Body Language (8 page)

Sandy shook her head. “You’re the client. You should pick the time most convenient for you.”

James glanced at Fields. “Aaron’s doing us a great favor. Let’s conform to his schedule.”

“How about early next week?” Fields said. “Say, seven-thirty? And I happen to disagree with Cassandra. Viewing these tapes is going to be tedious. You might want to wait till we’ve had the opportunity to weed out the unnecessary garbage and—”

“I think he should be there,” Sandy interrupted.

“It’s a waste of his time,” Fields countered.

She turned to Vandenberg. “James, may I have this dance?”

It was a non sequitur, but James didn’t do more than blink in surprise. He glanced at McCade, who shrugged slightly. “Excuse us,” James said to Fields, then followed Sandy onto the dance floor.

McCade couldn’t watch. He didn’t want to watch. But he had to watch. He couldn’t take his eyes off of them.

“You know her well?” Fields asked.

McCade gave a noncommittal smile, watching James take Sandy into his arms. Damn, they looked good together. Sandy was elegantly blonde and James was darkly handsome. McCade’s stomach hurt.

“She’s gorgeous,” Fields commented. “Got a body of a dumb blonde but the brain of a computer. Terrible combination. Women are like children, better seen but not heard, especially when all they can say is no, know what I mean? If Vandenberg needs me, tell him I’m at the bar.”

McCade tried not to laugh. He could picture Aaron Fields expressing similar sentiments to Sandy—who would no doubt cut him down into little tiny pieces, wham, wham, wham, like the chef in one of those Japanese steakhouses. But McCade’s smile disappeared as he looked back at James and Sandy.

James held her too close, and she had her head tilted back as she spoke to him earnestly. McCade had to turn away.

“And after the last time Fields was so…rude, I swore I’d never do business with him again,” Sandy was telling James. “He’s a creep. But obviously, he’s got something you need, so—”

“We can approach the other network affiliates,” he suggested. His chiseled features were rendered somehow more handsome by the sternness of his expression.

“But Five’s the best.” Sandy shook her head. “They’ve won the award for best local news seven years in a row. We have a better shot at finding good footage with Channel Five.”

“I don’t want to put you in an awkward position.” James’s face was serious, concerned. His brown eyes were so dark, in this light it was nearly impossible to discern the pupil from the iris. The effect was disarming.

“If you’re going to attend this meeting, I’ll be fine. It’s when I’m alone with Fields that he acts like a jerk.”

“I’ll be there,” James said quickly, his arms tightening slightly around her. His body was firm and muscular, but somehow not as powerful as McCade’s. “You can count on me.”

Sandy grinned. “I’ll wear my steel-toed boots, and pack a can of Mace and a derringer in my handbag, just in case.”

“Steel-toed boots?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“You bet.”

“Ouch.”

“You bet.”

There was a sparkle of amusement in James’s dark eyes as he smiled at her. He was holding her the way McCade had, with his hand against her bare back. Inwardly, she frowned. James was holding her the same way, yet something was different.

“How long have you been seeing Clint McCade?”

She glanced up at him. “I’m not.”

He looked confused, and she tried again. “Clint and I are just friends.”

James nodded slowly. “Does
he
know that?”

She laughed. “Of course.”

He nodded again, obviously not convinced.

“I have to admit,” James broke the silence that they’d slipped into, “I was surprised when you asked me to dance. At the time it seemed a little inappropriate.”

“Sorry,” she said with a laugh. “I suppose I should have waited and told you about my problem with Fields over the phone tomorrow. It’s just that dancing seemed like a good way to have a private meeting.”

His hand moved down her back, his fingers trailing lightly along her smooth skin. “This is the best private meeting I’ve ever been to. Any chance we can schedule another?”

Sandy stared up at him. James Vandenberg wanted to see her again. He was touching her, caressing her much the way McCade had. So why the heck wasn’t she melting on the floor in a puddle of desire?

The song ended, and she gently pulled free from his arms.

“How about dinner?” James asked.

“Call me,” she said as he led her back to McCade.

“I will,” he answered. “Definitely.”

He smiled warmly into her eyes, nodded politely to McCade, and walked away.

McCade was silent as the valet went to get the car, thinking about the way James had held Sandy when they’d danced.

Now what? He couldn’t just sit and watch while Vandenberg waltzed away with her. Except James Vandenberg was what Sandy had always wanted in a man. McCade was…just McCade.

Sandy shivered in the cool night air, and he realized she had no jacket. Without thinking, he put his arms around her, and she burrowed against his chest, slipping her arms around his waist, underneath his tuxedo jacket.

Sandy’s Geo appeared from the darkness of the parking lot, standing out among all of the Cadillacs and Town Cars.

McCade shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her shoulders. With his hand on the door handle, about to open the passenger’s-side door, he saw James Vandenberg talking to one of the young parking attendants.

