Body Language

by Suzanne Brockmann

  McCade shifted into reverse, adjusting the rearview mirror. Sandy called him Clint only when the subject was of the utmost importance to her. Since his mother had died, she was the only person who ever called him by his first name. In fact, through the years, he’d even discouraged his girlfriends from calling him anything but McCade. Clint was too vulnerable. Clint was a twelve-year-old little boy, alone and angry in a new school, outraged that his father had deserted him and his mother, forcing them to move to a tiny basement apartment in a bad part of town.

  It was Sandy, who moved into that same rundown apartment building the following September, who started calling him McCade. She’d expected him to be some sort of tough-as-nails street kid, and so that’s what he’d become. Her blatant hero worship left him no time to feel sorry for himself. She was a year younger, a skinny blonde waif, and he quickly learned to enjoy the role of her protector. An unnecessary role, McCade admitted to himself with a smile. He’d found that out after she’d attacked a ninth grader for making insinuations about McCade’s paternity. She gave the boy, who was nearly twice her size, a bloody nose and a bruise on his shin that he’d no doubt remembered for a long time. After that, McCade and Sandy’s friendship became more equal.

  As he drove through the late-afternoon traffic he could feel her watching him as she asked again, “Are you going to make Phoenix a temporary home base?”

  He glanced at her, one eyebrow raised. “Temporary? Don’t you want me in town permanently?”

  “You don’t do permanent.” Sandy pulled her sneakers off, wiggling her toes appreciatively in the coolness of the car’s air-conditioning. “At least that’s what you’ve been claiming for the past decade.”

  “Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

  Something in his low, husky voice made Sandy look at him, really look at him. He looked away from the road for the briefest of instants to meet her gaze, but even in that short blink of time she could see something different in his eyes. It was more than sadness. It was a kind of desperation that she hadn’t seen before. At least not before this visit.

  She turned to face him, lightly resting her hand on his forearm. “Clint, I can’t shake the feeling that you’re having some sort of crisis,” she said softly. “I wish you would tell me what’s wrong so that I can help you.”

  McCade braked to a stop behind a long line of cars at a red light. He moved his arm so her hand slid down to his, and he gently locked their fingers together. “I’ll be all right,” he said, praying he wasn’t lying.

  “You know that I’d do anything for you. Just ask.”

  McCade smiled and lightly kissed the top of her hand before he released it. “I saw your graceful exit from the equipment van.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Very perceptive.”

  Sandy was silent. Since when did McCade keep secrets from her?

  “Did you do it on purpose?” he asked.

  Sandy stared at him blankly. “Huh?”

  “When you fell out of the van, did you mean to?”

  “Yeah, I intentionally planned to look like a fool.” She snorted. “I’ve found that really turns guys on.”

  “It works for me.”

  McCade was grinning at her, and she found herself grinning back. “Well, gee, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Now why was it so easy to flirt with McCade? She would never dare say something so suggestive to James. Maybe it was because she knew McCade was safe. She knew he wouldn’t take her seriously, the same way she’d never mistake his flirting for something real.

  “What did Vandenberg give you?” McCade asked.

  “You were watching me. I thought so.” She narrowed her eyes. “How was my body language?”

  “It needs work,” he said bluntly.

  “But I thought I was doing okay,” she protested. “I mean, James had his hands all over me. In fact, for a minute there, I thought he was asking me out. He said there was a reception at Simon Harcourt’s country club tonight, but then he gave me the directions and told me to bring a date.” Sandy sighed.

  “That’s what he handed you? Directions to the club?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  “You know what I think happened?” he asked, and she shook her head, waiting for him to continue. “I think Vandenberg was intending to ask you to go to this reception with him, but then you started backing away, so he backed off too.”

  “Backing away?”

