Body Language (11 page)

“That’s right.”

“Six
different
women tried to get me to go home with them tonight,” he said. “But I didn’t want to go home with them.”

Sandy stared up at him, unamused. “Why are you telling me this, McCade?” she asked. “So I can give you some kind of Boy Scout Merit Badge or something?”

“You know what I told them all?” McCade turned to Peter. “What the hell did I tell ’em, Peter?”

Peter smiled. “You told them that there was just one woman in the entire world you wanted to go home with. And that unless their name was Sandy Kirk, they should leave you alone.”

She stared up at McCade’s crooked grin. He couldn’t have meant
go home with
in the same sense that other people meant that same phrase, or maybe…

Sandy shook her head. What was she doing analyzing what McCade had reportedly said? He was falling-down drunk, for crying out loud. He couldn’t even remember calling her on the telephone, let alone what he’d said to the six women who’d tried to pick him up.
Six
women…

“Please, McCade, let’s go.” Sandy pushed at him gently.

“So long, Peter,” McCade said over his shoulder.

“See you, McCade. Nice meeting you, Sandy.” The bartender smiled serenely and went back to drying glasses.

The sky was getting lighter in the east as Sandy helped McCade into the front seat of her little car. She had to lift his legs to get his big cowboy boots inside the tiny space. God, there was so much of him. Finally, she got his seat belt fastened, untangled his fingers from her hair, closed the door, and climbed in behind the steering wheel.

They headed north, driving in silence for several miles before McCade suddenly turned to her. “Stop the car.”

There was no other traffic, and she quickly pulled to the side of the road and into the parking lot of a strip mall. She put the car into neutral and yanked up the parking brake.

“What’s wrong?” She turned toward him. “Do you feel sick?”

McCade kissed her.

He tasted like an odd mixture of whiskey, beer, cigarette smoke, and himself. God, she was actually starting to recognize the taste of his kisses. His mouth was warm, and his lips were soft, and she wanted to kiss him again, but she pushed him away. He was drunk. Somehow kissing him seemed like taking advantage. “McCade, stop.”

He raked his hair back from his face with his fingers. “I don’t want to stop. Kiss me, Cassandra. Please.”

He watched her steadily, his eyes almost feverishly bright. Just how drunk was he? Sitting there like that, looking at her like that, he certainly didn’t seem as drunk as he had when she’d nearly carried him across the parking lot of the Cactus Ranch.

But then he grinned, a silly, lopsided, out-of-control grin. “Please?” he said again. “Kiss me like you did in the movie theater—like you want me to take off all your clothes with my teeth.”

Sandy laughed, a short, nervous burst of air. “I did not kiss you like that.”

He laughed, too, his eyes dropping down to her mouth. “Oh, yeah. You did. Please, baby, kiss me that way again.”

She looked away, embarrassed, but he pulled her chin up, turning her head so that she met his eyes.

“Please?”

He pulled her toward him, closer and closer and closer, and Sandy couldn’t resist. As his mouth covered hers, she closed her eyes, clinging to him, letting him invade her senses, pulling his tongue deeply into her mouth. She heard McCade moan, felt his hands try to draw her even closer. But they were both seat-belted in, and he alternately cursed and laughed with frustration between kisses.

His hands were everywhere—in her hair, touching her face, her lips, running along her legs, up to her hips, to her waist, and then higher as he kissed her again and again. Sandy gasped as his hand found her breast, his thumb roughly teasing her sensitive nipple to life through her shirt and bra.

“Oh, Lord, I want you,” McCade breathed. He yanked at her shirt, trying to pull it free from her jeans, fumbling with the buttons. “I need you, baby, please—”

He pulled too hard, and the buttons went flying around the car. But her shirt was open at last, revealing the delicate white lace of her bra and the paleness of her skin. He touched her, slipping his fingers underneath the lace, cupping the softness of her breast as he gazed into her eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Cassandra, I love you. Marry me.”

He trailed kisses down her neck, down toward her breasts as Sandy fought the waves of disappointment that threatened to drown her. McCade had lost his grasp of reality. She knew he was drunk, so why had she even let him kiss her in the first place? She felt tears welling in her eyes. This was her own stupid fault. He was caught up in his role as Sandy’s lover, caught up in the game they were playing for James Vandenberg’s benefit. Her tears started to escape, trailing down her cheeks, falling faster and faster. He didn’t really love her, he was just pretending to. As for marriage, well, he was certainly confused about
that.
He wasn’t supposed to ask her to marry him until a week from Saturday, or else he and Frank wouldn’t win the office betting pool.

She pushed him away, holding her shirt together with both hands.

