by Debra Dixon
Finally, Clare felt comfortable enough to settle back, cross her legs yoga-style, and concentrate on next week’s presentation. She’d put off the inevitable consultation with Sam as long as possible. Somehow, opening up her professional life to Sam’s inspection was as difficult as allowing Sam into her personal life had been.
She was conscious of wanting his approval. That first night, when she confessed her secretaries didn’t like her, his approving smile had filled her with warmth, making her crave more of them. He had a way of bringing the sun into a room with him. He also had a way of bringing sex into the room.
Over the past week he’d caressed her with his eyes and stripped her with his gaze. If he managed to press against her, he lingered long enough for her to feel the hardening of his body. Every look, every touch, shouted his desire, but he waited, never pushing, never asking, never demanding. He just waited and watched her.
He watched her at dinner. He watched her climb the staircase every night. He watched her get into her car every morning as he lounged against the carriage-house door and saluted her with his coffee cup. He watched her so much, she was ready to scream from the tension he created. Without a single word he repeatedly managed to tell her exactly what he wanted. He wanted to be inside her, stroking her, filling her. And all too often lately, she wanted the same thing.
Sex and Sam were becoming obsessions of hers. No doubt, that was the reason for waging his ridiculous “Look, touch, but don’t consummate!” campaign. She was winning the battles, but Sam was winning the war. Clare sighed and closed her eyes against the frustration she feared had become a permanent part of her, so much so that it invaded her dreams. Last night she’d dreamed of standing in front of the bedroom window, wrapped in a plush bath towel still warm from the dryer. She could almost feel the nubby texture of the terry cloth against her damp body as she remembered the dream.
Anticipation settled heavily in her belly, urging her closer to the window. A thick satin cord pulled back the heavy drapes, and a sheer white panel floated in front of the window, shielding her, keeping her safe from prying eyes. Knowing Sam would be watching, she reached out to push back the panel that blurred her silhouette and offered her a small measure of privacy. The symbolism of sweeping away the last filmy barrier between them did not escape Clare, and her breath came in shaky half-gulps.
Even in the dark she could see Sam as he stood at the window of the carriage-house bedroom. He had one forearm propped against the frame, and he leaned his body toward the glass, never taking his eyes off her. Sam always watched, especially in the night.
Dreams weren’t bound by reality, and in her fantasy she could see his eyes as they glittered hungrily. Wordlessly, he urged her to finish what she’d started when she pulled back the curtain. He smiled. Throw in the towel, Clare, he seemed to say. Give up. You know you want to.
A cool drop of water from her wet hair had trickled down her neck as she tried to decide whether or not to lower the towel. Whether or not to take the risk. She reached out, touching the pads of her fingers to the glass, absorbing the soothing feel of the windowpane. Without a word she let the towel slip to the floor. And then Sam had smiled that warm smile that filled her and made her want more.
Abruptly, her thoughts were shattered as Sam’s voice invaded her fantasy. “This is my favorite place to daydream too.”
Startled and feeling very flushed, Clare clumsily gathered up the worksheets that had slipped from her fingers to her lap. “I wasn’t daydreaming!”
“Sure you were. Everybody daydreams. Fantasy is right up there with anticipation and foreplay,” he told her as he slid to the floor and rested his head against the cushioned window seat. “And daydreams always show on your face, no matter how careful you think you are.”
“I wasn’t daydreaming,” Clare insisted to his perfect profile, noticing for the first time that he had incredibly long lashes, eyelashes even Ellie would kill for.
“From your expression, you looked halfway to heaven.” A smile that was more properly classified as a smirk appeared on Sam’s face. “But you weren’t daydreaming. Right.”
Clare grit her teeth and refused the bait. She had finally accepted the futility of arguing with him. Especially when he was right. “Did you want something in particular, or are you just here to annoy me in general?”
“William sent me to distract you. It’s Friday night. He’s concerned. He says you’re working again,” Sam explained in a tone that implied working at home was evil. He twisted his head so he could see Clare’s reaction.
