Body Language

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “What if I hate it?” she asked.

  “You won’t,” Tony promised. “Sweet pea, I can guarantee that.”

  McCade had met Tony in Hollywood on a movie set. He’d told Sandy that quite a number of famous women had put their trademark tresses into Tony’s able hands and he’d never let a single one of them down. Tony had moved to Scottsdale because of his asthma, and many of his Hollywood clients chose to make the short commuter flight to Arizona rather than take their chances with another hairdresser in L.A.

  “McCade, you’re next in line for my chair,” Tony told him. “The Robinson Crusoe look is definitely passé, darling.”

  “Not today, Tony,” McCade replied. “There’s not enough time.”

  “It’ll take all of fifteen minutes,” Tony said. “While Sandy’s perm is setting.”

  “But I haven’t agreed—” Sandy started.

  “No, I’m going shopping,” McCade interrupted. “I’m going to update Sandy’s wardrobe.”

  Sandy started to laugh. “You? You’re going to buy me new clothes?”

  His smile held a trace of grimness. “I know what men like.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “Have the perm. I’ll be back to pick you up…When, Tony?”

  “Two hours.”

  “In two hours,” McCade said.

  “You don’t even know what size I am,” Sandy protested.

  “You wear a nine,” he said. “Size-eight shoes. Bra size, thirty-four-B—”

  “Well, jeez, McCade,” Sandy sputtered. “Announce it to everyone, why don’t you? I think there’re a couple of ladies with their heads under the hair dryers who didn’t hear you!”

  But she was talking to his back as he walked out the door, lifting one hand in a farewell wave.

  “Are we ready for our perm?” Tony asked, a smile on his cherubic face.

  “You really think it’ll look okay?” she asked him.

  Tony’s smile got bigger. “Sweetness, okay is not the word for what I have in mind.” He lifted up her long straight hair. “Just picture it. Soft, wavy curls around your face. Your hair will have body, life. One toss of your head will drive McCade wild. He won’t be able to keep his hands off of you. And that’s a promise.”

  “McCade and I are just friends,” Sandy said.

  “Of course you are.” Tony’s patronizing smile said he didn’t believe it.

  Sandy shook her head with a laugh. “Do it,” she heard herself say. “Let’s do it.”

  McCade piled the last of the shopping bags into the trunk of Sandy’s car and headed back to Tony’s. He was in a bad mood, and it had probably been his last stop that did him in. He’d gone into the mall’s lingerie store, and the thought that he was picking out fancy underthings that he’d probably never see on Sandy depressed him. The thought that James Vandenberg probably would see the richly colored silks and lace against her soft skin made him crazy.

  Why the hell was he doing this?

  Because he loved Sandy. Because he wanted her to be happy. Because a part of him was still hoping that she’d turn around, throw her arms around him, and declare that she couldn’t possibly love James, it was McCade who owned her heart.

  Right. Dream on, McCade.

  He pulled open the door to Tony’s little shop. The wave of cool air hit him the moment that he saw her, and it was a good thing, or he might have passed out from the heat that engulfed him.

  Sandy’s hair was parted on the side, swept up and over, curling and loose around her beautiful face. It cascaded around her shoulders and down her back, the curls catching and reflecting the light, seeming to glimmer and shine. Man, she had so much hair. The gentle perm had given it body, lifting its heavy weight from her neck.

  She was eating an ice-cream bar, an orange and vanilla Creamsicle, as she sat up on the counter, talking to Tony and his next customer. McCade watched, spellbound, as her pink tongue caught a drip from the bottom of the ice cream. At that moment she looked up and her eyes met his.

  McCade had to look away for fear of spontaneous combustion. He took a deep breath as he walked toward her and actually managed to smile. “You look great. Can I say I told you so?”

  “No.” She’d returned her attention to her ice cream. “You may not.”

  Tony’s customer was an elderly lady with heavily painted eyebrows and thin white hair that was wet and flattened against her head. She looked in the mirror from Sandy to McCade and back again.

  “Your gentleman friend needs a haircut,” she said. “And a shave.”

