Body Language (13 page)

He shook his head. No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

His heart rate had finally returned to normal, but the thought that Sandy might actually have said those words to him made it kick into overdrive again. But then he frowned. Part of that dream had to be just that—a dream.

It was his recurrent fantasy—she was in his bed and she wanted him to make love to her. But that other stuff, the words she had spoken right before he woke up, that was new.

Sandy was asleep a short distance away from him.

He didn’t want to wake her. Lord knows he’d kept her up enough last night. But he did want to hold her. Gently he eased his arms around her, molding his body around hers, tucking her head underneath his chin.

He’d talk to her in the morning. Maybe it would rain, and they wouldn’t have to get out of bed at the crack of dawn. She’d wake up with his arms around her, and he would tell her that he was sober, and watch for her reaction.

Sandy sighed, and McCade closed his eyes. Breathing in her sweet scent, holding her tightly, he fell back into a deep sleep.

The phone was ringing relentlessly, invading the soft warmth of Sandy’s dreams. At last she could ignore it no longer, and she opened her eyes.

McCade’s eyes opened a fraction of a second later, and Sandy stared into their swirling mix of colors as he gazed at her, confusion clearly written on his face.

They were nose to nose, and her arm was wrapped possessively around his neck, her legs tangled casually with his.

She pulled away from him, blushing furiously, thinking, God, she’d gone and done it. She’d damn near forced herself on him in the night. She rolled over so that her back was to him as she answered the telephone, thankful for a chance to hide her warm cheeks. “Kirk.”

“Morning, boss,” came Frank’s cheerful voice. “It’s six o’clock. Rise and shine. God’s on our side. We’ve got fifty-five degrees and sunshine. Remember to dress in layers, it’ll get hotter as we go down into the canyon.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

“Oh, boss? Clint McCade’s not on my room list,” he said. “I’m assuming you know where he is?”

Sandy closed her eyes briefly. “Yeah,” she said. Yes, she certainly did know where McCade was. He was hardly even an arm’s distance from her, looking too good for words with his rumpled hair and the stubble of beard on his handsome face.

“Great,” Frank said. “See you in a few.”

Pushing her tangled hair back from her face, she hung up the phone. With her back to McCade, she climbed out of bed.

“Sandy.”

She turned around to find him watching her, his head propped up on one arm. His eyes were serious, his expression almost somber. “We have to talk.”

Her heart sank. He was going to tell her that after this weekend he was leaving. She’d given her feelings away by throwing herself into his arms last night, and now he had a better reason to leave than ever.

But she didn’t want to hear that right now. She didn’t want to spend her entire day knowing he would soon be gone.

“Not right now, McCade.” She tried to keep her voice light as she headed toward the bathroom. “If we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss breakfast. And trust me, we don’t want to hike down into the Grand Canyon without breakfast.”

She closed the bathroom door tightly behind her, and McCade exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Damn. She was right, though. There was work to do today, and now wasn’t the right time for a heart-to-heart, particularly when his heart was filled with so many secrets.

NINE

S
ANDY SHOOK
S
IMON
Harcourt’s hand as they congratulated each other on a good day’s work, then she hopped up into the equipment van. Everything was loaded and ready to go back to the motel at the entrance to the park.

The sun was setting, and after nearly twelve hours of sweat and dust and merciless heat, Sandy was ready for a shower and a cold glass of beer—not necessarily in that order.

Frank hopped in behind the steering wheel, tossing his clipboard between the two front seats.

“Everyone accounted for?” Sandy asked.

“Yep.” The young man pushed his glasses higher up on his thin nose. He glanced in the rearview mirror, then frowned. “I mean, no. Where’s McCade? I thought he was with you.”

“It’s not like we’re Siamese twins, Frank,” she said crossly. “We’re not attached at the hip.”

“Hips weren’t what I was thinking.” Frank had a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “Permission to speak freely, boss?”

“Since when have you started asking for permission?”

“McCade tells me I need to work on being tactful. So I’m trying to be tactful. You giving me permission, or what?”

“Fire away.”

“The truth is, you’re a real babe,” he said earnestly. “And McCade’s nuts about you. I mean, you’d have to be blind not to notice the way he looks at you.”

Indeed. And Sandy was far from blind. All day long she’d been aware of McCade’s hot eyes following her around. But it was all part of this game they were playing, the “fool James Vandenberg into thinking they really were lovers” game. Unfortunately, her crew was being fooled along with James.

“And at the risk of being tactless,” Frank went on, “I have to confess that I caught you looking at McCade pretty much the same way.”

Guilty as charged. She
had
looked at McCade, she couldn’t deny it. She hadn’t been able to keep her eyes away from him, particularly as the day got hotter and he stripped off his T-shirt. He’d set up his shots, sometimes moving quickly down the trail ahead of them, with his heavy camera on his shoulder, the muscles in his bare back and arms rippling. And Sandy had ogled him, thinking no one would notice.

“I really think you guys should get married,” Frank said.

Married. Right. “Thanks for the advice, Frank.”

“You guys are perfect for each other.”

Yeah, they were perfect all right. McCade was a perfect actor, and Sandy was a perfect fool.