“Does the man have hidden video cameras, or what?” asked Clare in exasperation.
“Radar,” Sam said sagely. “Of course, I don’t have any hard evidence. I’m just relying on years of experience.”
“How much I work isn’t William’s concern.”
“Right,” Sam said with a wink and a nod.
“Stop that. This is serious. Half the time the man treats me like I’m sixteen. You didn’t warn me about this when I rented the house. He doesn’t even ask permission to meddle in my business anymore!” Clare lowered her voice. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that he put condoms in the nightstand, for God’s sake!”
“Welcome to the family,” Sam said with a chuckle as he resettled his head against the window seat.
Clare caught her breath and stared hard at Sam, who obviously saw nothing wrong with the domestic routine in the Tucker household. In fact, Sam was as bad as William. Neither of them asked permission to meddle in her business; they just did. William thought nothing of commenting on the disappointing lack of male phone callers and always within earshot of Sam. Yesterday’s breakfast conversation with William had covered the length of her skirts, the clothes on the floor of her room, and the color of her nail polish, which was “too” red.
If she worked late, she was expected to call, and if she didn’t work late, she was expected to come home for dinner. When she came home for dinner, she was expected to eat. William and Sam didn’t seem to notice the extra five pounds, but the scales did. However, since neither Sam nor William cared about the pounds, Clare couldn’t manage to care either. Sam and William had seen her at her worst, and yet her worst didn’t seem to bother them.
And their concern didn’t irritate her nearly as much as she liked to pretend. Lately, Clare had begun to wonder if she could go back to the quiet of her condo. Not quiet. Emptiness. She shook her head and told herself to snap out of it. She had no business going all sappy and soft about Sam and his life. If she didn’t get a grip, pretty soon she’d start bursting into his house yelling, “Honey, I’m home.”
She needed perspective. She needed Ellie to hurry up. When she’d decided to trick Ellie by appropriating Sam’s house, she never imagined that the family circle would open up and pull her inside. Lately, she’d begun to wish she was more than just a challenge to Sam. Then maybe she could start believing in the magic of happily ever after.
“You’re daydreaming again,” Sam announced. “And don’t deny it. You’ve daydreamed since the first moment I met you.”
This time Clare didn’t bother to deny his accusation. “It’s not a crime.”
“No, it’s not,” agreed Sam as he heaved himself up from the floor and joined her on the window seat. He swiveled, squared his back up against the wall opposite her, and slipped his legs on either side of hers. “What do you daydream about, Clare?”
All she could think about was that damned striptease in front of the window as she dropped the towel. She could still feel the heat from dream-Sam’s eyes as he fed hungrily on the sight. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.
“Nothing you’d be interested in,” she managed to answer by scraping together every bit of breath she had left. Sam’s casual disregard of her personal space always made the bottom drop out of her stomach. He acted as if he didn’t know where he left off and she began, while she knew precisely where his body touched hers, where the electricity began to flow, where the pulse
began inside the pit of her stomach.
Sam leaned forward slightly and ran his finger down her nose and over her lips as he talked. “Keep your secrets if you want, Clare. I won’t push you if you’re not ready. But can’t you just imagine what it would be like to share fantasies?”
His question made her heart pump in fits and starts, made her blood run hot and cold, and created an unsteadiness in her hands that made gripping the thick folder impossible.
Sam rescued the papers before they slid from her fingers. “Well, would you look at this! You have actually brought home the ultrasecret Mitsuo proposal. I was wondering when you were going to break down and let me see this … encyclopedia of facts. Lord, Clare, are all your files so thick?”
Immediately, Clare reached for the file. “I didn’t bring it home for you to see.”
Sam ignored her and devoured the file. “Then I’m lucky to have caught you.”
“The presentation’s not ready.”
“They never are.”