  “He can be pretty childish when it comes to his hair,” Sandy told her as if McCade weren’t standing in front of her.

  “Underneath it all, he’s not half bad looking,” the woman decided, “but I really don’t think he’s your type, dear.” She leaned closer to Sandy and lowered her voice as if McCade wouldn’t be able to hear her. “His kind’s not good enough for a nice young lady like you.”

  From the circling motions Tony was making with his hand behind the woman’s head, it was obvious that he was implying she was as crazy as they came, but still her words stung. McCade turned away, not wanting Sandy to see the hurt in his eyes.

  “Oh, but you’re wrong,” he heard her say earnestly. “Men like Clint McCade are few and far between. In fact, it’s taken me fifteen years to find a man who doesn’t totally pale in comparison.”

  McCade’s mouth twisted in a wry smile as he shook his head. Good old Sandy. Loyal to the bitter end. “Come on, Kirk. Let’s blow this Popsicle stand. Tony, I owe you one.”

  “No, no, babycakes.” Tony turned as they headed for the door. “I owed you one, remember? Now we’re even.”

  As they walked out of the salon McCade ran his fingers through Sandy’s new curls so lightly that she didn’t even notice.

  “McCade.” Tony’s voice stopped him and he turned back, letting the door close. “She’s a nice girl.”

  “I know.” McCade watched out the window as she climbed into her car.

  “She says you’re just friends.”

  “That’s right.”

  Tony laughed. “Yeah, and my mother’s the pope.”

  McCade tossed his armload of shopping bags on Sandy’s big double bed, then looked up at her and grinned. “I’ll go get the rest.”

  “There’s more?” But he was already gone.

  Shaking her head, she opened one garment bag first, and then another, pulling out a collection of evening wear, mostly dresses. As she looked at the clothing lying on her bed, she realized her mouth was hanging open, and she closed it. Then she started to laugh.

  Never, ever, not in a million years would she have bought any of these dresses for herself. It wasn’t that they were ugly or garish; in fact they were all rather simply elegant—no sequins or flashing lights attached, anyway. It was just that she always went for the quietly modest dresses, the ones that would let her blend in with the crowd. But that was the problem. All too often she blended in. Sandy looked at the dresses again. Not anymore. Not a chance.

  She opened the other bags to find shoes—all simple high-heeled pumps in various colors to match the dresses.

  Then she opened the bag of lingerie and shut it very quickly. She opened it more slowly, reaching in and pulling out something very tiny made of black silk.

  McCade came into the room, and she dangled the tiny black thing from her finger. “You don’t really expect me to wear this, do you, McCade?”

  “I wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t expect you to wear it.” He sat down next to her on the bed. “I think you should wear the white dress on Saturday.”

  As Sandy watched he began opening one of the last bags he’d brought in from the car. Makeup. He’d bought new eye shadow and blush, and lipstick and…

  “Go on, why don’t you try it on?” He glanced up at her impatiently, as if he expected her to be already changing into the new white dress.

  “McCade…”

  “You want to get no
ticed, right?”

  She nodded. Slowly, though. Reluctantly.

  “Look, Kirk, just put on that dress. If you hate it, no one’s going to make you wear it.”

  “Damn right,” she muttered. But she picked up the white dress. The fabric was soft, the dress obviously well made. She’d never dared even to try on anything like it before. It would cling to her body, hug her every curve, draw attention to her.

  But that was the point, wasn’t it? She caught a glimpse of her shiny new curls in the bedroom mirror, and suddenly wanted to see just what she’d look like wearing this dress.

  McCade settled back on the bed, obviously not going anywhere, so she took the dress and headed for the door.

  “Sandy.”

  She turned back to see his smile. “Don’t forget this.” He opened the lingerie bag and tossed something white and impossibly tiny at her.

  Sandy changed slowly in the little room she’d made into her home office. There was no mirror, so she couldn’t really see what she looked like. But she looked down at the taut white material covering her hips and stomach. The dress felt good. And, God! Somehow the design of the bra McCade had bought gave her cleavage. Actual, honest-to-God cleavage!

