by Debra Dixon
Sam ground his teeth. He was well aware of William’s opinion of his boxer collection. The gospel according to William said that gentlemen came home before midnight and wore white underwear instead of wild prints and neon polka dots. “William, what have you done to my boxer shorts?”
Folding his hands behind him, the butler considered the question for a moment. “Done?”
Exasperated, Sam waved a pair of shorts decorated with billiard balls. “Someone has sewn name tags in every pair of boxers I own. I haven’t had name tags in my underwear since I went to summer camp twenty years ago!”
“Ah,” William ackowledged as though light dawned in his memory. “I had Rebecca do that. I was worried about you losing them, seeing as how you can’t find the clothes hamper.”
Sam silently counted to ten before he said anything, and then realized that while he was dressed in a bath towel, nothing he could say would sound the least bit dignified. Disgusted, he snapped the shorts against the railing and walked away. When he entered the master bedroom, he grimaced. Yesterday’s clothes still lay where he’d dropped them—first when he’d changed for class and then again when he’d stripped for bed.
The floor of his room might as well have been a chess game played with cast-off clothing. Crumpled socks represented pawns. Cowboy boots and tennis shoes became castles. Blue jeans were knights, and boxers in paisley and plaid were well-guarded kings.
He stared at the clothes, realizing what a difference a couple of years could make. Two years earlier his father had still been alive—grieving over the loss of his wife, but alive. Two years earlier Sam’s clothes had hung neatly in closets or been carefully tucked away in drawers. He’d used a custom-made valet for his cuff links and ties. His priorities had been different then too, Sam reminded himself as he dressed quickly. Back then he’d wanted a trophy wife, top-of-the-line golf clubs, and an expensive house on the eighteenth hole.
After his father’s death he’d spent a year and a half in a guilt-driven depression before his sister finally made him see that he couldn’t change the past. He could, however, change the future. So he’d found a buyer for his export company—a buyer who also paid him a healthy consulting fee each year.
Changing the habits of a lifetime had taken another six months, but in doing so he discovered what he wanted out of life. He wanted family—kids, a big dog, and someone comfortable to wake up with. He wanted holidays and fights over the Sunday paper. He was thirty-three years old and ready to settle down.
Which was why he had no business falling in lust with one of his work-obsessed students.
Sam grabbed the boots from the floor and cursed his luck and Clare McGuire. They amounted to the same thing. Clare wasn’t the type to fight over the Sunday funnies. Probably didn’t read the comics. Probably didn’t even talk at the breakfast table. Everything about her was wrong for a man looking for a family.
Then why does she get to you?
“Hell if I know,” Sam answered himself, and strode purposefully out of the house. The large oval of etched glass rattled in the front door as he slammed it behind him.
Sam didn’t feel the smallest twinge of guilt, but he was certain the game of hide-and-seek Clare had been playing was about to end. For three days he had tried to get her on the phone. If he called her at home, the machine answered. If he called her at work, her male secretary, Joshua, answered, made an excuse, and took a message that went straight into the garbage can. However, today’s message couldn’t be crumpled and tossed.
This message was going to be delivered in person. Sam stood in front of Joshua’s desk and looked him squarely in the eye.
Joshua put down the phone and collected himself. Sam decided Clare’s secretary looked like a Joshua. He had a boyish innocence, but he couldn’t tell a good lie to save his life. Even several days of practice hadn’t improved his technique.
“I’m sorry, sir. Miss McGuire won’t be able to see you. She has a … prior appointment,” the young man advised as he settled his wire-rimmed glasses more firmly on his face. Only the slight waiver in his voice exposed his nervousness.
“What appointment?” Sam asked, deciding that Clare’s vague excuses needed to be tested.
“What appointment?” Joshua’s words were almost a squeak.
“Yes. Is she meeting someone? Is someone coming here? Can I wait until she’s free? Is she sneaking out to play on a beautiful Friday afternoon? Or did she just tell you to get rid of me?” Sam tilted his head in a silent demand for an answer.
