There was no pleasing some people, she decided irritably as she flipped open her laptop. She still had a pile of notes to type up—a task Alex had suggested she leave until the morning. But presumably the quicker Seb’s case was sewn up, the quicker they could go home. She was determined to prove that she was the most efficient, conscientious bimbo Alex Morrell had ever met, and she would enjoy his expression when she informed him first thing tomorrow morning that all her work was up to date.
The knock on the interconnecting door between her room and Alex’s brought her head up, and she glanced at her watch, startled to find that she had been working for over an hour. The knock came again, louder and more forceful, and with a sigh she marched over to the door.
‘What do you want?’ she demanded coolly, determined not to be fazed by the sight of Alex lounging in the doorway. He had discarded his tie and unfastened several shirt buttons, so that the tanned column of his throat was exposed, and she hastily focused on a point over his shoulder.
‘You’re dressed,’ he commented, sounding surprised, and she glared at him.
‘What did you expect? I’m not in the habit of answering my door stark naked.’
‘What a wonderful picture that evokes,’ he murmured, resting his hands on either side of the doorframe so that she felt swamped by his raw masculinity and took a step backwards.
‘Have you been drinking?’ she accused, catching the faint smell of whisky on his breath, and he shrugged.
‘I may have had a couple, to drown my sorrows, but I’m not drunk. I saw the light from beneath your bedroom door and thought you’d fallen asleep with the lamp on. It’s past one in the morning,’ he added with another puzzled glance at her fully dressed form. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Working. I’ve just finished typing up the notes for Seb’s case.’
‘I didn’t mean for you to do that now.’
‘I thought it would leave me the morning free to chase prospective sugar daddies. It’s hard work being a bimbo, you know.’
‘Ah.’ Alex had the grace to look shamefaced. ‘That’s the real reason I’m here.’ He strolled through the doorway and paced her room restlessly, picking up and setting down items on her dressing table until her nerves were on edge.
‘Well, come in—make yourself at home,’ she snapped, and he sighed and raked a hand through his hair.
‘You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you? I’m trying to apologise,’ he added impatiently, when she could not disguise her puzzlement.
‘Oh, I see.’
‘I was unforgivably rude and insulting. Watching you cosy up to Seb brought out my jealous streak, I’m afraid.’
‘I wasn’t doing anything with him,’ Jenna argued. ‘And even if I had been, you have no right to question my behaviour.’
‘No,’ he conceded heavily. ‘That right belongs to your husband.’ He glanced down at her laptop and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been working at this time of night.’
‘It was either that or throw something—preferably at your head,’ Jenna admitted, and her eyes scanned his face, searching for any sign of injury where she had slapped him. She abhorred violence of any kind, and, faced with his apology, she felt even more ashamed of her loss of temper. ‘I’m sorry I slapped you—even though you did ask for it,’ she added, and was startled by his sudden laughter.
‘That’s my girl. Determined to have the last word.’
Suddenly the room seemed heavy with tension, and Jenna couldn’t repress a quiver of response to his softly spoken words.
‘I’m not your girl,’ she pointed out huskily.
‘I guess not.’ He had moved without her being aware of it, and now stood so close that he overwhelmed her.
He had switched off the overhead light and the room was bathed in the gentle glow from one of the ornate bedside lamps. A lock of hair fell across his forehead, lending him a rakish air that only emphasised his sexiness, and she felt her breath snag in her throat as he reached out and stroked her hair back from her face. Instantly her senses were on high alert, so that she was acutely aware of the heat emanating from his body and the sensual musk of his cologne. She watched their reflection in the dressing-table mirror, noting how he towered over her, big and faintly menacing, his hands dark against the whiteness of her skin. But it was not him she was afraid of. It was herself and her wayward response to him.
‘You should go,’ she whispered thickly, and heard him sigh, felt his fingers slide through her hair and then stop, the sudden tension that gripped him instantly transmuting to her.