Body Language

by Suzanne Brockmann

  She closed her eyes. “I’m going to kill Laura.”

  “Laura?”

  “She made these reservations.” She opened her eyes and looked at McCade. “Even if we really were involved, McCade, unless we were married, we wouldn’t go on a business trip and share a room. It’s just not professional. It looks so…sleazy.”

  McCade shifted the weight of the bags in his hands. “Let me carry your stuff to the room, then I’ll try to find Frank—”

  “And sleep on the floor?” She shook her head. “No, look, McCade, we can share a room. We just have to be discreet. It’s not that big a deal anyway. It’s not really that different from you staying in my condo with me, right?”

  He didn’t answer, so she went on. “Motel rooms usually have two beds. You can take one bed, I’ll take the other, and everything will work out fine. Okay?”

  She was trying to convince herself as much as McCade. Sharing a motel room with him really wasn’t anything like sharing her condo. In her condo, she could escape into another room when her feelings started becoming too intense, when her attraction to him started pulling her in his direction. But this was for just a few nights, she told herself firmly. Surely she could go for a few nights without throwing herself at the man. Couldn’t she?

  Silently, McCade followed her up the stairs to room number 238. He watched as Sandy put the key into the lock and opened the door. She flipped on the lights as they went in and—

  Sandy swore softly.

  One bed.

  The room had only one king-size bed.

  McCade stepped inside, pushing the door shut with his foot. He dropped his own bag on the floor near the door, but set hers on the dresser. “I’ll go find Frank.”

  “Wait.”

  The energy he’d found to shoot this evening’s plane ride had drained him, and he looked exhausted. “I gotta keep moving, or I’m going to fall down,” he told her when she didn’t continue.

  “What if you can’t find Frank?”

  “I’ll crash in one of the vans.”

  “It gets cold up here at night,” she said. “We’re in the mountains, remember?” She took a deep breath, letting it out in a loud burst. “This is a big bed. And we’re grown-ups. We can share it, right?”

  McCade shook his head. “I don’t know, Sand.”

  “You can’t sleep on the floor in Frank’s room,” she said decisively. “It would look too weird. Everyone thinks we’re living together. And I definitely don’t want you sleeping in the van. Maybe tomorrow they’ll have another room.”

  He shook his head again. “They’re booked solid through the weekend.”

  “Maybe someone will call and cancel.” She sat on the bed and pulled off her boots, tossing them next to the wall. “I’m going to take a shower and then go to sleep. We have to get up early in the morning.”

  She rummaged in her bag, pulling out one of her little cotton nightgowns. She tucked it under her arm as she started unbuttoning her shirt.

  Buttons. In his mind, McCade saw buttons flying through the air inside of Sandy’s little car. He saw Sandy, so beautiful and sexy, her eyes filled with desire….

  He turned away, suddenly painfully aware of his rock-solid desire. He’d been walking around in a state of confusion for weeks now, ever since he’d arrived on Sandy’s doorstep, and the thought of sharing that enormous bed with her had pushed him over the top.

  Mercy, he wanted her.

  And if that memory he had of ripping her shirt open really was a memory and not a dream, then he was seriously out of control. What was he thinking, if? That was no dream. The buttons he’d found in her car were proof of that.

  He heard the sound of the water go on, and slowly took off his jacket.

  He was next in line for a shower—a very cold one.

  “Hey, Sandy?”

  McCade’s voice came from the darkness on the other side of the bed. She rolled onto her side, trying to get comfortable. The mattress had seen better days, though, and McCade’s weight on one end made it seem as if she were sleeping on the side of a hill.

  “Yeah?” she answered.

  “This is sorta strange, you know?”

  Oh, yeah. She knew. “Close your eyes, McCade. If you’re even half as tired as I am, you’ll fall asleep right away.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s my fault that you’re so tired.”

  “Remember that the next time you go out drinking. I haven’t lectured you yet, have I?”

  “Nope.”