He stared at her, surprised and confused until he saw the tears streaming down her face. Then he was shocked.

“Oh, Lord have mercy, I made you cry,” he said huskily. “God, Sandy, what did I do? Did I hurt you?”

He reached for her, but she flinched. “Don’t touch me, McCade,” she said sharply. “I don’t want you to touch me!”

“Why not?”

Sandy put the car into gear and drove out of the parking lot with a squeal of her tires.

He put his hand on her knee. “Why not?” he asked again. “This is good. This is
really
good….”

She pushed his hand away. God, it was hard enough to drive with one hand holding her shirt closed. “No,” she said. “It’s
not
good.”

He put his hand back. “Come on—”

Sandy hit the brakes hard, and her car squealed to a stop. “No!” she said. “God help me, McCade, I said
no!
”

He had tears in his own eyes now. Poor, dumb, drunk McCade. He honestly didn’t understand. The alcohol had sent him into a world that consisted only of the present, only of here and now. Right now he had no past and no future to worry about. Right now
now
was all that mattered, and for a short time McCade’s now had seemed about to include a very passionate encounter with a female member of the human race. Namely Sandy—not that that particularly mattered to him in his present condition.

McCade was drunk, but Sandy wasn’t. Sandy knew better, and more mattered to her than instant gratification. Yeah, sure, she wanted him, but she wanted him to want her too. She wanted him to want her as
Sandy,
not as some female who happened to be available. She wanted him to love her, not just get caught up in some game they were playing. And dammit, if they were going to make love, she damn well wanted him to remember it for the rest of his life.

He’d turned away, unable to stop his tears as the alcohol in his system took charge of his emotions.

Sandy wiped her own eyes on the sleeve of her shirt and put the car back in gear. “McCade.”

He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge her.

“If you still—” She moistened her lips nervously, then started again. “If you still want to make love to me when you’re sober,” she told him quietly, “just let me know, okay?”

He looked at her then, wiping his eyes with the palms of his hands. “I’m pretty skunked, huh?”

“Uh-huh.” She smiled ruefully. “And my bet is, you’re not going to remember any of this tomorrow.”

“Maybe,” he said. “But there’s one thing I won’t ever forget. No matter how drunk I am.”

Sandy pulled her car into the condominium parking lot. “What’s that, McCade?”

She turned to look at him and he smiled at her, but it was an uncertain smile, making him seem young and vulnerable. “How much I love you.”

She felt a fresh flood of tears well up in her eyes. “That’s nice, McCade.” She somehow kept her voice even.

“You believe me, don’t you?” He sounded anxious.

“Sure,” she lied. “Sure, McCade.”

EIGHT

B
Y THE TIME
McCade stumbled out of the shower, the painkiller he’d taken had started to kick in. Still, he moved gingerly, not quite sure his head was firmly attached to his neck.

As he dried himself off he tried to remember exactly what had happened last night. He remembered going out on his bike and riding hard and fast. He’d taken Camelback Road all the way out to Route 17. He’d gotten on the highway heading south, and went all the way down to the airport in record time. Then he’d cruised Van Buren, looking for a bar still open that late. He’d finally found one, he wasn’t sure exactly where.

The gang inside had been doing shots of whiskey with beer chasers, he remembered. He recognized some of the men from the various cross-country road trips he’d taken on his Harley. After they’d teased him about his short hair, they all got down to some serious drinking and pool playing. Things grew a little hazy after that.

A
little
hazy? Try totally obscured. How the hell had he gotten back to the condo? He didn’t have a clue.

He wrapped the towel around his waist and went out into the living room. Sandy had left a clean pile of underwear out on the coffee table.

Sandy?

He froze as he had a sudden flash of Sandy, sitting in the driver’s seat of her car, her head thrown back, her lips moist and bruised looking from the force of his kisses, her beautiful eyes heavy-lidded with desire. And, mercy, her shirt was open, revealing her perfect breasts covered only by the white lace of her bra.

The room spun, and McCade sat down heavily on the couch.

What the
hell
had happened last night?

He squeezed his eyes shut and willed himself to remember. Nothing else came back. Dear God, he would remember if they had made love, wouldn’t he?

McCade picked up the telephone. He got as far as dialing Sandy’s office number, then hung up.

Damn, what was he supposed to say to her? Hey, how are ya, babe? Oh, by the way, did we get it on last night?

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stop and think. If they
had
made love, he would have remembered it. For Pete’s sake, he was desperately in love with this woman. Making love to her would have been an event of incredible significance. He
would
have remembered, no matter
how
drunk he’d been.

Besides, if they’d made love, he would have woken up in Sandy’s bed, wouldn’t he?