Guilt showed plainly on Joshua’s face as his eyes slid toward Clare’s closed office door. “Look, Mr. Tucker, I don’t know what the two of you are fighting about. Hell, I didn’t even know she had a boyfriend. I’m sorry, but she told me to hold your calls all week. Today she even swore. She never does that. Then she said she should have known you couldn’t take a hint and told me to get rid of you again.” Joshua dropped his voice. “I think she’s afraid to see you.”
Afraid to see him? Why would she be afraid? Unless … unless he got to her the same way she got to him. A sudden surge of anticipation thumped against Sam’s rib cage at the possibility. He felt a smile of satisfaction tug at the corners of his mouth.
“I see,” he said quietly.
Relief flooded Joshua’s features, and he pushed up his glasses again. “Man, am I glad you understand. I’m new. I took this temporary job because I can’t afford college, and I love everything about engines. I got an A in typing class, but”—Joshua leaned toward him—“I don’t have a clue about office politics and this administrative stuff.”
“Oh, getting ahead in the corporate environment is easy. There’s only one rule—never, ever tell the truth to anyone. Unless your boss tells you to.” As Sam spoke, he moved toward Clare’s office. Joshua realized his intention and reached for the intercom buzzer just as Sam jerked open the door and leaned against the jamb. “Hello, Clare. Is your answering machine at home broken? Or are you just ignoring me?”
Conflicting emotions flooded Clare as she stared at the man who casually filled her doorway as though he belonged in her life. Anger wrestled with inexplicable pleasure and enjoyment as she took a physical inventory of Tucker, unable to find fault with the lean, well-muscled man in front of her. She knew the sting in her cheeks was a guilty blush, and that tipped the scales toward anger. She wasn’t wrong. He was. What right did he have invading her privacy?
Then she remembered how he’d invaded her space before, one leg on either side of hers, leaning forward, ignoring every unwritten rule of social conduct. Tucker wasn’t the kind of man who waited for an invitation. And he obviously wasn’t the kind of man who could be ignored.
“My phone works perfectly,” Clare said, shaking her head at Joshua, who offered to call security. Her secretary backed away, looking decidedly relieved, and Clare’s gaze returned to her uninvited guest. “What do you want, Tucker?”
“That’s a question you should be asking yourself. Maybe I’m confused, but I thought your job depended on taking my class seriously.” He shouldered away from the frame and kicked the door shut with his heel. “I thought partners worked together.”
“My job depends on how well I do it,” Clare corrected him. “And we’re partners in this ridiculous assignment only because you tricked me.”
Sam gave a short, humorless laugh and crossed the room in three lazy strides that swirled tension into the air. When he stopped in front of her desk, he put his hands on the edge and leaned forward. “Your job depends on how well Dave thinks you do it. And we’re partners because you didn’t pay any more attention in class than you have to my phone calls.”
When her eyes widened nervously, Sam straightened, backing away. He hadn’t intended to frighten her. Hell, he hadn’t done anything to frighten her, but she acted as if he’d crossed some invisible barrier.
Slowly, he sank into a chair and considered what he knew of Clare. He remembered her silence when asked if she’d had a lot of practice giving th
ings up. He recalled the look of instant panic in the carriage house when he’d pulled his chair in front of her and slid his legs on either side of hers. He remembered a husbandless wedding ring. Why was keeping people at a distance so important to her?
“Poor Clare,” he whispered, unknowingly using the one phrase that could twist a knife in her heart. “I scare you because I don’t respect your flawless efficiency or the invisible wall that keeps people out.” His eyes caught and held hers. “I expect the real Clare to come out and play. And that scares the hell out of you.”
Clare wanted to call him a liar. She wanted him to leave. She wanted to forget his class. Unfortunately, what she wanted didn’t seem to matter anymore, and the most she could manage was a weak “That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” The question hung in the air.
“Of course it is.”
“Then come out and play.”
Quiet engulfed the room as Clare realized he wasn’t talking about class assignments and research. Warmth exploded in the pit of her stomach, and blood rushed to her cheeks. Come out and play? She’d sooner play with matches in a dynamite factory.