Clare gave up. Sooner or later Sam had to look at the project. Dave was paying for his help. “It’s not much really. Just my cost worksheets and a rough draft of the letter of credit terms.”
“And a suggested opening order, pie charts, one helluva bar graph on product performance, shipping schedules, and articles focusing on boomerang products.”
“Those are components that American companies export and then buy back as a part of a finished product.”
Sam briefly raised his eyes from the file. “Yeah, I know. You’ve been busy. You’ve also got a list of other Mitsuo suppliers, a list of Mitsuo Automotive subsidiaries, a culture brief on the Far East, and the tear sheets from a two-year-old trade journal, an article about Mitsuo’s sports sedan and its fuel system troubles. I’ll bet you got A’s on your college research papers.”
“Alert the media,” Clare said with sarcasm. “So I like to prepare. That isn’t a crime either.”
Sam shook his head. “Not unless you do it after five o’clock. According to Dave, you’re supposed to be learning from his mistakes. But I will admit that you’ve got a good start here.”
“Start?” Clare wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. Her file might be rough, certainly not in presentation form, but it was pretty damn complete.
“A start.” Sam closed the file and handed it back. “This is just your security blanket, something to remind you of what’s at stake. I guarantee that Mitsuo already knows more about Racing Specialties than you’ll ever find out about them, and they aren’t going to be interested in your pretty numbers and graphs this time around.”
Trying not to bristle at Sam’s quick dismissal of her facts and figures, Clare said, “They wouldn’t come halfway around the world to shoot the breeze.”
“That’s exactly what they would do.”
Clare digested that for a moment and said, “This is a test.”
Sam touched his nose and pointed at her. “Bingo. You got it in one.”
“Dave was so sure they were ready to do some business.”
“They’re ready to do some business, all right. They’re just not sure with whom. Price is important, but so is the business relationship.”
“Okay, expert, what do I do if I’m not going to dazzle them with charts and graphs?”
“First, you don’t push—”
“Funny advice coming from you,” Clare couldn’t resist commenting.
Sam continued as if she hadn’t said a word. “Let them ease into the relationship. Have business cards printed in both languages.”
“Japanese and English?”
“One language on each side. You get brownie points for extra effort. Get the university to help you with the translation.” Sam paused, bit his lip in thought, and then continued. “Okay, next—Mitsuo’s president and I have mutual friends. To be on the safe side of the etiquette fence, I should be the one to pick them up at the airport and bring them to you.”
Clare laughed. “You wouldn’t by any chance be giving me the seal of approval with your little chauffeur act?”
“That’s exactly what I’ll be doing. An introduction through an intermediary is going to be a lot more helpful to you than a cold handshake and a bilingual card. It’s the international version of the good-ol’-boy network.”
“Now, why don’t I have any trouble believing you are an expert in the good-ol’-boy school of business?”
Slowly, Sam leaned forward, framing her drawn-up knees with his, and resting his forearms on their knees. “Do you want to hear this or not?”
Clare swallowed again as she realized exactly how much of Sam’s body was in contact with hers. Somehow her toes had worked their way beneath an extremely warm and sensitive part of his anatomy. Before she could answer, Sam scooted back, untangled his legs, and stood up suddenly.
“I can’t believe I’m even discussing this. It’s Friday night, and I refuse to discuss business strategy on date night, woman. Get some shoes and let’s go.”
“Go? Go where?” Clare swiveled and let her feet drop to the floor.
Pleased, Sam noted that she hadn’t made the usual excuses. For the first time she was more interested in where they were going than in why she couldn’t go. “I promised my nephews I’d take them to a movie. You can help me protect the other people in the theater from the little savages.”
Clare took his offered hand and let him pull her up. “How savage can they be? I saw the pictures in your room. They’re both in school. They should be somewhat trained by now.”
“They should be, but Pamela is a lousy disciplinarian. She believes in letting children express their innermost self. I, on the other hand, would prefer it if they didn’t express themselves with popcorn fights.”
