Body Language (18 page)

McCade wanted to die. Vandenberg and Sandy were standing close enough to embrace, close enough to kiss. Lord, she was wearing her white dress and she looked beautiful. She said something and Vandenberg reached out and gripped her shoulders, leaning in close to speak directly into her ear.

Sandy nodded and smiled up at Vandenberg and McCade’s heart broke. He’d been gone less than a week, yet she’d apparently recovered. Hell, she’d obviously done more than recover. And James hadn’t wasted any time moving into McCade’s territory, either.

This was what McCade had wanted.

He shut off his camera and carried it out the back door to the equipment van, moving automatically, going through the motions.

This was what he’d wanted.

He climbed into the back of the van. Someone was in a hurry—the vehicle rolled out of the driveway even before he had a chance to secure his gear.

“Let’s see what you got.” The news reporter smiled apologetically. “I’m doing the report for tomorrow’s broadcast, and I’d like to be out of the editing room before midnight. It’s my anniversary.”

McCade watched in silence as the reporter rewound and then played back his footage of the partygoers right there on the equipment in the van. She froze the frame on Vandenberg and Sandy. “Isn’t that Simon Harcourt’s aide?” she asked. “Oh, darn, what’s his name?”

“Vandenberg.” McCade’s eyes were drawn to the video monitor despite his resolve to look away. “James Vandenberg.” Just saying the man’s name made his teeth hurt. But hey, this
was
what he’d wanted. Sandy’s happiness. Right?

The reporter let the tape roll.

On the monitor, Sandy was glancing around the room. She looked up at Vandenberg, then stepped closer to him. They talked, Vandenberg pulled her even closer, she smiled, and the tape was over.

The reporter sat back, making notes on a pad, while McCade stared at the blank screen. What had he just seen? A woman out on the town with her new lover? Something wasn’t right, something didn’t fit.

“Mind if I rewind and look at it again?” he asked.

The reporter didn’t look up from her pad as she gestured toward the equipment. “Be my guest.”

McCade slid into the seat directly in front of the portable editing board and hit rewind. He restarted the tape when James and Sandy walked in. His camera had picked them up even before he’d noticed them.

James gave his invitation to one of the security guards at the door. Sandy spoke to another guard. McCade had been too far away, and the band had been too loud, to hear a word. But he could see her mouth very clearly.

He couldn’t read lips if his life depended on it, but it sure as hell looked as if she’d said his name. Clint McCade.

He rewound the tape, tightening the frame of the shot in to a close-up of her face.

Where.
The first word she said sure looked like “where.” And the very last words were definitely “Clint McCade.”

McCade couldn’t breathe. Why would Sandy be looking for him while she was out on a date with Vandenberg? Unless…

As he watched the monitor Sandy pushed her hair back from her face. Light reflected crazily from her hand.

McCade punched the freeze frame, but her hand was already out of the shot. He quickly rewound, waiting for the flash, and froze the tape.

She was wearing his ring. Lord have mercy, Sandy was wearing the engagement ring he’d bought her. She must have found it in his tuxedo and—

His hands were shaking as he rewound the tape one more time. He readjusted the frame so he could see both Sandy and Vandenberg.

Vandenberg liked her, there was no doubt about that, but his body language wasn’t that of a lover. Even when he touched her arm, her shoulders, his grasp was friendly, not intimate. And Sandy—from her body language, McCade could see now that she was impatient and upset. She stepped closer to James Vandenberg only after she frowned slightly and gestured to her ear. She couldn’t hear him. He had probably spoken into her ear in order to be heard over the pounding rock and roll, not because he was whispering sweet nothings. And when she smiled at Vandenberg, McCade could see now that it was a smile of gratitude, of thanks.

He rewound the tape and watched it again and again, amazed at how inaccurately he’d read their body language when he’d first caught sight of them.

Sandy had probably come to the party with James because he was the one person she knew who had an invitation. She’d come looking for McCade. She’d come wearing McCade’s favorite dress, wearing McCade’s diamond ring. Her message was obvious. She’d accepted his marriage proposal—even though he hadn’t had the guts to ask. Despite what he thought was best for her, she wanted him. And she wanted him forever, the same way he wanted her. And he
did
want her. Desperately.

