Body Language (5 page)

McCade just laughed.

FOUR

S
ANDY THREW HER
keys onto the coffee table, and herself onto the couch.

“Wow, that was incredibly
not
fun,” she said into the soft cushions. “James Vandenberg obviously finds me about as appealing as flat beer.”

“Could be worse,” McCade volunteered, shrugging out of his jacket and sitting down in the rocking chair across from her. “He could find you about as appealing as
warm
flat beer.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “Cheer me up, why don’t you, McCade?”

He unfastened his bow tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. “What do you know about body language?”

“Not much.”

“Hmm.”

Sandy sat up. “And just what is ‘hmm’ supposed to mean?”

“Whenever I saw you talking to James, you were giving him ‘go away’ signals with your body.” McCade unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt. “You crossed your arms and you stood with your legs tightly together. Your posture and your stance read ‘don’t touch’ loud and clear.”

“I wasn’t doing it intentionally—”

McCade yanked his shirt free from his pants and shrugged it off. “That’s the deal with body language. Most of the time it’s done unconsciously. Somewhere down the line you’ve forgotten your female courting techniques.”

Sandy shifted in her seat, crossing her arms. “This is all news to me. How could I have forgotten something that I was never told?”

“Defensive posture.” McCade pointed to her crossed arms before he pulled off his boots. “You just told me with your body that you don’t like what you’re hearing, and you’re not going to listen to me.”

“And exactly which issue of
Playboy
did you read this in, McCade?” Sandy asked, her arms still firmly crossed.

“Look”—McCade sat next to her on the couch—“I’m going to hit you with some male courting techniques, and if you can honestly say that you still think it’s a load of garbage after that, then I’ll shut up, all right?”

Wearing only a sleeveless undershirt with his tuxedo pants, he looked like the McCade she knew in high school. He sat comfortably at one end of the couch, facing her, his right leg bent at the knee and angled across the cushion in front of him. He raked his fingers through his short hair, making it look perfectly tousled and very sexy.

Sandy lowered her gaze and shrugged. “Fire away.”

“First of all, don’t sit like that,” he said. He pulled her so that she faced him, lifting her left arm up so that it lay along the back of the couch. He dropped her right hand into her lap. With their knees almost touching, he leaned, then inched forward slightly.

“Step one: Invade the woman’s personal space. Step two: Direct eye contact.” He smiled into her eyes.

Sandy smiled back. “This is silly—”

“I’m not finished,” he interrupted. “Without saying a word, a man can let a woman know quite clearly that he’s interested in her. Sexually interested.”

McCade let his eyes drop, focusing for a moment on her lips, then traveling even lower, lingering on the low neckline of her dress. Sandy felt the urge to giggle, but by the time he’d slowly dragged his gaze back to her eyes, her mouth was dry and that urge was long gone.

“That’s step number three,” he told her. “And if by now the woman hasn’t run away or threatened physical harm, a man might try step four—a nonsexual touching gesture, something harmless like a handshake…”

He lifted her hand, drawing her fingers into his.

“…but he’d turn that handshake into a caress.” He ran his thumb lightly over the back of her hand. “This is not just a friendly touch—the message has clear sexual overtones.”

Sandy stared down at her hand as he continued that slight but oh-so-sensuous movement of his thumb. She looked up to find his eyes running down the length of her legs. He took his time before he met her gaze.

She could see heat in his eyes.

This was just a demonstration, she reminded herself. He was putting on a show, giving an example. Carefully, she slipped free from his grasp.

“If the touching doesn’t work,” he continued, his husky voice soft, “or if the situation doesn’t allow for physical contact, there’s always surrogate touching.” He smiled, a quick flash of teeth. “I know, it sounds terrible, but it’s not.”

As Sandy watched, McCade used one finger to trace the floral pattern on the fabric that covered the couch. He looked up at her and smiled slightly. “It sends out a signal that says, I’d really rather be touching you.”

The small movement of his hand made the muscles in his shoulder and arm flex enticingly in the dim living-room light. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and Sandy’s mouth went dry.