  There was a soft tap on the door. “It’s the leg police. You forgot your stockings and shoes.”

  She pulled the door open, and he stood there, shimmering hose hanging from one hand, a pair of white pumps with very high, lethal-looking spike heels hanging from the other. His eyes traveled slowly and appreciatively down and then back up her body. Sandy folded her arms protectively across her chest.

  “Wow. You look—”

  She took the stockings and the shoes and closed the door in his face.

  The stockings were the sheerest she’d ever encountered. She rolled them slowly up one leg and then the other. She slipped the shoes on her feet, refusing to think about Cinderella. But the white pumps fit perfectly, comfortably, even if they pushed her height over the six-foot mark.

  Sandy opened the door to find McCade still waiting for her. He grabbed her by the hand and pulled her down the hall to the kitchen.

  “McCade, wait,” she complained. “I haven’t even seen myself in the mirror yet and—”

  He pushed her into one of the kitchen chairs.

  “—I haven’t learned to walk in these shoes yet and—”

  He’d spread all the new makeup he’d bought out on the kitchen table. With a flourish, he drew one of her spare bedsheets around her, covering her completely from the neck down.

  “White dress,” he explained. “Don’t want to get any makeup on it.”

  “McCade—” Sandy stopped. She took a deep breath and started again, trying to sound rational and in control. “Clint, what are you doing?”

  He was looking at her critically in the bright overhead light. “I’m going to put some makeup on you,” he told her almost absently as he studied her face. He smiled then, meeting her eyes. “You don’t really need much, you look good without it. I’ll just enhance what you’ve already got.”

  “You’re going to—”

  “I’ve doubled as makeup assistant on quite a few low-budget projects. Off the record, of course, and only on nonunion jobs.” His smile became quite immodest. In fact it was downright smug. “Jim Fabrizio, who is the makeup man in Hollywood—”

  “I know who Fabrizio is,” Sandy said.

  “He said if I ever wanted to give up camera work, I could have a full-time job working with him.”

  “Well, you’re quite the little bundle of talent, aren’t you, McCade?”

  “Tip your head back and close your eyes,” he commanded. “And your mouth, smart aleck.”

  Sandy obeyed, and she felt him touch her face as he spread a light coat of base over her skin. For such a big man, his touch was remarkably light, incredibly gentle. She opened her eyes to see his face inches from hers, his eyes intense. He was standing almost on top of her, his long jean-clad legs straddling her own. He shifted his weight slightly and her crossed legs came into contact with the inside of his thigh. But he didn’t pull back, and there was nowhere she could go.

  So she closed her eyes again, trying to relax. His voice was soothing as he softly explained what he was doing, or asked her to move her head a certain way. His breath was hot and sweet against her face.

  “Okay,” he said finally as he pulled the sheet off of her. “Just one more thing, keep your head back—”

  But Sandy’s eyes flew open as she felt his hand dip down between her breasts. “McCade!”

  He was half kneeling, half squatting on the floor in front of her, most of his lower body pressed against her legs as he reached across her. “Chill, Kirk,” he ordered her as he rubbed a soft line of makeup between her breasts. “This is an old Hollywood trick. It’ll really show off your décolletage.”

  Sandy tried to ignore the effect his hands were having on her body. She tried to ignore her sudden awareness of every solid inch of McCade that was pressing into her ankles and calves. “Hah,” she said, trying desperately to pick a fight with him. If they were fighting, then she wouldn’t be tempted to reach out and pull his mouth toward hers. Oh, God, she wasn’t actually thinking about kissing him, was she?

  “Hah,” she said again, even more desperately. “Proof. McCade you’ve finally given me proof. All these years you’ve denied my claim that I’m built like a boy, but now you’ve as much as admitted it.”

  “No way.” He put his hand under her chin, making her meet his gaze. “I think you’re perfect, Sandy, and don’t you forget it.”