  “Yeah.” McCade pulled into the condo lot, zipping neatly into Sandy’s slot in the carport. He turned off the car and dangled the keys toward her. “This time you froze him out by jamming your hands into your pockets and doing a quick two-step away from him. He interpreted that as an impending refusal. So, being a normal, red-blooded American male, he decided to skip the humiliation of a rejection. Can you blame him?”

  “I froze him out?” Sandy took the keys and slumped dejectedly in her seat. “I’m a social reject. A body-language illiterate. It’s hopeless, McCade.”

  “No, it’s not.” McCade extracted his long legs from the tiny car and went around to open the door on the other side.

  Sandy looked away, but she wasn’t quick enough to hide the fact that her eyes were brimming with unshed tears.

  “Aw, hell, you’re serious.” He crouched next to her so their faces were on the same level. “Hey, Sandy, come on. You can learn body language, but it’s just like anything else. In order to really learn it, you need to practice.”

  “Practice?” she echoed.

  “Practice,” he agreed. His hair was a jumble of waves, one lock falling rakishly across his forehead. The muscles in his arms tightened as he supported his weight, his solid biceps stretching the sleeves of his shirt. “Let’s go inside, get showered up and changed, and hit that country-club reception.”

  “You hate going to that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll live. You need to be in public to practice.”

  “Won’t I also need someone to practice on?” she asked. “James isn’t exactly willing.”

  “You don’t need James,” McCade said. “You’ve got me.”

  Sandy’s heels clicked on the marble tile of the country-club lobby. She stopped at the entrance to the ballroom where the reception was being held.

  There had to be at least two hundred people there, but the ballroom was so big, they seemed to be scattered about, standing in small groups, sitting at tables that dotted the edges of the dance floor, and dancing to music performed by a trio of musicians.

  The men all wore tuxedos, and the women wore variations on the dresses they’d had on at Saturday night’s fund-raiser at the Pointe. Sandy spotted the woman who had worn the outrageous peacock-feather dress. Tonight she was covered in shiny blue fringe that shook and shimmied when she moved.

  Sandy’s hand was resting lightly in the crook of McCade’s elbow, and he tugged her gently into the reception. She caught sight of their reflection in a big framed mirror on the other side of the room, and nearly laughed out loud.

  McCade looked like a million bucks. He filled out his designer tuxedo to perfection and his sun-streaked brown hair gleamed in the dim light. He wore it moussed up and back, off his forehead, thick and wavy and just begging for fingers to be run through it. His gorgeous lips curved up into a smile and then a full-fledged grin as he met her eyes in the mirror.

  “Man, would you look at yourself,” he whispered to her. “You look unreal.”

  She did. She looked like someone else, not Sandy Kirk. She wore the little black velvet slip dress that McCade had bought. Spaghetti-thin black straps crossed her smooth, tanned shoulders and the dress’s neckline dipped down between her breasts, a reminder that she wasn’t wearing a bra. But the woman whose reflection was looking back at Sandy from that big mirror didn’t need a bra. That woman, with her long, thick jumble of blonde curls falling down her back, with the long, slender legs covered with sheer black hose, with her spike heels that made her taller than almost all of t
he women in the room and most of the men, that woman was self-confident, beautiful, and well-adjusted enough to know that velvet wasn’t exactly see-through, and that even without a bra, she was perfectly, adequately covered. Besides, Sandy thought wryly, there was no bra on earth that could be worn with a dress that dipped as low in the back as this one.

  McCade was right. She looked unreal. But the truth was that she and McCade looked exceptionally unreal together.

  Familiarity, she decided. They were friends, relaxed and comfortable together, and it showed in their body language. Body language, she thought wryly. Yeah, right.

  “Now that we’re here,” she said, “what do we do?”

  “How about we have a drink? You want me to get you something from the bar?”

  “No way am I letting go of you.” Sandy tightened her grip on his arm. “You go to the bar, I go to the bar.”

  “The most beautiful woman in the room won’t let go of my arm.” McCade smiled at her. “I think I can live with that.”

  “Careful with the flattery, McCade,” she said. “I might start believing you.”

