by Debra Dixon
Slow Hands is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Loveswept eBook Edition
Copyright © 1996 by Debra Dixon
Excerpt from All is Fair by Linda Cajio © 1986 by Linda Cajio.
Excerpt from Bad to the Bone by Debra Dixon copyright © 1996 by Debra Dixon.
Excerpt from Rescuing Diana by Linda Cajio copyright © 1987 by Linda Cajio.
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Slow Hands was originally published in paperback by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1996.
Cover photograph: Ingram Publishing / Jupiterimages
eISBN: 978-0-307-80454-9
www.ReadLoveSwept.com
v3.1
My heartfelt thanks to a couple of people who’ve waited a long time to see this book in print—
Sandra Chastain, a wonderful southern lady who helped the dream come true
Joyce Flaherty, who kept the magic going
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Linda Cajio’s All Is Fair …
Excerpt from Debra Dixon’s Bad to the Bone
Excerpt from Linda Cajio’s Rescuing Diana
ONE
Sam Tucker slung a hip onto the edge of his cluttered desk and looked at the expectant faces. For a moment he enjoyed the almost silent intake of breath as the perfectly pressed group of corporate executives realized their careers rested in his hands. To be honest, Sam doubted his shaggy blond hair, or the frayed slits in the knees of his jeans, scared the class half as much as the incredible mountain of chaos on his desk.
That chaos represented exactly what each of these people feared most—letting the paperwork pile up, losing control. As a result, all fifteen of them looked at him in varying degrees of horror, wondering what he could possibly teach them and why they were meeting in the converted carriage house of a restored Victorian mansion. Especially since the ivy-covered college that offered the unique course was only a few blocks away. Sam imagined some of them were even wondering if it was too late to get their money back.
“Welcome to Losing Control of Your Life,” Sam said with a broad smile. “For those of you who still harbor some hope that you might be in the wrong place, you’re not. This is indeed the first session of the Executive Burnout series. I’m Sam Tucker, and I’m going to teach you how to have some fun.”
As soon as the woman raised her hand, Sam knew instinctively who she was and that his old friend Dave Gronski had set him up. Just that morning Dave had called, asking for a favor. The class was full, and he wanted Sam to pull some strings to get his controller in. He swore the woman was overworked and at the end of a very short rope. He swore that she needed this class. He swore Sam wouldn’t be sorry.
Oh, yes, Dave had told him everything about Ms. Clare McGuire—except that she had incredible legs, eyes to die for, and an abundance of short, sassy blue-black hair. Dave owed him a case of very old scotch for neglecting to tell him that organized, punctual, precise Clare McGuire was everything he’d want and nothing he’d need.
“Yes, Clare,” he said, and tried not to narrow his eyes or stare at her legs.
Startled, Clare snatched her hand down as everyone swiveled to look at her. How the hell did he know who she was! Dave, of course. Dave must have given him a description. Probably wanted to be sure I didn’t pay someone to take this damn class for me!
Not that she hadn’t thought about it. Especially when she walked through the carriage house door a few moments before and entered a time warp. The place reminded her of an English lord’s library, full of musty books and the glow of lovingly polished wood. For a second Clare had even imagined the fruity aroma of pipe smoke. Some sort of cherry tobacco. And then she’d found a seat and reminded herself that she wasn’t there to enjoy the atmosphere.
Regaining her composure, Clare folded her hands in her lap and posed her question. “Having fun is a nice concept, but isn’t fun entirely subjective? I mean, how can you grade fun?”
“Is that the only reason you’re here? To add another management course to your résumé?” Sam couldn’t resist asking even though he knew exactly why she was there. Her job depended on passing his course. Dave had given her an ultimatum—loosen up or lose the job. Profits were up in the auto parts company, but so was employee turnover.
Sam didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he leaned forward, challenging her. “Is there anything wrong with just having fun?”
“Yes,” Clare said bluntly, and decided she didn’t much like Sam Tucker. She raised an eyebrow and added, “Having fun generally gets in the way of taking care of business.”
Her eyes focused on his messy desk in silent accusation, but he didn’t explain. If she had asked about the mess, he might have told her about the locksmith creating chaos when he took the antique file cabinet to the shop for repairs. But she didn’t ask. She raised an eyebrow and looked smug. So he didn’t explain.
“What about the rest of you?” Sam transferred his attention to the remainder of the class seated in comfortable chairs scattered about the room in a loose semicircle. “What’s your opinion of fun?”
“It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten what it is!” said a sincere young woman. A chorus of agreement echoed through the carriage house.
Sam sympathized. Two years earlier he’d felt the same way. He remembered having the same tired bags beneath his eyes as most of them did now. Workaholics missed life and died young.
“Then let me define fun,” he told them, “because over the next six weeks you’re going to learn how to relax and have some. Fun is something you do for yourself because it feels good.”
He paused and fanned another gaze around the room. “You can’t analyze it. You can’t plan it. You can’t execute it on a tight schedule. And that’s what you people are here to learn. Fun is a moment you seize because it’s there.”