“McCade,” she started, but her voice sounded hoarse. She cleared her throat and crossed her arms again. “You could obviously write a how-to manual on picking up women. What I don’t get is what male courting techniques have to do with me?”

“James was giving you signals this evening, and all you did was back away.” He stood up. “I’m getting a beer—want one?”

Sandy nodded. “Thanks.”

“One thing I didn’t mention,” he called from the kitchen.

She heard the refrigerator door open and then shut.

“Preening,” he continued. “Both men and women do it if they’re attracted to each other.” She heard the hiss of the bottles being opened, the clatter of the tops as McCade tossed them into the garbage. “A man might adjust his tie, smooth down his hair—that’s what James did. This is all done unconsciously, remember.”

In the kitchen, McCade ran his hands under the cold water from the sink. She’d been sitting there, watching him, and it had taken all of his control not to sweep her into his arms and carry her into the bedroom.

Not that she would ever go willingly.

He closed his eyes, and in a sudden flash he could imagine Sandy, soft and willing, her body cradling his as she drew him back with her onto her bed—

McCade dried his hands on a paper towel, then used it to mop the perspiration from his forehead.

He went back into the living room and handed her one of the cold beers.

“So old James is sending you signals,” he told her, getting back to the subject as he sat down on the couch again, “and what do you do? You cross your arms and freeze him out.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Same way you did to me just a few minutes ago.”

He leaned back, putting his feet up on the coffee table as he tilted his head and nearly finished his entire beer. Sandy waited until he pulled the bottle away from his mouth before she punched him in the arm.

“I did
not
freeze you out,” she said.

“Oh yes, you did.”

“How
do
you know so much about body language?” she asked, her eyes narrowed slightly.

He shrugged. “I don’t know, I read something about it once, and it really seemed to make sense, so I paid attention. I mean, I had already seen examples of different kinds of body language as I watched people. After I read that book, I knew how to interpret it.” His smile turned sheepish. “For a while I
did
use it to pick up women. I could walk into a room, and within a few minutes I would know who was available and who wasn’t. It worked every time.”

“I’ll bet it did,” Sandy muttered.

“But we’re getting off the subject. You need to relearn your female courting techniques.”

“Which are…?”

“Palming,” McCade told her.

She started to laugh. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

He grinned and held out his hand, palm up. “It’s a gesture of surrender. It’s nonviolent, nonthreatening. Studies of body language show that women in particular present the palms of their hands to the men that they’re interested in. I think it’s a passive-versus-aggressive thing, man being traditionally more aggressive, the woman being passive, you know, surrendering. A prize to be won.”

“Ick.” Sandy made a face.

“Yeah, I know.” McCade had to laugh. “But ten to one says James Vandenberg doesn’t know the slightest thing about body language, but he
will
unconsciously recognize any of these signals that you send him.”

“What, so you’re saying I should walk up to him and hold out the palms of my hands?” she asked.

“It’s more subtle than that.” He turned to face her. “Push your hair back from your face.”

Sandy did.

“Oh, baby. You just flashed me your palm.”

“I did not.”

“Did too,” he countered. “Instinctively, somewhere, probably at the very base of your brain where all your hormones bubble, your body recognizes that I’m a man.”

“Hormones bubble?” Sandy snorted. “Very scientific.”

“In addition to palming, all of the male courting techniques also work with women. You know, invading personal space, eye contact, surrogate touching…Oh, here’s a woman thing. A leg thing.”

He sprang up, pulling her legs out from where they were curled underneath her on the couch. He quickly slipped her shoes back onto her feet.

“McCade,” she complained.

“Sit up, sit up,” he said impatiently.

“All right, I am. Jeez.”

“Now cross your legs.”

The soft sound of expensive-nylon-clad legs rubbing together seemed to echo in the room. McCade felt himself start to sweat again. Sandy’s skirt inched up, and she moved to push it back down.

McCade stopped her. “If you fix your skirt, then the message you send out is that you wanted to sit comfortably. If you let it ride up a little, you’re courting.”

“Courting what?” she asked, pushing her skirt down anyway. “Disaster? This skirt rides up much more, I’m going to be arrested.”

“You know what I think?”

“I never know what you think, McCade.”