He knew from the way that Vandenberg was glancing in their direction that the man had noticed Sandy quite sufficiently already. There was no doubt in McCade’s mind that this guy was going to be dreaming about her tonight.

And that thought made him crazy.

Instead of opening the door for her, he nearly yanked Sandy into his arms. He caught a flash of surprise in her eyes before his mouth found hers. And then, Lord have mercy, he was kissing her again.

But this was nothing like the kisses he’d given her on the dance floor. This time he kissed her fiercely, his tongue pushing past her lips to explore her mouth. Her tongue met his, and the world exploded in a blistering wave of heat and passion. He pulled her closer, even closer, his fingers lost in the thick swirl of her long, golden hair. Her slender body felt firm and tight against him. He heard himself groan, a low sound of want and need that astonished him with its intensity. Dazed and breathing hard, he pulled back.

There was shock in Sandy’s eyes. “McCade, what…”

If she had called him Clint, he might’ve told her that he loved her. “Vandenberg’s watching,” he said instead, his voice raspy and harsh. He opened the car door and helped her inside, closing the door tightly behind her.

As McCade walked around the car he looked toward James. The dark-haired man
was
watching, and McCade met his gaze without smiling, giving him a look meant to warn him off. Except James Vandenberg didn’t seem the type to quiver with fear from a dark look.

The valet had left the engine running, and McCade carefully pulled his legs into the tiny car. He could feel Sandy watching him, her eyes still wide. He drove away from the curb without looking at her.

Sandy sat in silence, remembering the feeling of that intensely powerful kiss. God, how she’d longed for McCade to kiss her that way. And even though she’d imagined what it would be like so many different times, her fantasies hadn’t even come close. It had totally blown her away. Her knees still felt weak, and adrenaline still surged through her system. She still felt flashes of fire and ice and—

This
was what had been missing when she’d danced with James. It was this tingle, this thrill that had been absent. James’s touch hadn’t sent shivers up and down her spine. She hadn’t felt any dizzying waves of heat and cold when he smiled into her eyes. Her insides hadn’t turned to molten lava, her heart didn’t beat harder—

The way it had when McCade touched her.

She was in trouble here. Deep trouble.

She wasn’t in love with James. She was in love with Clint McCade.

SIX

A
S
M
C
C
ADE DROVE,
the silence in the car seemed to get thicker and longer. Sandy was staring out the front windshield. Her eyes were unfocused and her expression was somber. One glance in her direction told him she was deep in thought.

He shouldn’t have kissed her like that.

No doubt she’d realized he was in love with her, and was trying to figure out how to let him down as gently as possible.

Maybe he should apologize. No, he was damned if he was going to apologize for doing something that he desperately wanted to do again—something he fully intended to do again the next time he got the chance. Except there probably wasn’t going to be another chance. Unless he apologized…

“Sandy.” McCade cleared his throat. With his eyes firmly on the road, he could feel the steadiness of her gaze as she turned to look at him. “Did I…” he said, then started again. “I guess I went a little overboard back there.”

“It was, um, very realistic.”

“I’m sorry,” McCade said, then mentally kicked himself for lying. He
wasn’t
sorry, not one little bit.

“McCade,” Sandy started, and he braced himself. Here it comes, he thought, the “I just wanna be friends” speech. “Can we stop and get a pizza? I’m starving.”

Her words didn’t make any sense at first, they were so different from the words he’d been expecting. She wanted a pizza. She was hungry, not angry at him. He’d apologized and she was obviously giving the matter no more thought.

McCade didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

Chicken, Sandy thought, looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror as she brushed her teeth.

McCade was out in the living room, lying on the couch, watching Jon Stewart on TV. He’d changed out of his tuxedo and now wore just a very brief pair of gray running shorts.

Even though he’d apologized for kissing her, there was still some kind of electricity—a new, extremely sexual awareness—that filled the air every time their eyes met.

But it was nothing, Sandy tried to tell herself as she washed the makeup off her face and put on some moisturizing lotion. McCade wasn’t going to risk their friendship by having a fling with her. And that was all she could hope for from him—a brief affair, a fling. He didn’t do love and marriage. He’d told her that himself more times than she could count.

Sandy sighed. She didn’t want to have an affair with McCade, she tried to tell herself. She wanted a long, lasting relationship. And if the only way she could have long and lasting was if they stayed friends, then, by God, they’d stay friends.
Only
friends.

So why was she wearing nothing but a nearly nonexistent pair of black silk-and-lace panties underneath her bathrobe? Why did she have the urge to go into the living room, turn off the television, and let her robe drop to the floor? Why was she considering throwing herself at McCade, regardless of the consequences?

Sandy closed her eyes, remembering the way McCade had kissed her. God, she wanted more.