Sitting across from a man who turned her inside out was a new experience for Clare, and she didn’t much like it. Didn’t like constantly fighting her body’s reckless reaction to the invitation in his smiles. Didn’t like the way she forgot how to breathe every time he leaned toward her. Or admitting, even to herself, that she had looked at every inch of his long, hard body as he stood in the doorway. For a brief moment she’d even wondered how she would feel cradled between his thighs, her belly rocked against—
Panic filled her soul again and she bit off the thoughts. The blush rose higher in her cheeks, and without looking she knew that her turquoise silk blouse did little to hide the awakening peaks of her breasts. Why now? she thought. Why him? And then the most frightening thought of all as she looked into warm brown eyes that promised laughter: Why not him?
“Clare! I want to talk to you.” Dave’s voice boomed from outside the door a second before he threw it open. He clutched a pink telephone message like a shield, and he waved it at her.
“Hello, Dave,” Sam interrupted. “Ever considered knocking?”
“Why should he?” Clare asked, and folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t.”
Dave turned his head from side to side, as though making a silent judgment about the scene in front of him. His eyes narrowed, and he looked at Sam. “This is a message from you. Why do you need to talk to me about Clare?”
Clare was on her feet instantly, hands on her hips. “You called Dave? Why, of all the rotten—”
Sam struggled for an explanation. He’d called Dave after slamming down the phone on another of Joshua’s lame excuses. At the time, he’d intended to toss Clare out of his class. Now he wasn’t so sure he wanted to do that. Not yet.
“Well, Sam?” Dave asked again.
Two pairs of eyes glared at him, demanding an explanation, but Sam didn’t spare the big man a glance. His attention was riveted on the woman across from him. Clare was mad as hell. Anger had replaced the vulnerability in her eyes, and Sam discovered that her anger put them on equal footing again.
“Settle an argument for me, Dave,” Sam said softly without turning his head. “Is Clare’s job in jeopardy?”
Clare’s blue eyes widened, and the sparks of anger abruptly winked out only to reappear. “Don’t answer that, Dave!”
“I think you need to hear the answer. Really hear it, because I wouldn’t fire you.” Dave paused dramatically and crumpled the telephone message. “But I would suspend you for six weeks and pull an audit of your entire department.”
Clare’s legs felt suddenly weak, and she put a hand on the desk to steady herself. “You wouldn’t.”
“Would and will,” Dave answered curtly. “Constant stress leads to more than heart attacks; it leads to mistakes. Costly mistakes. So I suggest you start cooperating with Sam and get rid of some of that stress you pretend isn’t there. Now, why are you here, Sam?”
“Social call. I’m taking your controller out for dinner and ice cream.”
“Excuse me!” Clare said, and narrowed her eyes. “I don’t remember agreeing to go to the elevator with you. Much less to dinner.”
Sam laughed when Dave raised an eyebrow. “We’re still negotiating.”
“Need an arbitrator?” he offered.
“All right. That’s it,” Clare warned ominously. “I’ve had it with you two. You might control my professional life at the moment, and you can force me to take this stupid class. But you do not control whom I go out with.”
“Why? You already have a better offer for tonight?” Sam asked.
“No, I don’t have a—” Clare stopped, realizing that she’d just blown the one excuse that would have wiped the smug look of triumph off Tucker’s face.
“Good-bye, Dave,” Sam said smoothly, moving to open the door for his friend. “I think I can handle it from here.”
Clare sourly noted that her boss had the decency not to laugh until Tucker closed the door behind him. Hearing his guffaws forced her to take several deep breaths to calm her temper. God, what a situation. Tucker wouldn’t stop until she let go of the comfortable routine that kept her safe, that structured her life. But if she said no, she risked her job. Dave was a born-again workaholic out to save the world from his mistakes. He was serious about her participation in the burnout program.
Tucker stood silently by the door. Waiting to pounce, Clare decided. She approached him slowly and stopped a foot away. Defeat echoed in her voice as she spoke. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to come out and play. With me. Is that so awful?”