She’d come to the mayor’s birthday party looking for him, to give him that message, and what had he done?

He had left the building.

He felt a lurch as the van went over the speed bumps in the TV-station parking lot. He had the door opened and was out almost before they were parked.

“Hey, McCade!” the van’s driver called after him. “Good luck down in Florida. Drive carefully tonight.”

Halfway to his motorcycle McCade stopped, turning back. “I’m not going to Florida tonight.” He smiled for what seemed like the first time in days. “I’m going home.”

Sandy was exhausted. There was nothing quite like failure to wear a person out.

She and James had missed McCade by a matter of minutes at the mayor’s party, but they’d found out that Frank had been wrong, that McCade had left his motorcycle at the television studio. Sandy called the studio, asking them to give McCade the message to wait, not to leave before he talked to her, while James tried to find out where the parking attendants had stashed his car. They’d had to wait nearly twenty-five minutes, and then they rushed across town, over to the Channel Eight building.

But McCade was gone. He hadn’t gone inside, the message Sandy left had never been delivered.

Sandy refused to cry. It was a disappointment, sure, but it was just temporary. After all, it wasn’t as if she didn’t know where McCade was going. She calculated that if he took his time, he’d need about four days to get to Florida by motorcycle.

It was after midnight by the time she unlocked her apartment door, but she went straight to the telephone and bought herself a one-way plane ticket to Miami. The flight would arrive early Monday afternoon. A second call reserved a rental car.

Then she called Frank. He answered groggily.

“Are you awake?” she asked. “It’s me…
Sandy.
”

“Yeah.” He was instantly alert. “Boss? What’s the matter? Is there a problem at the studio?”

“As of Monday, I’m taking a month off,” she said. “Give or take a week. And I’m leaving you in charge. Think you can handle it?”

Frank sputtered. “Yeah,” he finally managed to say. “Boy, I must be dreaming. You gonna give me a raise too?”

“Why not? We’ll talk more about this tomorrow. Sorry I woke you.”

“I’m sure as hell not.” Frank laughed. “You won’t regret this, boss.”

“Yeah,” Sandy said. “I know.”

She hung up the phone and looked at the clock. Twelve-thirty. It was too late to call Graham Parks to see if he needed any extra help on his shoot. She’d call him first thing in the morning and—

The doorbell rang.

She looked at the clock again, wondering if she’d maybe been wrong about the time. But no, it was definitely half-past midnight.

She knew only one person who would dare to ring her doorbell that late at night. Sandy slowly walked to the door, telling herself not to hope, but hoping anyway. She took a deep breath and looked out of the peephole.

McCade.

She leaned against the door, weak with relief. It was McCade.

Stay calm, she thought, be cool. She had to play it cool. She took a deep breath and opened the door.

McCade looked tired. As tired as she felt.

“I guess you got the message I left at the station after all,” she said carefully.

He stepped inside.

Sandy had forgotten how tall he was, how big. He seemed to fill her tiny entryway as he turned to look at her.

“You might say that I got a message of sorts.”

His eyes were somber and she wished that he would smile. He was carrying…he was carrying a pair of fishing poles? She looked at him questioningly.

“Some things are worth trying again,” he told her quietly. “I figure if you’re giving me a second chance, I’ll do the same for fishing.”

Their eyes met and she wasn’t sure who made the first move, but it took just a fraction of a second for her to fall into his arms. He kissed her hard, and she heard a clattering sound—the fishing rods falling to the floor.

McCade was dizzy with relief and emotion as Sandy returned his kisses hungrily. She still wanted him. Thank the Lord, she really did still love him! He kissed her lips, her face, pulling her in close, holding her as if he would never let go. And he wouldn’t. Only a damn fool would make a mistake like that twice.

“What makes you so sure I’m going to give you a second chance, McCade?” Sandy murmured before she took his earlobe between her teeth.