  Sandy turned to face him. “There are more ways to die from drinking than drunk driving,” she told him sternly. “You could have overdosed and died from alcohol poisoning.”

  “You know, I didn’t go out intending to get skunked,” he said. “When I left your place, I didn’t plan to drink at all.”

  “So why did you?”

  He didn’t answer right away, and the darkness pressed down on Sandy mercilessly. She longed to see his face, see his eyes, know what he was thinking.

  “I got drunk because riding my bike didn’t help,” he finally said.

  Riding his bike didn’t…? Disappointment clutched at her. He was feeling tied down, and she knew what she had to do. She had to set him free. “You don’t have to stay.” She hoped he couldn’t hear the tightness in her throat, suddenly glad for the darkness that kept him from seeing her face. “After this weekend I can replace you, even with just a few hours’ notice. So don’t stick around out of a sense of guilt. If you have to go, I can get along without you.”

  Her words echoed in the darkness. She could get along without him. Of course she could.

  McCade lay in silence, seeing buttons shooting through the air. Oh, man, did she want him to leave? He couldn’t ask. He cleared his throat, but he couldn’t find the words to ask her what had happened last night. But he was dying to know. Had he kissed her? Had he tried to make love to her? What had he said, and how had she answered?

  Not for the first time since he’d awakened that morning, he cursed his inability to remember.

  Heat. He saw it in Sandy’s eyes, felt it in her touch, tasted it on her lips. She drew him toward her, and as their mouths met again there was an explosion of fire.

  Their clothes fell away, dissolving around them, and he was touching her. Sweet Lord, he’d waited so long for this. Her legs opened, she was ready for him, and he couldn’t wait. He entered her almost savagely and she cried out, her voice thick with pleasure.

  But suddenly she pushed him away.

  Then he was sitting in Sandy’s car. They were both fully dressed, and Sandy was crying.

  But as suddenly as she had started to cry, she stopped.

  If you still want to make love to me when you’re sober—Sandy watched him steadily—just let me know, okay?

  McCade sat up in the darkness of the motel room. His heart was pounding, and the sound of his breathing, unsteady and ragged seemed to rattle around him. He ran his hands down his face. Talk about vivid dreams. This one had been so realistic that—

  He shook his head. No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  His heart rate had finally returned to normal, but the thought that Sandy might actually have said those words to him made it kick into overdrive again. But then he frowned. Part of that dream had to be just that—a dream.

  It was his recurrent fantasy—she was in his bed and she wanted him to make love to her. But that other stuff, the words she had spoken right before he woke up, that was new.

  Sandy was asleep a short distance away from him.

  He didn’t want to wake her. Lord knows he’d kept her up enough last night. But he did want to hold her. Gently he eased his arms around her, molding his body around hers, tucking her head underneath his chin.

  He’d talk to her in the morning. Maybe it would rain, and they wouldn’t have to get out of bed at the crack of dawn. She’d wake up with his arms around her, and he would tell her that he was sober, and watch for her reaction.

  Sandy sighed, and McCad
e closed his eyes. Breathing in her sweet scent, holding her tightly, he fell back into a deep sleep.

  The phone was ringing relentlessly, invading the soft warmth of Sandy’s dreams. At last she could ignore it no longer, and she opened her eyes.

  McCade’s eyes opened a fraction of a second later, and Sandy stared into their swirling mix of colors as he gazed at her, confusion clearly written on his face.

  They were nose to nose, and her arm was wrapped possessively around his neck, her legs tangled casually with his.

  She pulled away from him, blushing furiously, thinking, God, she’d gone and done it. She’d damn near forced herself on him in the night. She rolled over so that her back was to him as she answered the telephone, thankful for a chance to hide her warm cheeks. “Kirk.”

  “Morning, boss,” came Frank’s cheerful voice. “It’s six o’clock. Rise and shine. God’s on our side. We’ve got fifty-five degrees and sunshine. Remember to dress in layers, it’ll get hotter as we go down into the canyon.”

  “Thanks, Frank.”