  She stared at him, trapped by the smoky vehemence in his eyes. He was still mere inches away from her, and she could see tiny flecks of brown and green mixed in with the almost aquamarine blue. His pupils were surrounded by a tiny ring of gold. “You have beautiful eyes, McCade,” she breathed, and as she watched, his pupils dilated.

  This was where he would kiss her, if he were anyone in the world besides Clint McCade.

  Instead, he blinked, laughed, and straightened up. “Come here,” he commanded.

  Sandy tried not to wobble in the precariously high heels as she followed him down the hall. He stepped back when he reached her bedroom door, gesturing grandly for her to go in ahead of him.

  She took three steps into the room, then stopped as she caught sight of herself in the big full-length mirror that was on the closet door.

  “Oh, my God.” Sandy slowly walked toward her reflection. She was…beautiful. The white dress fit her snugly, making her figure look slender and feminine instead of skinny, the way she usually thought of herself. The skirt was short and it made her long, slim legs look as if they went on forever. And she had to admit, the shoes were pretty damn sexy. Her hair was an explosion of gold and light around her face and down her back. And her face! Her eyes looked exotic, her lashes full and dark, her lips the perfect shade of red for her complexion. Sandy’s gaze dropped lower, to the low-cut top of the dress. By God, would you look at that? The tops of her breasts looked lush and full.

  She could see McCade in the mirror as he leaned against the door frame, his arms across his chest.

  “McCade, you’re a magician.” She turned to look at him. “A miracle worker.”

  He shook his head. “Hey, I just knew the right kind of wrapping to put on the package.”

  She looked at herself again. As the shock was wearing off, reality was setting in. She frowned slightly. “I just…don’t think I can wear this.”

  McCade straightened up. “Why not?”

  “Well…” She searched for a reason. “For one thing, I’m too tall in these shoes.”

  “Oh, come on, Kirk—”

  “No, really, McCade. Look at me. I’m six feet tall.”

  “Six gorgeous feet tall,” he countered. “So what?”

  “I’ll tower over everybody.”

  “You won’t tower over James.” Three big steps brought him close to Sandy. “He’s as tall as I am, right?”

 
“A little shorter.”

  “Only a little.” He pulled her into his arms, as if they were going to dance together. He held her tightly, intimately against his lean, strong body. “See, you’ll fit him perfectly. He’ll love it, he won’t have to bend so far to kiss you.”

  McCade looked down at the woman in his arms. Mercy, he’d been dying to hold Sandy like this for hours. She was staring up at him as if he’d gone crazy, her eyes wide, her soft lips parted in surprise. Oh, man, she felt so good, so heavenly against him. He ran his fingers through her silky hair, wanting her so badly—

  He pushed her away from him and jammed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, praying that she hadn’t noticed his growing arousal. Dammit! Somehow he mustered up a grin and managed to meet her eye. “You’re gonna knock his socks off, Kirk. Trust me on that one.”

  She brought her gaze to the mirror, but quickly looked away. “I still can’t wear this on Saturday,” she told him, regret in her voice.

  “No.” McCade crossed his arms again. “You’re being negative. Start thinking positively—”

  “It would be different if I had a date. But the thought of walking into that room, dressed like this, all by myself…” She made a face. “Eeek, you know? I wouldn’t know what to do with my hands.” She snuck another look back into the mirror. “Or, God, my legs.”

  “I’ll be your date.”

  “In your leather jacket and jeans? It might work in L.A., McCade, but this is Phoenix.”

  “No, really.” The more McCade thought about it, the more he liked the idea. He’d take her to this stuffed-shirt shindig. It would give him a chance to dance with her, hold her in his arms. “If you show up with a date, that’ll make you even more appealing to old James. You know how it is, everybody always wants to play with the other kid’s toys.”

  “Well, jeez, McCade, how can I resist when you put it like that,” she said sarcastically as she sat down on the edge of her bed.

  “You know what I mean.”

  She looked up at him, tapping her foot. “You’ll have to shave.”

  “No problem.”

  “And get your hair cut.”

  McCade raked his fingers through his hair. “I like my hair this way. Long hair is in style—”