“Not awful,” Clare whispered, suddenly aware of him as a man as well as the enemy. “Dangerous. I like my life the way it is, and you want to change me.”
The vulnerability was back in her gaze, and Sam felt the familiar tightening in his belly, the need to pull her close and promise her anything that would erase the uncertainty in her eyes. At the same time, he recognized a desire that had nothing to do with comforting. Her lips were slightly parted, and when her tongue brushed moisture on them, he knew she was right. The game he played was dangerous. He wanted more than her honest participation in his class.
He leaned toward her slowly, giving her the opportunity to pull back. She didn’t. His hands found the rounded curves of her shoulders, and he let himself enjoy the feel of silk-covered flesh beneath his fingers. His hands moved to cup her neck, and his head dipped lower. Her bottom lip was full, and it fascinated him. He wanted to—
Abruptly, he jerked himself back from making the mistake of kissing her. What he wanted and what she needed were two different things. She needed to trust him first. Which meant she had to spend time with him.
“So—” The word was little more than a rasp. He cleared his throat and tried again. “So, what time should I pick you up?”
Clare blinked and sucked in an uneven breath against the disappointment that coursed through her. Knowing she’d wanted his kiss began the burning panic in her stomach again. How could she want to kiss a man whose only interest was in changing her? How was that possible? Obviously her libido had little use for logic.
And now he expected her to go to dinner with him? Be alone with him for hours? That was madness. Or torture. Or both. Do you have a choice?
“What if I say I can’t go tonight?”
“What if you tell me why?” Sam countered. “And don’t tell me you’re washing your hair. That couldn’t take more than five minutes.”
Clare raised a self-conscious hand to her hair and flicked it away from her face. She kept it short to save time, but suddenly she wondered if it was too short.
“I like short hair,” Sam said with a smile as if he could read her thoughts.
“So do I,” Clare said, and looked pointedly at his long mane of wheat and gold.
“I like short hair on women,” Sam amended. �
�What time should I pick you up?”
“I need to clean house. Ellie’s coming and—” Clare knew how utterly ridiculous that sounded, given her circumstances. “You don’t care, do you?”
Sam shook his head. “What time should I pick you up?”
“Five-thirty, but I need to be home early.”
“Why?” Sam asked as he pulled open the door. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
Because I’m afraid to spend any more time with you than absolutely necessary.
“Look, Sam. I agreed to go. I’m trying. Isn’t that enough?”
“It’s a start, Clare. It’s a start.”
Clare frantically searched the mound of clothes in the armchair for a clean pair of jeans. Slick, her cat, yowled at her as she disturbed him and dumped him unceremoniously onto the floor. She had to have a pair of jeans in the mountainous pile of unfolded laundry. She had to. Relief flooded through her as she unearthed faded blue denim. Experience told her a couple of turns in the dryer would smooth out the wrinkles.
“This is why everything should go to the cleaners,” Clare informed the huge cat who was half Maine coon cat and half mystery cat. He blinked his eyes, twitched his tail, and hissed once, still clearly miffed about losing his bed of clothes.
“Keep that up, and I’ll have you neutered,” Clare threatened as she passed him.
While the jeans tumbled in the dryer, Clare took a shower and put on fresh makeup. Slick sat on the side of the basin, an appraising look in the yellow slits of his eyes as he watched her preparations. His tail lashed an irritating, reproachful rhythm. Finally, Clare slammed her eye makeup compact into the medicine cabinet and glared at him. “Well, thank you for your support. If I had a choice, do you think I’d be going?”
Clare thought about that as she pulled her jeans from the dryer and slid her legs into the warm cotton fabric. The copper zipper was hot against her stomach as she gave a little hop and smoothed the jeans over her hips. Slowly, she zipped them and buttoned the waist.
What would she have said if Sam’s invitation had been personal instead of motivated by his responsibility as her class partner? He almost kissed you and you don’t think his invitation was personal? An almost-kiss didn’t mean anything to men like Sam, Clare told herself.