Would a night with McCade be worth the price? But life without McCade would be unbearable. If they made love, he would probably leave and never come back.

But, Lord, she wanted him. And she loved him.

She opened the bathroom door and slowly walked to the living room.

McCade looked up and pressed the mute button on the television’s remote control. “You going to bed?”

“Yeah,” she said, turning away. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t try to seduce him. “’Night, McCade.”

“Good night, Kirk.” His soft voice followed her down the hall to her bedroom.

She
was
chicken. But it wasn’t the potential loss of their friendship that she was afraid of. No, she was afraid if she made a pass at McCade, he’d turn her down.

McCade was in the bathroom when he heard the doorbell ring. He wrapped his towel around his waist and went out into the hall. Sandy’s door was still tightly shut, and he’d heard no sound or movement from her at all this morning.

The doorbell rang again.

McCade crossed to the door and opened it.

James Vandenberg.

McCade was as surprised to see him as he was to see McCade.

“I’m sorry,” Vandenberg said. “I guess I should have called first.” It was clear he hadn’t expected to find McCade there—especially wearing nothing but a towel.

“I guess you should have,” McCade said. “Sandy’s—
Cassandra
’s still in bed.” The implication being that he had at one time been there with her. If that’s what James Vandenberg wanted to believe, well, McCade wasn’t going to bother to correct him.

James was doing his best to remain expressionless, but his mouth was a little too tight. “When Cassandra told me you and she were merely friends, I told her I didn’t think that was exactly what you had in mind.”

“Smart man. But then again, you went to Harvard, right?”

“That’s right,” Vandenberg said. “And I suppose you’re one of those reverse snobs. If it’s high quality or upper class, you automatically despise it.”

“I don’t automatically do anything,” McCade said evenly, leaning against the doorjamb. “If I did, we wouldn’t be standing here talking right now. I’d be kicking your butt back into your car.”

There was a glint in James’s eyes as he looked at McCade. “Is that some kind of threat?”

“You went to Harvard.” McCade smiled dangerously. “Surely you can come up with some kind of intellectual interpretation.”

James’s eyes lingered on the dragon tattoo that decorated McCade’s right shoulder. “You need danger and violence in your life, don’t you, McCade?” he said. “On the outside you cleaned up really well. But the man on the inside’s not so easy to change, is he?”

Straightening up, McCade laughed, but there was no humor in it and his eyes were cold. “You don’t know a damned thing about me, Vandenberg, so just—”

“On the contrary,” James interrupted. “Simon Harcourt’s security team investigated every one of Cassandra Kirk’s employees. I know
everything
there is to know about you, McCade. I know you didn’t finish high school—”

“I passed the equivalency test—”

“Not until
after
you falsified high-school records to get into college—”

“Fine.” McCade had the urge to shout, so he purposely lowered his voice. “I’m a criminal because I wanted a higher education—”

“You’ve been in jail two different times—”

“Once because I was part of a news team covering a demonstration that turned into a riot. The police didn’t care who they rounded up and tossed into their vans.”

“You were also arrested for stealing a police car.”

“I
borrowed
it,” McCade said coldly. “I had to get some footage I shot over to the studio fast for the evening news broadcast. I couldn’t find a taxi. I had no choice.”

“That prank got you a criminal record and ninety days in prison.”

“It also got me an Emmy.”

“Maybe, but you haven’t won any awards for the way you treat women.”

McCade’s eyes narrowed. “Harcourt investigated my
personal
life too?”

“The longest relationship you’ve ever had was with Chardon Blakely,” Vandenberg said. “You were with her for five months and seventeen days. The only reason
that
lasted so long was because you were out of the country for three of those months.”

“I can’t
believe
—”

“During the past ten years the longest you’ve ever lived in one place was the six months you spent filming a movie on location in Alaska.”

“So I like to travel,” McCade said. “So what?”

“So all
I
have to do is wait,” he said. “Sooner or later you’ll be out of Cassandra’s life. I’m betting on sooner.”

McCade fought to keep his temper in control. “Was there something you wanted?”

Vandenberg held up several videotapes. “I wanted to drop these off and it was more convenient to come by here rather than drive all the way out to Cassandra’s office.”

“That’s the biggest load of crap I ever heard.” McCade kept his voice overly pleasant.

To McCade’s surprise, James Vandenberg laughed. “I know,” he said. “Bad excuse. You’re right. I really wanted to see Cassandra. But you already knew that.” He held out the tapes. “Will you see that she gets these?”

“Yeah.” McCade took the videotapes.

“Tell Cassandra to call me when she’s ready to have that dinner date.” At the black look in McCade’s eyes, James laughed again. “Never mind. I’ll tell her
that
myself.”