  He looked down at her, his eyes searching her face. “Would that be so terrible?”

  She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, afraid of…What? She wasn’t afraid of McCade. She was afraid of herself. Afraid she was going to give herself away, afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes from his mouth, his lips. And McCade, an expert on body language, would know without a doubt that she wanted him to kiss her. Oh, God, she was dying for him to kiss her. What on earth was wrong with her lately?

  She studied the tips of his black cowboy boots. “How about that drink?”

  With a sigh of frustration, McCade navigated his way to the bar, trying to decide whether to get himself a beer or a soda. Caffeine or alcohol. Which would cool him down the quickest? He decided on the beer. As long as he didn’t have too many, he’d probably be better off. But God help him if he drank too much. He’d probably end up throwing himself at Sandy’s feet, begging her to have mercy on him.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” He leaned toward her in the crush of people gathered around the long bar. Crowds usually bothered him, but he liked this one. It forced Sandy to stand close enough to him so that he could breathe in her delicious scent. Mercy, she smelled good. She never wore perfume, but the mixture of the shampoo and soap that she used, along with the unmistakable musky scent that belonged to Sandy alone, was better than any bottled aroma.

  He felt his body respond to her closeness. Oh, man, he wanted her. Right here and now. He wanted to pull her into the empty coat-check room, lock the door behind them, and—

  “Can I get you something?” the bartender asked.

  “Beer,” Sandy said. “Right, McCade? Bottled and imported. Make it two.”

  She smiled at the bartender as he poured two bottles of beer into tall, V-shaped glasses. She handed one to McCade and raised the other in a small toast. “Here’s to body language.”

  Their glasses clinked, and they both took a long sip of the foaming beer.

  “Speaking of body language…” McCade moved her away from the crowded bar. “I think you should pretend…”

  He took another sip of his beer while Sandy waited for him to continue. “What?” she finally said.

  “Pretend that you want me.” He was serious. He smiled as she gazed up into his eyes, but this was no joke. She had never seen him so absolutely serious.

  Sandy was silent as he pulled her farther away from the crowd. When they reached a small, deserted cluster of white wicker chairs and a glass-topped table, he stopped and gently took her beer from her hand, setting both of their drinks down.

  “First thing you need to do is relax,” McCade said, and she realized she had her arms tightly crossed in front of her. “Start at least by pretending that you like me.”

  “McCade, I don’t have to pretend that.”

  “Good.” His smile widened as he took both of her hands in his, tugging on them slightly. “Now pretend I’m an old friend who’s come into town. Pretend I’m just here for tonight, and pretend that you’ve just realized that you’re in love with me. Pretend that you’ve only got a few hours to let me know how you feel, and pretend that you’re not the type to blurt out the truth.” He dropped her hands and stepped back, away from her. “What are you going to do?”

  “This is silly,” Sandy said. “Why do I have to pretend all of those things?”

  “Because if I told you to pretend I’m a stranger who caught your eye, we’d get into an hour-long discussion on the stupidity of picking up a person you know nothing about. Besides, you’re going to come on differently to a man you know isn’t a potential ax murderer, like James…or me.”

  Sandy nervously picked up her glass of beer and took a sip. “But I don’t know James well enough to be sure he’s not an ax murderer.”

  McCade laughed. “Now you’re stalling.”

  She frowned into her beer, watching bubbles escape from the amber liquid. “But I’m…” She shook her head. “I’m lousy at pretending, and on top of that, I’m lousy at seduction. It’s a wonder I’m not still a virgin. Do you think it’s too late for me to become a nun?”

  “Yes,” McCade said firmly. “Much too late.” He took a deep breath. “You don’t need to know how to seduce a man. You just need to know how to…let yourself be seduced.

  “Trust me,” he added softly. “Do you trust me?”

  She nodded, looking down into her beer again.

  “Use your eyes. Remember what I told you about eye contact?”

  Sandy nodded again.