  “Oh, boss? Clint McCade’s not on my room list,” he said. “I’m assuming you know where he is?”

  Sandy closed her eyes briefly. “Yeah,” she said. Yes, she certainly did know where McCade was. He was hardly even an arm’s distance from her, looking too good for words with his rumpled hair and the stubble of beard on his handsome face.

  “Great,” Frank said. “See you in a few.”

  Pushing her tangled hair back from her face, she hung up the phone. With her back to McCade, she climbed out of bed.

  “Sandy.”

  She turned around to find him watching her, his head propped up on one arm. His eyes were serious, his expression almost somber. “We have to talk.”

  Her heart sank. He was going to tell her that after this weekend he was leaving. She’d given her feelings away by throwing herself into his arms last night, and now he had a better reason to leave than ever.

  But she didn’t want to hear that right now. She didn’t want to spend her entire day knowing he would soon be gone.

  “Not right now, McCade.” She tried to keep her voice light as she headed toward the bathroom. “If we don’t get a move on, we’ll miss breakfast. And trust me, we don’t want to hike down into the Grand Canyon without breakfast.”

  She closed the bathroom door tightly behind her, and McCade exhaled the breath he’d been holding. Damn. She was right, though. There was work to do today, and now wasn’t the right time for a heart-to-heart, particularly when his heart was filled with so many secrets.

  NINE

  SANDY SHOOK SIMON Harcourt’s hand as they congratulated each other on a good day’s work, then she hopped up into the equipment van. Everything was loaded and ready to go back to the motel at the entrance to the park.

  The sun was setting, and after nearly twelve hours of sweat and dust and merciless heat, Sandy was ready for a shower and a cold glass of beer—not necessarily in that order.

  Frank hopped in behind the steering wheel, tossing his clipboard between the two front seats.

  “Everyone accounted for?” Sandy asked.

  “Yep.” The young man pushed his glasses higher up on his thin nose. He glanced in the rearview mirror, then frowned. “I mean, no. Where’s McCade? I thought he was with you.”

  “It’s not like we’re Siamese twins, Frank,” she said crossly. “We’re not attached at the hip.”

  “Hips weren’t what I was thinking.” Frank had a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “Permission to speak freely, boss?”

  “Since when have you started asking for permission?”

  “McCade tells me I need to work on being tactful. So I’m trying to be tactful. You giving me permission, or what?”

  “Fire away.”

  “The truth is, you’re a real babe,” he said earnestly. “And McCade’s nuts about you. I mean, you’d have to be blind not to notice the way he looks at you.”

  Indeed. And Sandy was far from blind. All day long she’d been aware of McCade’s hot eyes following her around. But it was all part of this game they were playing, the “fool James Vandenberg into thinking they really were lovers” game. Unfortunately, her crew was being fooled along with James.

  “And at the risk of being tactless,” Frank went on, “I have to confess that I caught you looking at McCade pretty much the same way.”

  Guilty as charged. She had looked at McCade, she couldn’t deny it. She hadn’t been able to keep her eyes away from him, particularly as the day got hotter and he stripped off his T-shirt. He’d set up his shots, sometimes moving quickly down the trail ahead of them, with his heavy camera on his shoulder, the muscles in his bare back and arms rippling. And Sandy had ogled him, thinking no one would notice.

  “I really think you guys should get married,” Frank said.

  Married. Right. “Thanks for the advice, Frank.”

  “You guys are perfect for each other.”

  Yeah, they were perfect all right. McCade was a perfect actor, and Sandy was a perfect fool.

  “Where is McCade?” she muttered. “I’m starving and thirsty and—”

  She and Frank spotted him at the same time.

  He was at the edge of the Grand Canyon with his camera, shooting the brilliant sunset. Sandy opened the door and slid down, out of the van. “I’ll be right back.”

  But she walked slowly as she approached McCade, struck by the beauty of his solitary, shadowy figure standing against a backdrop of blazing colors.

  He lowered his camera as she came and stood beside him, but he didn’t look toward her. He gazed out at the breathtaking vista.