Clare settled back, wondering if she could last six weeks without seizing Tucker’s neck and strangling him. Now, that might be fun. If she had time for fun, which she didn’t. She was already three weeks behind on the analysis of the past year’s budget deviations. The new computer system was scheduled for installation in two weeks. Her temporary male secretary couldn’t find a dictionary, much less spell. And her cousin Ellie was coming for a—how did she phrase it?—“long overdue sisterly visit.” Inspection was more accurate.
And what was she going to tell Ellie? Glad you finally found time to visit after five years, and by the way, I lied about everything I told you in my letters? Slowly Clare loosened her grip on her day planner and forced herself to concentrate on the wave of laughter that rippled through the room.
The longer Tucker talked, Clare noted, the more the group relaxed. One woman unbent long enough to give him a come-hither look with her eyes, but the man was either unaware of the patently sexual invitation or petite redheads weren’t his type. Since Clare didn’t think a blind man could have mistaken the lustful stare, she decided Tucker liked his women taller and blonder. Most men did. Most men liked Ellie.
Of course, E
llie liked most men. Especially men as undeniably attractive as Tucker. What’s not to like? Clare asked herself. His carelessly tousled blond hair? The way he raked his hand through it as he passionately explained the mechanics of fun? Or the way his long, muscular thighs filled out his jeans?
His jeans. Clare frowned as she looked at the frayed openings that bared masculine flesh. Why should the sight of strong, tan knees make her swallow? Cutting holes in perfectly good jeans was a stupid waste of money. Regardless of how sexy it might be.
Get a grip, Clare. You don’t know the man. Why should you care how he spends his money or if his knees are sexy!
“Clare!” Sam rounded on her with surprising speed.
“Tucker,” Clare shot back, hoping she could recover the thread of the conversation before the man realized she hadn’t heard a word he said. As soon as she answered, laughter erupted again. Clare straightened. “What?”
“We’re choosing research partners,” Sam explained helpfully. “Didn’t you know that when you said my name? Don’t bother to count. We have an uneven number of students enrolled in this class. That means one lucky camper is stuck with me. And I guess since you weren’t paying attention, and since you were the last one to sign up, that lucky camper is going to be you.”
“Lucky me,” Clare forced out, and gave him her best imitation of a smile. Knowing the situation was her own fault didn’t erase any of her irritation. Tucker acted as if he’d set a trap and was quite pleased with himself for having caught a fool. Well, didn’t he? her stubbornly fair subconscious asked.
Sam stifled a chuckle and watched as the rest of the class divided into pairs and rearranged themselves accordingly. With the exception of his “problem child,” the rest of the students seemed genuinely interested in learning how to let go of the grind and find their lives again. Not all of them would succeed, but most of them would at least escape the pressure of their lives for a few hours a week.
“Everybody got a partner? Good. Who brought their day planner?” Everyone’s hand went up. “That’s what I thought,” drawled Sam. “Don’t bring them to the field trip this weekend and don’t bring them to class next week. Who knows a good place for ice cream?”
Velcro crackled as they all pulled open their day planners and turned dutifully to their address indexes for “ice cream.” Sam rolled his eyes. This was going to be more difficult than he’d thought.
“People. People! Ice cream is an adventure. Fun usually starts with an adventure. And adventures aren’t neatly labeled and penciled in under the appropriate letter of the alphabet.”
“Wrong,” Clare corrected him suddenly, feeling an unfamiliar urge to one-up Sam Tucker. She recrossed her legs and propped an elbow on her thigh. “Everyone knows that adventure, in fact, does begin with an appropriate letter of the alphabet.”
Caught off guard, Sam stared at her. “Is that right?”
“Of course.” Leaning forward, she enlightened him. “Any self-respecting adventure begins with X marks the spot.”
Pleasantly surprised, he chuckled along with the rest of the class. In the last half hour, Sam had imagined many things about Clare, but not that she possessed a sense of humor. “I stand corrected. Good job, Clare. Less than an hour and you’ve already made your first joke. See how easy it is? If you’re not careful, you might actually enjoy this class.
“Now for the rest of you. I’m cutting tonight short because I want you to take your partner out for coffee. Do me a favor and choose a well-lit public place. Discuss ice cream, your lives, and why you’re in this class. And while you’re doing all that discussing, take a good look at your partner. You’ll be looking in a mirror. Decide whether or not you like what you see. And, people”—Sam slammed his hands together in a thunderous clap—“leave your day planners in the car. Live dangerously. Improvise. Write your partner’s name and address on a napkin.”
He waved them out the door. “I’ll see you Saturday morning. Ten o’clock. We’ll go searching for the best ice cream parlor in town.”
A few students came up to ask questions, but most filtered out of the book-lined room, oblivious of everything except their murmured conversations about ice cream and coffee houses. As the last of the pairs left, an aggressive silence invaded the room.