He picked up the phone again, this time to call a taxi. Then he finished getting dressed.

The ride to Sandy’s office didn’t take very long, but McCade put his head back anyway, closing his eyes and clearing his mind, hoping to fill in more of the blanks in his memory. He remembered there was a bartender, yeah, a really friendly guy by the name of…Peter? Smart guy, too, he thought, remembering that Peter had taken his keys away from him. Damn, if he had tried to ride his bike last night, he probably wouldn’t be alive right now. Worse yet, some innocent bystander might not be alive either.

Why had he let himself get so utterly drunk? It had been years since he’d done something so foolish. But he needed…McCade opened his eyes. The things he needed lately were so different from the things he’d needed in the past. He’d gotten nothing from last night’s ride on the highway. Instead of feeling a rush from the speed and the exhilaration of the road, he’d longed to be back at Sandy’s. He wanted to be in her bed. And not just for the sex, although that sure as hell wouldn’t have hurt. He wanted to hold her, to be with her, to love her. Man, he wanted to tell her she owned his heart.

For the first time in his life McCade wanted to stay. He wanted to stay with Sandy. Forever. He
needed
to stay. And the fact that she might not want him made him crazy. It scared the hell out of him.

So he drank last night to numb the fear. He got loaded and, the best he could figure it, woke her up and dragged her out of bed to give his sorry self a ride home.

Perfect.

They were scheduled to leave for the Grand Canyon this evening. He knew that Sandy’s day was filled with important meetings and phone calls and all the work she had to get done before leaving town.

So what did he do? He made sure she got only a few hours’ sleep. Yeah, he was a real prince.

The taxi pulled up in front of Video Enterprises, and McCade paid the driver and got out, careful not to bump his still-throbbing head.

Inside the building, the receptionist smiled at him, and he slowly headed down the long corridor that led to Sandy’s office. Her door was closed, and Laura sat outside at her desk like a secretarial bodyguard.

“She busy?” McCade asked.

Laura made a face. “Are you kidding?” she asked. “This is the first time I’ve been able to sit down all day. One of the cameras wasn’t tied down properly in the van, and its lens cracked. We’ve all been going nuts, trying to find a replacement part that will be here by the time the equipment leaves for points north at three o’clock. So, yeah, she’s busy. But she’s alone, if that’s what you really meant.”

McCade motioned to the intercom. “Will you, um, let her know I’m here. Tell her that I’d like to see her—if she’s got the time.”

Laura looked at him strangely. “You two have a fight? You usually just walk right in.”

“Just tell her, okay?” McCade’s hands were shaking, an aftereffect of having had too much to drink, and he shoved them in his pockets. Damn, he felt sick. “Please?”

Laura pushed down the intercom button and neatly relayed the information to the inner office.

Sandy didn’t bother to answer via the intercom. She simply opened her office door.

McCade caught his breath. She looked beautiful. She was wearing a loose-fitting white silk blouse, tucked into a baggy, pleated pair of khaki trousers that emphasized her slenderness. Her hair was swept up on top of her head in charming disarray. Strands of her curls were falling free around her face.

Yeah, she looked beautiful, but she also looked tired. And McCade was responsible for that.

She smiled at him, one eyebrow raised curiously. “Since when do you need an invitation to come into my office?” She stepped back so that he could come inside.

He turned to face her as she closed the door behind him. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”

Sandy turned to shut off the bright overhead lights and crossed to the window to close the blinds. The room became dim and soothing. “Better?” she asked, moving behind her desk.

McCade sat carefully in one of her guest chairs and took off his sunglasses. “Yeah. Thanks.” He took a deep breath. “I want to apologize,” he said, and her eyes flashed up and locked with his for one split second before she looked away again. Oh, Lord, he
did
have something to apologize for, didn’t he? But what?

His face was pale underneath his tan and Sandy noticed that he moved gingerly. He looked like hell, and he probably felt ten times worse, yet he’d dragged himself out of bed to come down here to see her. How much of last night did he remember? Her own words echoed in her head:
If you still want to make love to me when you’re sober, just let me know.

He looked down at the sunglasses in his hand and played with the earpieces. Finally, he glanced back at her. “I want to apologize,” he repeated, “but to tell you the truth, I don’t remember exactly what it is I did that I need to apologize for.”

He didn’t remember. Thank God. Sandy straightened the papers on the top of her desk, lining up all the edges and corners. “If you don’t remember, then how do you know you did something that needs an apology?”

“I was hoping you could answer that. Do I need to apologize for anything besides waking you up in the middle of the night?”

She looked up at him again. “No.” She smiled very slightly as she shook her head. “You don’t.”