  “It’s so beautiful,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t seem quite real.”

  Sandy nodded. “To me it always looks like a matte painting, like a special effect. I think my brain refuses to accept that nature could have created something that huge—or that perfect.”

  “It is perfect, isn’t it?” McCade laughed, shaking his head and turning to look down at her. “Maybe that’s what scares me so much about the damned thing. It’s perfect, except I don’t believe in perfection. So I don’t trust it. I think I keep waiting for it to just melt away, to vanish, you know?”

  She gazed up at him. His hair was disheveled and damp with sweat at the back of his neck. The hot desert sun had darkened his tan another shade, and his eyes seemed very blue in contrast. He still had his shirt off, and his muscular chest was covered with a fine layer of trail dust.

  “Yeah, I know.” She turned back to the waiting van. “Come on, McCade, I’ll buy you a beer.”

  “No, thanks. No beer for me. I still haven’t recovered from two nights ago.”

  “Then I’ll buy you a soda.”

  McCade wanted her to wait. He wanted to use this opportunity to mention that he was sober. He wanted to see how she would react, see if she caught the implication, see if she really did say those words he was so afraid he’d only dreamed. If you still want to make love to me when you’re sober, just let me know.

  “Sandy—” he started, but she had already climbed into the van. Frank was in the driver’s seat, and the chance to talk was gone.

  Tonight, McCade thought as he packed his camera into the van. At some point tonight, they’d be alone. Then maybe he’d get up enough nerve to tell her how he felt. His worst-case scenario had her looking at him with pity in her pretty eyes. Then he’d find some excuse to leave at the end of the weekend, take his Harley and go off somewhere and live unhappily ever after with wounded pride and a broken heart. Best-case scenario…

  McCade smiled as Frank drove down the long road that led out of the national park.

  “What’s the joke?” she asked.

  He just shook his head.

  “Whoa,” McCade said, looking pointedly at the several empty beer mugs that sat in front of Sandy’s steak. “Baby, you better slow down.”

  She lifted her eyebrows as he slid into the chair next to hers in the motel saloon. She raised her voice to
be heard over the jukebox. “What’s this? A temperance lecture from Mr. Inebriation?”

  “You have the opportunity to learn from my mistakes.” He dug into his own dinner. His hair was still wet from the quick shower he’d taken when they’d returned to the motel. “You don’t normally drink two mugs of beer, let alone four. Keep it up, and I’m going to have to carry you out of here.”

  Sandy opened her mouth to tell McCade that three of the empty mugs in front of her had held nothing but water, but stopped. Let him believe what he wanted. She was tired and frustrated and dreading returning to that sole bed in their motel room.

  She let the music wash over her, trying not to think.

  Someone had pulled several tables together to form one long one, and the crew of Video Enterprises sat around it.

  She could feel McCade watching her as he ate, so she pretended to be fascinated by the rustic saloon.

  The interior decorator had clearly chosen darkness for financial rather than aesthetic reasons. The walls were plain, rough-hewn planks, and the floors were well-worn wood—or at least they would be in the light of day or with the dim overhead lights turned up to full power. As it was, even with the dusky light coming in through the big window that covered the front, she could barely make out either the walls or the floors. Booths lined one wall, a long polished wood bar lined another. There was a jukebox off to one side—a beacon of light in the cavernous darkness. Sandy wouldn’t have noticed it if it weren’t for the machine’s blinking lights—and the country music that was pounding out of it. Nearby, a small portion of the floor was reserved for dancing.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw McCade push his plate away and lean back in his seat. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and leaned close to her ear. “James just came in.”

  Sandy glanced up. Sure enough. There was James, standing by the bar, talking to several people she recognized as campaign volunteers.

  She looked at McCade, and for a brief instant she felt totally off balance, thrown by the heat of his eyes. But then he smiled, a junior version of his crooked, cocky grin, and she felt a sudden flash of anger. She was tired of this game. She didn’t want to play anymore.