“Where
is
McCade?” she muttered. “I’m starving and thirsty and—”

She and Frank spotted him at the same time.

He was at the edge of the Grand Canyon with his camera, shooting the brilliant sunset. Sandy opened the door and slid down, out of the van. “I’ll be right back.”

But she walked slowly as she approached McCade, struck by the beauty of his solitary, shadowy figure standing against a backdrop of blazing colors.

He lowered his camera as she came and stood beside him, but he didn’t look toward her. He gazed out at the breathtaking vista.

“It’s so beautiful,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t seem quite real.”

Sandy nodded. “To me it always looks like a matte painting, like a special effect. I think my brain refuses to accept that nature could have created something that huge—or that perfect.”

“It
is
perfect, isn’t it?” McCade laughed, shaking his head and turning to look down at her. “Maybe that’s what scares me so much about the damned thing. It’s perfect, except I don’t believe in perfection. So I don’t trust it. I think I keep waiting for it to just melt away, to vanish, you know?”

She gazed up at him. His hair was disheveled and damp with sweat at the back of his neck. The hot desert sun had darkened his tan another shade, and his eyes seemed very blue in contrast. He still had his shirt off, and his muscular chest was covered with a fine layer of trail dust.

“Yeah, I know.” She turned back to the waiting van. “Come on, McCade, I’ll buy you a beer.”

“No, thanks. No beer for me. I still haven’t recovered from two nights ago.”

“Then I’ll buy you a soda.”

McCade wanted her to wait. He wanted to use this opportunity to mention that he was sober. He wanted to see how she would react, see if she caught the implication, see if she really did say those words he was so afraid he’d only dreamed.
If you still want to make love to me when you’re sober, just let me know.

“Sandy—” he started, but she had already climbed into the van. Frank was in the driver’s seat, and the chance to talk was gone.

Tonight, McCade thought as he packed his camera into the van. At some point tonight, they’d be alone. Then maybe he’d get up enough nerve to tell her how he felt. His worst-case scenario had her looking at him with pity in her pretty eyes. Then he’d find some excuse to leave at the end of the weekend, take his Harley and go off somewhere and live unhappily ever after with wounded pride and a broken heart. Best-case scenario…

McCade smiled as Frank drove down the long road that led out of the national park.

“What’s the joke?” she asked.

He just shook his head.

“Whoa,” McCade said, looking pointedly at the several empty beer mugs that sat in front of Sandy’s steak. “Baby, you better slow down.”

She lifted her eyebrows as he slid into the chair next to hers in the motel saloon. She raised her voice to be heard over the jukebox. “What’s this? A temperance lecture from Mr. Inebriation?”

“You have the opportunity to learn from my mistakes.” He dug into his own dinner. His hair was still wet from the quick shower he’d taken when they’d returned to the motel. “You don’t normally drink two mugs of beer, let alone four. Keep it up, and I’m going to have to carry you out of here.”

Sandy opened her mouth to tell McCade that three of the empty mugs in front of her had held nothing but water, but stopped. Let him believe what he wanted. She was tired and frustrated and dreading returning to that sole bed in their motel room.

She let the music wash over her, trying not to think.

Someone had pulled several tables together to form one long one, and the crew of Video Enterprises sat around it.

She could feel McCade watching her as he ate, so she pretended to be fascinated by the rustic saloon.

The interior decorator had clearly chosen darkness for financial rather than aesthetic reasons. The walls were plain, rough-hewn planks, and the floors were well-worn wood—or at least they would be in the light of day or with the dim overhead lights turned up to full power. As it was, even with the dusky light coming in through the big window that covered the front, she could barely make out either the walls or the floors. Booths lined one wall, a long polished wood bar lined another. There was a jukebox off to one side—a beacon of light in the cavernous darkness. Sandy wouldn’t have noticed it if it weren’t for the machine’s blinking lights—and the country music that was pounding out of it. Nearby, a small portion of the floor was reserved for dancing.

From the corner of her eye, she saw McCade push his plate away and lean back in his seat. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and leaned close to her ear. “James just came in.”

Sandy glanced up. Sure enough. There was James, standing by the bar, talking to several people she recognized as campaign volunteers.

She looked at McCade, and for a brief instant she felt totally off balance, thrown by the heat of his eyes. But then he smiled, a junior version of his crooked, cocky grin, and she felt a sudden flash of anger. She was tired of this game. She didn’t want to play anymore.

She stood abruptly, and his arm fell away from her. “Excuse me.” She took her collection of beer mugs to the bar.

In a few days McCade was going to leave. As afraid as she was that he would never come back if he knew that she loved him, Sandy realized she was more afraid of letting him go without telling him how she felt. Or showing him how she felt. Yeah,
showing
him.

She felt his eyes on her as she ordered another beer. He thought it was her fourth, while it was really just her second. Good, she thought with almost childish satisfaction. Let him think that. Maybe if she played her cards right, he
would
carry her out of the bar. The rules of this game have changed, she thought, turning to meet his watchful gaze. Maybe he was going to leave, but he wasn’t going to leave until she got a chance to show him just what he was going to be missing.