  As she looked up to meet his eyes he smiled ruefully. “I’m reading scared in your expression. Shyness too. You’ve got to be bolder. Let me know you’re thinking about sex.”

  “But I’m not.”

  “You should be. Watch me, Sandy. Cassandra.”

  As Sandy watched, McCade’s gaze turned fiery, burning hot. He let his eyes sweep down her body, taking his time as he looked her over, inch by inch. “Can you guess what I’m thinking?” He glanced back into her eyes and she blushed.

  “Yeah,” she said. “But—”

  She didn’t go on.

  “But what?”

  “I guess I’m a little more old-fashioned than you, McCade. I can’t just flip a switch whenever I want to and feel…lust.”

  “I prefer to call it physical attraction,” he told her. “And with me it’s not a matter of flipping a switch. It’s a matter of dropping defenses, of letting something show that I would normally keep hidden.”

  Sandy stared at him, trying to make sense of his words. “You don’t really expect me to believe that you find me that attractive,” she said flatly.

  “Believe it or not, Kirk,” he retorted, a hint of annoyance in his voice, “I do. I’ve always found you outrageously sexy.”

  Laughing disparagingly, she turned away. “Right.”

  McCade caught her arm, nearly knocking the glass of beer out of her hands. “Dammit, Sandy,” he hissed. “When are you going to stop knocking yourself? I’ve never lied to you, why should I start now?”

  “I’m sorry, I know you’re not lying.” Of course he was attracted to her as a friend. And as for the physical thing, well, it wasn’t news to her that he liked anything female. She just hadn’t realized he knew she was female.

  Sandy gently pulled her arm from his grasp. She didn’t want to fight. She was tired and hungry and she wanted to go home. But she knew McCade wasn’t going to let her leave until she came through with this body-language stuff. She put her glass of beer down.

  She didn’t have to pretend she wanted McCade. All she’d have to pretend was that she was finally in that perfect world she’d dreamed about so many times. She looked up at him, and let all the passion and all the longing she’d ever felt for him show in her eyes.

  She held his gaze as a series of emotions flitted across his face. She could see surprise, disbelief, amazement, and finally ap
proval in his eyes. It was followed closely by a flare of what must have been reflective heat.

  “That’s the look,” McCade breathed as she gave him a very obvious once-over.

  When Sandy looked back into his eyes, she smiled self-consciously and held out both hands to him, palms up. “How’m I doing?” she asked.

  “Not exactly subtle, but it’ll do. Dance with me.”

  “What? Why?”

  “It’s the next logical step,” he explained. “You just told me with your eyes that the game you want to play is one on one. Unless I’m crazy or brain-dead, I’m going to respond by trying to get you into my arms. That’s what dancing’s all about. It’s an excuse for people to hold each other.”

  “I’m not a very good dancer.”

  “You do just fine.” McCade smiled. “Besides, this isn’t about dancing. It’s about sex. Think of it as foreplay.”

  Sandy felt herself blush. “McCade, I’m exhausted—”

  “Just one dance, then we’ll go. I promise.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” she told him as he led her onto the dance floor.

  Sandy felt McCade’s strong arms surround her and wondered why she bothered to protest. Dancing with him was heaven. It was absolute paradise. She gazed into his eyes, and his arms tightened around her, pulling her against his muscular body. There was no space between them, no way they could get any closer—at least not with their clothes on.

  Sandy could feel McCade’s hand on the bare skin exposed by the deep V of the back of her dress. He slowly moved his hand down, touching her lightly and so sensuously.

  “Yeah.” His breath was warm as he spoke softly into her ear. “You remembered step four.”

  With a start, Sandy realized she was stroking the back of his neck, twining her fingers in his thick, soft hair. Without thinking, she had followed McCade’s fourth step. She had taken a normal, polite dance hold and turned it into a caress. But she’d done it naturally, without being aware. Gee, maybe there was hope for her yet with this body-language thing.