But McCade swore softly under his breath. “Yes, I do. I remember. I made you cry, didn’t I?”

Her silence was enough of an answer.

“I did.” He swore again.

“It was late,” Sandy said. “And I was tired—”

“What did I say?” he asked with dread. “Oh, damn, what did I
do?
”

“We had this exact same conversation last night. Just let it go, all right?”

“Sandy, I’m sorry,” he said, leaning forward. “Whatever I did, it upset you, and I’m sorry.”

“The apology’s unnecessary but accepted, okay?” she said lightly, then opened her desk drawer and fished inside for her car keys. She held them out to him. “Take one of the guys and go pick up your bike. It’s at a place called the Cactus Ranch down on the corner of Van Buren and Vine. I think Frank might be in the editing room. If not, Tom or Ed should be around here somewhere. One of them can drive my car back.”

McCade took the keys from her. “Thanks.”

“You think you’re going to have steady hands by five o’clock?” she asked.

“Gee, and I thought I was hiding the shakes so well.”

She laughed. “Seriously, McCade. Harcourt’s flying his Cessna up to the canyon. James is going with him, and they invited me and a cameraman along. It’s a great photo op—”

“
You’re
going to fly in a
Cessna?
” McCade was astonished, and rightly so. Sandy usually didn’t fly in large commercial jets, let alone tiny private airplanes.

“It’s a
great
photo op,” she said again, trying to convince herself as well. “I was counting on you being there for moral support, but if you can’t hold a camera steady—”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I can ask O’Reilly to do it.”

“I
will
be fine.”

Sandy’s intercom beeped and Laura’s voice said, “Mr. Vandenberg is here to review the footage from the shopping mall.”

Sandy pushed the intercom button. “Tell him I’ll meet him in the editing room.”

“That sounds like my cue to leave.” He stood up and put her car keys into his pocket. “Thanks for coming to get me last night.”

“Thanks for knowing you were too drunk to drive.”

McCade shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t take credit for that. The bartender’s the one you should thank.”

“Then thank him for me.” Sandy crossed to the door and reached for the doorknob, but he put his hand against the smooth wood, holding it closed.

“I should kiss you good-bye,” he said.

Sandy’s heart did a quick three-sixty. “We’re alone, McCade. What’s the point?”

He gently touched her face. “You don’t look like a woman who’s been kissed. Vandenberg’s going to notice that.”

“That’s silly,” she said weakly, but she didn’t move, couldn’t move as his mouth found hers.

It was a sweet kiss, gentle and soft, but laced with the same fire that had burned fiercely between them last night. Sandy remembered the way McCade had touched her, the feel of his hand on her breast.

He pulled away. “Now you can go.” He nodded in satisfaction. “Now you look kissed.”

Sandy pulled open the door. “We’re leaving for the airport at four-thirty,” she said briskly, to cover her embarrassment. “Pack enough clothes for several days and get back here. Don’t be late.”

McCade’s quiet chuckle followed her down the corridor.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror across from the elevators and stopped short. McCade was right. She
did
look kissed. Her eyes were bright, her face slightly flushed, her cheeks rosy, and her lips…

If one little kiss could make her look like this, how had she looked last night, after the two of them had tried to inhale each other in the front seat of her car? Thank God he couldn’t remember, because if he did, he would surely realize that she was in love with him.

Turning away from the mirror, she hurried toward the editing room.

As McCade stopped at a red light something reflected from the floor, catching his eye. Another button—the third one he’d found since he’d gotten into Sandy’s car.

“Whadidya find?” Frank asked idly as McCade’s fingers closed around it.

“Nothing.” He slipped it into the ashtray with the other buttons.

That was when the memory hit, slamming into him like a sledgehammer. It was fragmented, in pieces like a jigsaw puzzle, but there were enough to complete the picture. Sandy. McCade. Sitting in this very car. The eerie glow of predawn. Desire exploding inside of him as he kissed her. Buttons exploding off of her shirt as he roughly ripped it open—

“Mercy,” he muttered, holding tightly to the steering wheel.

“Light’s green,” Frank said.

McCade woodenly put the car into gear and drove through the intersection. What had he done? And why hadn’t Sandy said anything?

Sandy was sitting in an aluminum soda can with wings that was floating thousands and thousands of feet above the earth.

“What do you say,” McCade whispered into her ear, “in order to get some really good shots of Arizona from this altitude, I climb out on the wing and—”

“No!” she said before she realized he was teasing.

“Then I’m done shooting for a while.” He grinned at her and carefully set his camera down.

Harcourt was talking on the radio to the tower at the airport near the canyon, and James was in the other front seat reading his mail.