring all at once. “You’re okay, Becs. Just take it easy.”

  Take it easy? How could I? I felt sick, I felt faint, and I couldn’t breathe. It was like the pool all over again, minus the water.

  “Becs, listen to me. Can you open your eyes?”

  I shook my head.

  “Okay, that’s fine. I need you to listen. Can you do that for me?”

  A brief nod.

  “Great. We need to slow your breathing down, and we’re going to do it together. Deep breaths, Becs. You’re going to be fine. Breathe in . . . and out. That’s it. In, two, three; out, two, three. There’s plenty of air, don’t worry. Deep breaths. Keep going.” A shoulder squeeze. “Good girl. Slow breaths.”

  We carried on until I was breathing normally again. I tentatively returned to a sitting position.

  “Are you okay?”

  I opened my eyes and looked into his. “No,” I whispered.

  The very fact I’d answered, though, told him I was coping again.

  “We’re getting out of here, don’t you worry,” he said.

  With another quick hug, he stood and faced the doors. He squared his shoulders and began an unrelenting frenzy of shouting and hammering—hell on my tension headache but probably a great release for him.

  It was only a matter of time before his efforts paid off. More and more people were arriving in the building and eventually a guy on the fourth floor, waiting for a lift, heard Matt’s tirade. Some yelled explanations about no phones and jammed doors, and our link with the outside world dashed off to raise the
alarm.

  Matt sat down beside me again and gathered me in his arms. The sure, steady beat of his heart and his comforting body heat gave me the strength to hold myself together a little bit longer.

  When the technicians finally arrived and released the doors I prostrated myself on the floor, my head at the opening, sucking in greedy lungsful of fresh air, heedless of the flock of interested bystanders watching on.

  With the lift jammed halfway between floors, we had to jump down to the fourth floor; a graceless exit by me—and a black mark against wearing high heels—but an exit nonetheless.

  Show over, people drifted off to their various offices and lectures. I looked at Matt, shattered. He smiled and draped an arm around my shoulders.

  I leaned into him, exhausted. Was it just me or was there something Superman-ish about his presence whenever I needed rescuing?

  I stiffened against him. And there I went, doing it again. Fantasizing. Turning him into a superhero in my head, exactly the way Liz said I always did.

  A hot, awkward blush swamped my face. This man, a man I’d fantasized about for weeks, an SSW and a damned nice guy—what had I just put him through? Torture, that’s what. I’d taken advantage of his good nature. I’d manhandled him, stuck my tongue down his throat, forced him to kiss me, then topped it off by throwing a screaming wobbly and showing him how truly unstable I was.

  Uncomfortably aware of his proximity, I whirled out from under his arm. “I’m sorry. God, how embarrassing.”

  “Why? You couldn’t help it.”

  I shook my head, too mortified to speak.

  “Come on,” he said, “forget it. How about a coffee. We’ll take the stairs, eh?” His eyes twinkled.

  I couldn’t forget it. I’d never forget it. This was, without doubt, the most mortifying day of my life.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. What could I say that wouldn’t show me up for the fantasizing idiot I was? I ducked my head and, before he could see my tears of shame, fled.

  Chapter Twelve

  I wandered into the lounge, stopped, stared, then rounded on Jim.

  “What’s that you’re watching?”

  “Nothing.” He flicked off the TV, guilt plastered all over his face. “Maltezer?”