Body Language

by Suzanne Brockmann

  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.

  “Will you promise not to stop doing that if I make a confession?”

  McCade hesitated slightly at her words. A confession? “Okay,” he managed to say evenly, hiding the sudden acceleration of his pulse. “Confess away.”

  “A back rub wasn’t the favor I was going to ask for.”

  Hah. So much for her confessing that she was madly in love with him. “It wasn’t?”

  “I was going to ask you…” As his hands moved up her neck she tilted her head to give him better access.

  “What?”

  “When we’re in public, would you mind calling me Cassandra?”

  His hands stopped moving and she looked up at him. “I know it sounds strange, but people around here think of me as Cassandra, and if they hear you call me Sandy, then they’ll start calling me that, too, and—”

  “Cassandra,” McCade repeated.

  “It’s stupid, I know. But, see, I’m going to be thirty in a few years, and I want people to call me Cassandra, not Sandy. Sandy sounds like a cheerleader or Gidget’s best friend or something. So young and, well…Do you know what I mean?”

  He began rubbing her back again. “No, but if it’s what you want, hell, I’ll do it. Cassandra,” he said, trying it out. “It is a pretty name. You’re going to have to help me remember, though.”

  She nodded, closing her eyes again. “Thanks, McCade,” she murmured sleepily. “You’re a pal….”

  “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

  Her breathing grew slow and steady. He stood up tiredly and found a blanket to pull over Sandy. Cassandra, he corrected himself.

  The name fit her. It fit her elegant looks, her powerful position as president of a thriving company, her place in the society of upper-class, country-club Phoenix. Cassandra Kirk. Not Sandy. Cassandra.

  Damn, he thought. He wanted Sandy. Sandy was the sweet-faced little girl who followed his lead in and out of trouble, who needed him—his friendship, his advice, his help. Cassandra was a grown woman—sophisticated, elegant, and quietly in control. And after she snared James Vandenberg IV, Cassandra wouldn’t need McCade any longer. There’d be no room in her life for him.

  But right now she needed his help. And maybe…

  Maybe this situation wasn’t as hopeless as it seemed. Maybe McCade could use Sandy’s infatuation with James Vandenberg to his advantage.

  Yeah, she needed his help. So he’d give her help. Oh, yeah. Help, and a whole lot more.

  FIVE

  “HI.”

  Startled, Sandy looked up from loading her camera into the back of the equipment van. James stood in the parking lot, smiling at her.

  “Hi,” she said, wishing as soon as the word was out of her mouth that she had said something amazingly clever instead.

  “I didn’t know you actually did camera work, too.” James took off his expensive-looking sunglasses and glanced down at the portable camera she’d worn on her shoulder nearly the entire afternoon. It was on the floor of the van right now, and he motioned toward it. “It’s a lot bigger than the camcorder I have at home.”

  Self-consciously, Sandy pushed escaped tendrils of her hair out of her face. She’d worn her hair back in a French braid, but after several hours of hard work capturing Simon Harcourt on videotape in the hot afternoon sun, her braid was ready to collapse—along with the rest of her. Her safari shorts were grubby and the neon-pink tank top she had on was covered with a fine layer of reddish Arizona dust.

  James was smiling at her, and she made herself hold his gaze. Eye contact, she thought, hoping she didn’t look as frightened as she felt. His smile was warm, though, and nice. But not as nice as McCade’s…

  James glanced back at the camera. “May I?” he asked. Sandy nodded, and he picked it up.

  “Whoa.” He grimaced. “I had no idea a camera like this would be so heavy. You carried this around all day?”

  Sandy smiled at the irony of him admiring her for her strength. “Just the afternoon. One of my crew had a family emergency. I had to take his place.”

  “I’m impressed.” He put the camera back down. “Remind me not to get you mad at me.”

  Was he flirting with her? Oh, brother, he was flirting with her! Flustered, she gave all of her attention to packing the camera into its carrying case. She locked the case down, attaching it firmly to the side of the van.

  “You must be tired,” James said.

  “Nothing a shower and a cold soda won’t cure.” She moved to the edge of the van, about to jump down. But her foot caught on a wire, and she tripped.

  Across the parking lot, McCade watched in alarm as Sandy launched headfirst out of the van. Her arms were outstretched, but he knew her hands would do little to protect her against the hard gravel of the driveway. He ran toward her futilely, well aware that there was no way he could reach her in time.

  But James was there, and he caught her, and McCade skidded to a stop. His relief turned quickly to jealousy as the man held her tightly in his arms, and didn’t release her. And didn’t relea
se her. And still didn’t release her. McCade counted to ten before the lawyer stepped back. But even then, the man’s hands lingered on her shoulders, then on her arms.

  Wishing desperately that he could hear their conversation, McCade watched Sandy as she talked. She held her body tightly, stiffly, but as she spoke she gave James a beautiful smile and McCade’s stomach hurt. True, she hadn’t quite mastered the body-language thing, but there was no man alive who could resist a smile that sweet. God knows he couldn’t.

  As McCade continued to watch, her shoulders got tighter and she stuck her hands into the front pockets of her shorts. James’s hand dropped from her arm, and she almost imperceptibly moved back, away from him. Her arms weren’t crossed in front of her, but they might as well have been. Even from McCade’s distance, he could see her tension, her discomfort, her shyness.

  James handed her something, smiled, then walked away.

  Sandy turned to look at McCade, and he quickly busied himself, loading equipment into the other van.

  It didn’t take too much longer to get the rest of the gear packed, and the vans moved out, heading back to the studio. McCade crossed the parking lot, heading toward Sandy, who slumped tiredly against her little car.

  “Want me to drive?” he said into her ear.

  She didn’t even open her eyes, she simply held out the car keys. “Now, if only you could magically get me inside the car,” she said, then gasped as he swung her up into his arms.

  “McCade!” she protested as he carried her around to the passenger side of the car. He opened the door effortlessly, still holding her in his arms, and gently set her down in the seat.

  “Not quite magic,” he said, fastening the seat belt around her. “But it did the trick.”

  He crouched next to the car, one hand on the open door, the other on the back of her seat.

  “You’re spoiling me,” Sandy said tiredly. “If you keep taking care of me like this, I’m going to go into terrible withdrawal when you leave.”

  “What if I don’t leave?”

  Sandy sat up, instantly awake. “What?”

  But he had already shut the door. As he slid in behind the wheel she nearly pounced on him. “Clint, are you thinking of staying in Phoenix for a while?”