“I think in order to be a successful businesswoman, you’ve had to alter your body language,” he mused. “You purposely keep your eye contact and your movements to a minimum, because as a woman, you have to be sure you don’t send out the wrong signals. Maybe it’s harder to deal with James on a romantic level since he’s also a business associate.”

“Thank you, Dr. Freud,” Sandy said. “What, no comment on my mother’s influence on my life?”

“If you want James to know you’re interested”—McCade ignored her, finishing off the last of his beer—“you’ve gotta tell him, and the easiest way to do that is with your body.”

Sandy slowly drank her own beer. “You never told me the third thing,” she said suddenly.

He frowned. “What third thing?”

“Your mother said there were three things men needed to learn in order to succeed. One was how to dance. Two was how to do research. What’s three?”

“When it comes to making love,” McCade said with a smile, “and I quote, ‘The size of a man’s heart is more important than the size of his penis.’”

Sandy blushed. “She did
not
say that. McCade, you’re so full of crap.”

McCade’s smile turned into a grin. “I swear, those are her exact words. I’m not even paraphrasing.”

“There’s no way your mom would
ever
have said the P-word. I refuse to believe that.”

“She also gave me a box of condoms every year for my birthday—starting when I was twelve.”

Sandy laughed. “No way!”

“She wanted me to get used to the idea of taking responsibility for birth control.”

Sandy could remember Mrs. McCade, a quiet, worn-out woman with fading brown hair and a shy smile. “I can’t believe it.”

“Yeah, well, people are full of surprises,” he told her. “What you see is not always what you get. And that’s the
real
lesson she taught me.”

McCade’s mother had died halfway through his senior year in high school.

“I still miss her,” Sandy said softly.

“Yeah,” he said. “I do too.”

“Boy.” Sandy finally looked up from her plate. “I was starved. Did I have lunch today?”

“Not while I was looking.” McCade leaned forward from the rocking chair to grab another slice of pizza.

She flopped back on the couch. “Now that I’m not hungry any longer, I’m exhausted. I may not live through five weeks of this. And tomorrow I’ve got to work camera number two myself. O’Reilly’s grandfather just died, and he’s got to fly to Montana for the funeral.”

“What’s on the schedule tomorrow?”

“Harcourt’s speaking at the teachers’-union picnic.” She closed her eyes. “And James is going to be there too. What am I going to wear?”

“You should wear what you’ve got on right now,” he told her. “Shorts and a halter top. It’s very sexy.”

Surprised, Sandy opened her eyes and looked over at him. But he was busy, digging in the pizza box for the last slice of pie. She turned so that she was facing him, and propped her head up on her hand. “McCade.”

“Hmm?” He still didn’t look up.

“Will you do me a favor?”

He did look at her then, his eyes a flash of brilliant blue in his tanned face. He put his plate with the uneaten slice of pizza down on the coffee table next to his can of soda and stood up, wiping his hands on a napkin. “What, do you want a back rub?” He stood next to the couch. “Roll over.”

Bemused, Sandy tilted her head up. He seemed so stern, standing there that way, looking down at her, unsmiling.

When she didn’t answer immediately, he sat down next to her on the couch, nudging her over to make room. She turned obediently onto her stomach, resting her head on her folded arms. She felt the hard length of McCade’s muscular thigh pressing against her as he brushed her hair aside. Then his strong fingers caressed her bare back.

She closed her eyes. His hands were gentle as he touched her, kneading the tension from her shoulders and neck. It was heavenly. His touch was tender, almost intimate, like that of a lover—Instantly, her perceptions heightened and she became extremely aware of McCade’s jean-clad leg against hers. What was it he’d said? Step one, invade the woman’s personal space—

She opened her eyes and lifted her head to look back at him. But he met her gaze briefly, still not smiling, then looked down at his hands as he continued to massage her back. As she watched, his jaw muscle tightened, as if he were clenching his teeth.

Sandy put her head back down, resting her chin on the backs of her hands, convinced she was imagining things. Clint McCade was
not
using body language to give her any hidden messages. No way. If he was, he’d forgotten step number two—eye contact.