McCade resisted the urge to slam the door in James Vandenberg’s face. Instead he closed it gently, placing the tapes on the table in the front entry hall. Sandy’s bedroom door was still closed, and he stood in the hallway, just staring at it for several long minutes.

Guilt.

It surrounded him, suffocating him. Why hadn’t he told Vandenberg that he and Sandy really were just friends? Why hadn’t he told him the truth?

Because McCade didn’t want that truth. He wanted to be Sandy’s lover, not just her friend. Damn, he wanted to be her husband. And now, in James Vandenberg’s eyes at least, McCade was a whole hell of a lot closer to that goal.

But Sandy liked James. Sandy wanted James. McCade had promised to help her, and here he was doing the exact opposite.

He had a persistent suspicion that James had been right when he’d implied that McCade wasn’t good enough for Sandy. Sure McCade looked the part of an upwardly mobile man—as long as he was wearing a shirt with sleeves long enough to hide his tattoo. But inside, he was still McCade. Money hadn’t changed him, not for the worse, but also not for the better.

McCade slowly dressed for work in a new pair of dark green pleated pants and an off-white polo shirt—some of the clothes Sandy had picked out for him when they’d shopped for the tuxedo. He barely recognized himself when he looked in the bathroom mirror. Besides the tuxedo, it had been literally years since he’d worn anything other than jeans and T-shirts. The fanciest he’d ever gotten, if you could call it fancy, was the pair of leather pants he wore when he rode his Harley in the cold or at night.

But here he was, looking like an upper-middle-class clone. People did some crazy things because of love, and temporarily changing his wardrobe was well within the realm of sanity.

He sighed. Sandy was going to be mad when she found out that James had come over and found him in her condo. She was going to be
really
mad when she found out he had said and done nothing to correct James’s obviously incorrect impression of what he was doing there.

She was going to be really mad when she found out, and she
was
going to find out, because McCade was going to tell her.

Or die from the guilt.

At seven-forty, McCade finished breakfast but Sandy still hadn’t awakened. Hadn’t she said something about an early-morning meeting? If she didn’t get up soon, she’d be late.

He went to her door and knocked lightly. No sound. He knocked harder, then listened again.

Nothing.

The door was unlocked, and he opened it slowly. Her room was dark, the shades blocking most of the morning sunshine. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness McCade crossed to the bed.

Sandy lay on her stomach amid a rumpled tangle of sheets, fast asleep.

“Sandy, wake up,” he said. But she was dead to the world.

McCade leaned over her, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “Yo, Sandy,” he said, louder this time, and her eyes opened. “I don’t think your alarm went off.”

She lifted her head, looking toward the clock radio on her bedside table. “Oh, shoot,” she said as she saw what time it was. “Oh, no! I have an eight o’clock meeting!” She clutched the sheet to her chest, pulling it with her off the bed as she ran toward the bathroom.

“McCade!” she shouted over the sound of the shower. “I’m
so
late. Pick me out something to wear, will you?”

McCade opened her closet and stared at the rack of clothing hanging there. Something to wear. A pretty blue-flowered sundress that he’d ordered for her from a catalog was hanging among all of her other clothes. It had arrived in yesterday’s mail, and had been waiting on Sandy’s doorstep last night when they got home.

The sleeveless dress would make her look like an angel.

McCade reached for a staid, almost mannishly cut navy-blue skirt and jacket. There was no point in Sandy hanging around looking like an angel. Not when she was planning to take the latest footage they’d shot over to Harcourt’s—and Vandenberg’s—office later that day.

He put the clothes on her bed just as she rushed back into the bedroom. Water dripped from her hair, and she had a towel wrapped around her.

“McCade, it’s going to be one hundred and fifteen degrees out there this afternoon,” she complained as she caught sight of the outfit he’d picked. “You can’t be serious. I’m
not
wearing long sleeves.” She pulled the new dress from the closet. “Besides, I want to wear something pretty today.”

Sandy pushed him out of the room.

“Why?” he asked.

Why? She was about to close the door, but stopped, looking up into his eyes. Because she wanted McCade to notice her. She looked down at the water that was dotting the floor from her dripping hair. “Because I think James is going to ask me out to dinner today.”

“I’ve got to tell you something,” McCade said.

“It’s got to wait.” Sandy closed the door and quickly dressed. When she opened the door, McCade was still standing there. He followed her to the door of the bathroom and watched as she stood at the sink, quickly putting on makeup.

“Look, Kirk, I’ve really got to tell you this,” he said. “You’re not going to like it, but…”

She glanced up at him in the bathroom mirror. “What didya break, McCade? My favorite coffee mug?”

“I wish.”

“My grandmother’s teapot?”

“No—”

“Not the mirror in the hallway.” She stretched her lips to put on lipstick, then smacked them together, looking at herself critically. “I’m not sure I can deal with seven years’ bad luck—”