“Cassandra.” James smiled at her, propping one elbow on the bar. “It went well today, don’t you think?”

She forced herself to stop thinking about McCade, to smile up at James. “Yeah, I do. I’ll know for sure when I see the footage we got.”

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Howdy, James.”

Sandy looked up to see McCade standing beside her. He, too, was leaning against the bar, but with his arm outstretched behind her. Although he wasn’t touching her, his position was obviously proprietary.

James nodded pleasantly. “McCade.”

Sandy took a sip of her beer, turning back to James as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted. “We’ll go out to the Harcourts’ cabin and get some outside footage, maybe stage a little family cookout.”

“I heard a weather report,” James told her, making a face. “We might get some rain tonight. It’s supposed to last until late morning.”

“Then we’ll have to play tomorrow by ear,” she said.

“Honey, could I have a slug of your beer?” McCade didn’t wait for her to answer; he just took the mug from her hand and drained the glass.

Honey?
Sandy stared in disbelief at the empty glass he handed back to her. “McCade—”

“Let’s dance.” He took the mug from her again and set it on the bar. “You’ll excuse us, won’t you, James?” He pulled her onto the dance floor over by the jukebox.

“You drank my entire beer!” Sandy’s voice rose with indignation. “I thought you weren’t going to drink tonight.”

“I figured you already had enough.”

His arms held her tightly, and Sandy resisted for all of a half second before giving up and relaxing. She was exactly where she wanted to be—in McCade’s arms—so why was she fighting it?

But then she noticed that the Video Enterprises table was empty. “Hey, where did the crew go?”

“There’s a honky-tonk with a live band about forty-five minutes down the road,” McCade told her. “They wanted us to come with them, but I figured you wouldn’t want to.”

“You could’ve at least asked,” Sandy said accusingly. “Why didn’t you?”

McCade grabbed at the easiest excuse. “Because James is here.” Truth was, he still wanted a chance to talk to her alone, even though it was likely she’d already had too much to drink to have a serious conversation.

“How’s my body language now?” Sandy asked, smiling grimly up at him. Her eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed back at her.

“You look like you’re mad at me,” he finally said.

She pulled her hand free from his. Reaching up around his neck, she locked her hands together. The movement brought her closer to him, and her body brushed his chest. Lightly, with her thumb, she stroked the back of his neck.

“Better?” she asked.

“Sandy, this isn’t—”

She interrupted him by pulling his head down and rising on tiptoe to cover his mouth with her own.

McCade hesitated for all of two seconds before surrendering. She kissed him slowly, lazily, and quite thoroughly.

“How’s
that
for body language?” Sandy tried to act casually, but her voice had an out-of-breath quality to it.

McCade’s voice sounded strange too. “You better watch out. I’m not sure you’re aware of the message you’re sending.”

James. It always came back to James. But not any longer, Sandy thought. Not anymore.

“James already thinks you live with me,” she told McCade. “He’s hardly going to be shocked to see me kiss you. Besides, didn’t you once make some kind of comment about how everybody always wants to play with the other kid’s toys?” She purposely dropped her gaze to his mouth, to those lips that could kiss her so fabulously, lips that could make her feel so utterly consumed by both her own passion—and his.

Somehow McCade managed to keep dancing. She’d misunderstood him, assuming he was worried about what James would think. In truth, he’d been talking about himself. Be careful of the message you’re giving to
me
was what he’d meant.

And now she was looking at him, giving him signals that said she wanted him to kiss her. But why? Because James was here, watching? Because she wanted to practice sending messages via body language? Or because she actually wanted McCade to kiss her?

He could only dare to hope, but dare he did.

As Sandy met his gaze he searched the depths of her eyes, looking for something that would tell him this wasn’t just part of the game. He saw desire, hot and liquid, but he also saw uncertainty. She was unsure of herself, doubtful of her appeal, afraid he wouldn’t want her. And every moment that he hesitated, every second longer that he didn’t kiss her, that uncertainty grew.

And McCade couldn’t bear that.

He kissed her hard, crushing his mouth to hers, catching her by surprise and pulling her with him into one of the deserted corners of the bar.

Sandy wasn’t even aware that they were moving until her back hit the wall. And still McCade kept coming, still he kissed her, still he tried to get closer to her.

One of his hands was laced through her hair, holding her head as he kept kissing her. His long, intimate kisses sent arrows of fire shooting through her body, through her blood, to land molten and burning deep within her.

His other hand encircled her hips, roughly pulling her even closer to him. Oh God, she felt the unmistakable hard length of his erection pressing against her stomach. He wanted her. McCade wanted her. Sandy kissed him fiercely, nearly delirious with the knowledge.

She moved her hips, rubbing herself against him and McCade groaned, a low, sexy sound of need and desire and she nearly laughed out loud. Oh yeah, he wanted her.

McCade’s head was spinning. Damn, he couldn’t take much more of this. Here in the dark corner of the bar they were shadows—two shadows merged into one. He could kiss her in the privacy the darkness provided. But kissing her wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch her. He wanted to rip off her clothes, rid them both of the barriers that kept him from her.