Hugging her file to her chest, Clare wondered how much of what Sam said was the truth. In their school pictures the boys looked like angels. Shiny blond hair, brown eyes, and wide smiles full of teeth. No, she didn’t quite see them as monsters. Unless they got bored with the movie. Cautiously, she asked, “What movie?”
“Bimbo Ninjas.”
A giggle escaped her before she managed to school her expression into one of disappointment. “Oh. I was hoping we could see that new vampire flick—Hunks That Go Bump in the Night.”
Sam didn’t bother to hold back the laughter. He pulled her into his arms, file and all. “Hunks That Go Bump in the Night?”
She shrugged. She didn’t want to say anything. Not now. Not just yet. She wanted to let Sam’s magic warm her. She wanted to belong to Sam and the moment for a while longer.
As his laughter faded to a chuckle, Sam felt complete for the first time in a long time. Affection, love, and laughter were back in the house again. He could enjoy some of the memories he had put away as too painful. Memories of his mother and father holding each other, his dad rocking his mother gently back and forth. For too long those memories had mocked the choices he’d made in life, and now those memories encouraged him, promised him that organized, precise Clare McGuire was worth the effort.
Chuckles gave way to quiet sighs of good humor, and Sam’s good humor gave way to the desire he’d denied for the past week. Any doubts he had about disguising his need to kiss her were gone the moment she raised her chin a fraction of an inch. In silent invitation she dropped her gaze to his mouth and then slowly brought her eyes back to his. Sam wished she were issuing the silent invitation on purpose; he would have accepted with pleasure. But he knew better than to believe everything he saw.
Before he broke his promise about giving her control in the relationship, Sam stepped away, wishing he hadn’t noticed the fragrance of spiced apples underscoring the perfume she wore. He had a hard enough time keeping his hands off her without remembering the way her body played peek-a-boo with a bubble bath. Deliberately, he dropped his arms. “We’ve got to hurry if we’re going to pick up the kids and catch an early show.”
Clare tried not to frown as he stepped away. She’d been almost sure he was finally going to bre
ak down and kiss her. In fact, she’d been counting on it. Some newly discovered part of her heart wanted Sam to give up before she did. Her body had turned traitor because Mother Nature slipped a joker in the deck. His name was Sam.
Dropping her file onto the window seat, Clare made a decision. “Let’s go.”
“Not yet.” Sam pointed downward. “Shoes, Clare. You know—the leather things that go on your feet?”
“Oh, shoes! I forgot.” Clare hurried toward the entrance hall. “I’ll only be a minute.”
“Good,” Sam said as she left the room. Then added, “Any longer than that, and I’m coming after you.”
As Sam raised his hand to knock on Pamela’s door, Clare’s heart beat more rapidly than she wanted to admit. Meeting Sam’s sister wasn’t a big deal, she told herself. Pamela would probably love any woman who agreed to take her kids to the movies. Hadn’t her own aunt always jumped at every chance to unload her daughter and niece for an evening? What mother wouldn’t want a few hours of peace and quiet?
“Cheer up,” Sam whispered in her ear. “She won’t bite.”
Clare dredged up a smile. “No, but after listening to you, I suspect her kids do.”
“Do what?” the grinning woman asked as she opened the door. She looked like a petite, pretty version of Sam. Except her tawny mane was tamed and pulled back into a beribboned ponytail.
“Bite,” Sam answered with a straight face, and ignored the flustered gasp from the woman at his side. “Clare thinks your kids might bite her.”
Without blinking or missing a beat, Pamela turned to Clare. “And you came anyway! What a good sport. Sam’s other girlfriends were never any fun. Of course, the boys were younger and not nearly as well-trained then. A lot younger. It has been such a long time since anyone would go out with Sam. I was afraid he’d forgotten how to …” Pamela winked. “Well, you know.”
Now it was Sam’s turn to choke and Clare’s chance to twist the knife. She nodded sadly. “Oh, so that explains the problem.”