Tracing the silence to its source wasn’t difficult. Clare sat comfortably ensconced in the chair she’d graced all evening. Soft lighting from a nearby brass floor lamp lent serenity to her face. Sam dropped into the worn leather chair behind his desk. He’d gone enough rounds in the corporate boardroom to recognize manipulation. If you wanted to keep the enemy on their toes, silence was an effective weapon. He’d used it himself. Nothing inspired self-doubt faster than a carefully orchestrated lull in the conversation.
Well, two could play the “quiet game.” So Sam said nothing and peered at Clare over the stacks of files that littered his massive mahogany desk. Following his own advice, he took a good look at his partner. Proper southern belles never wore white before Easter, which explained Clare’s pale pink linen suit. Lashes the same blue-black color of her hair fringed bottomless blue eyes, and small old-fashioned cameos decorated her ears. She wore her skirt short, which meant she knew she had great legs. Warming to his assignment, Sam moved on to other more delicious parts of her anatomy. He decided she probably made a conscious effort to hide the fullness of her breasts. Too bad.
“Like what you see?” inquired Clare. Only a touch of sarcasm seeped through her control.
Sam leaned back, propped his feet on his desk, and laced his hands behind his head. “Would it make a difference?” When she gave him a look designed to freeze the blood in his veins, he said, “Didn’t think so. You’d rather be anywhere but here, wouldn’t you?”
“I have more important things to do,” Clare answered stiffly.
“Such as?” His tone implied serious doubt.
A slight huff escaped Clare, and she shifted in her chair. “What? You want a list?”
Sam nodded lazily. “I’m sure you’ve got one. Or two.”
Suddenly Clare laughed. “Several. You’re on one of them.”
There it was again. That unexpected wit. Sam found himself liking Clare more every minute and damned if he could say why. Compulsively organized business executives weren’t his style anymore. “Which list am I on?”
“Things I’m giving up for Lent.”
“Giving things up for Lent,” Sam repeated slowly, and thought for a moment. “Spent a lot of your life giving up things, Clare? Is that why you’re so hell-bent on getting ahead?”
The question slammed into Clare like a fist. Was she so incredibly transparent? Or was Tucker simply taking the proverbial shot in the dark? If so, he had damned good night vision. But “giving up things” wasn’t quite right. Giving up implied that she’d had something to begin with, and she hadn’t really had anything since she was seven years old. Since her parents died and her aunt and uncle took her in and she became “poor little Clare.”
Her aunt and uncle had things. Her cousin Ellie had whatever her heart desired. Clare McGuire had charity and was noticed only when she became tattered and faded. She could still hear her aunt. First the accusation as though she’d deliberately outgrown her clothes—You’ve outgrown last year’s dungarees! And then the gentle rebuke—For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say something?
“Clare. Clare,” called Sam. “You’re bruising my ego. That’s the second time I’ve caught you daydreaming.”
“What?” By degrees, Clare returned to the present, amazed at the vividness of her recollection, and at how easily a stray comment could bring back a forgotten moment. More than likely, Ellie’s promised visit had prompted the childhood memories. Clare dredged up a smile. “Sorry. I already told you I have a lot on my mind. It’s been a long week.”
“It’s only Tuesday.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Care to talk about it?”
“No!” Clare wanted to bite back the quick refusal an
d replace it with a gracious declination, but before she could, she realized her trip down memory lane had given Tucker the opportunity to drag his chair around the desk and angle it in front of hers.
Obviously Tucker seized opportunity as well as fun. He had one foot casually planted on either side of her chair, making it impossible for her to uncross her legs without asking him to move or tangling her legs with his. When Tucker leaned toward her expectantly, her focus narrowed to the rich tobacco brown of his eyes and the gentle concern mirrored there. Her breath escaped in a rush as she realized his concern was every bit as intimate as a kiss.
“Listen, Tucker,” she blurted out. “I don’t know what Dave told you—” She stopped, sighed, and shrugged. “Actually, I have a good idea what he told you. But I’m not obsessed. My secretaries aren’t dropping like flies. I don’t have problems, and I love my job.”
Sam nodded wisely. “You’re not like the others in the class. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Right.” Relieved that he understood, she let out the breath she’d been holding. “I admit to having had five secretaries in three years, but not for the reasons Dave thinks. He thinks it’s because I work too hard, demand too much. The truth is—you can’t always get good help.”
Dear God, she’s serious, thought Sam. He studied his hands and bit hard on the inside of his mouth before he said, “Maybe your expectations are too high.”
“Hardly.” Clare leaned toward him to make her point. “Well, maybe at first, but I’ve been worn down by a stream of well-meaning but undertrained assistants. Call me picky, but I like my paperwork filed according to the standard American alphabet. I like my telephone answered by the third ring. And later dude is not an acceptable closing phrase to any letter of mine!”
The laughter that had been building inside Sam got the better of him, and a chuckle escaped. Covering it quickly with a cough, he managed to push his amusement back long enough to say, “Sounds reasonable. You had no choice. You fired five secretaries.”
“Not exactly,” Clare mumbled.