He laughed. Lord have mercy, how could he have thought he could live without her? “If I wasn’t positive before, I sure as hell am now. Unless you kiss all the suitors you intend to spurn this way?”

But then he lifted her hand so the diamond reflected the light. “To tell you the truth, this ring on your finger was a major hint. This has got to be one of the few times in history an answer to a marriage proposal’s been given before the question was asked.”

She smiled back at him, amazed at how good she felt. Was it just minutes ago that she’d been so woefully unhappy? “I guess I tipped my hand,” she said. “No wonder you seemed so sure of yourself.”

McCade’s smile faded. “Truth is, the only thing I’m sure about is how much I love you and want you. Do you really think I can give you everything you need?” he asked, his voice low and intense.

Sandy didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

A look of wonder softened his somber expression. “You’re that certain?” he whispered.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life,” she said. She took a deep breath. “I don’t expect you to stop working, and I won’t be able to come with you when you go on location, at least not all the time, but—”

“That’s the easy part,” McCade interrupted. “My job, your job, we can work that out.” He stopped, looking down at the floor before he met her eyes again. “It’s just that…you need to know that I’m never going to be high society, Sandy. I don’t have that kind of class or style—”

“You have more class than any man I’ve ever met,” she said indignantly.

“Even when I haul off and hit some lowlife like Aaron Fields in the snout?”

“Well…” She smiled. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“I’m less perfect than most,” McCade admitted.

“I’m not perfect either,” Sandy told him. “At least
you
didn’t break Fields’s nose.”

He stared at her, trying to decipher her words, then his eyes narrowed as a possible meaning occurred to him. “Are you actually trying to tell me that
you
—”

Sandy nodded. “Three years ago,” she said. “He asked me out for dinner, remember?”

“Yeah. You told me. He thought buying you dinner bought him a whole hell of a lot more than your company for the evening.”

She stepped away, leaning back against the wall and crossing her arms, as if trying to block the memory. “Well, he was pretty damn persistent. He wouldn’t back off, and I was starting to feel threatened, so I, um, hit him in the face, you know, the way you taught me to.”

“With the heel of your hand.”

“Exactly.” She rolled her eyes. “What a mess.”

“The bastard deserved it. Damn, if I had known, I would have hit him harder.” McCade tried unsuccessfully to hide a laugh.

Sandy glared at him. “It’s not funny, Clint. I thought he was going to throw you in jail—just to get back at me.”

He gently massaged her shoulders. “A night in jail wouldn’t have killed me. It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.”

She looked up at him, totally shocked.

McCade sighed. “I live in a different world from you, Sandy. You’ve escaped from my world, and you’ve forgotten what it’s like to live there. My world has people living in the street and lots of pollution and school systems deteriorating because the poor can’t afford to pay taxes and the wealthy won’t and—” He shook his head. “I’ve seen too much to ever really leave it behind,” he continued. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m a working-class man at heart.”

“So?”

He blinked. “So I know what’s important to you,” he said. “I know you want to join the country club and—”

“Says
who?
” Sandy was staring at him as if he had lost his mind.

“You did,” he said with certainty.

“I did not!” she countered indignantly.

“You did too. Back in seventh grade.”

She started to laugh. “In seventh grade I
also
wanted to join the air force,” she reminded him. “And don’t forget that plan I had to train the dogs in the neighborhood and go on the road with a canine circus.” She smiled at McCade, her eyes dancing with delight. “Are you forgetting the fight I had with my mother because I wanted to get a crew cut and dye the ends of my hair blue? Believe me, I don’t want
any
of those things anymore. I want
you.
”

McCade pulled her roughly to him and kissed her again. “I love you.” He pulled back and looked searchingly at her. “I don’t want you to make a mistake that you’ll regret.”

“I could say the same thing to you.” Her face was suddenly serious. “Are you sure you’re ready to settle down, commit to one person?”

“I want to buy a house with you,” he said, running his fingers through her long, golden hair. “A big house with a yard—a big yard, a few acres at least. I want to get some horses and a big dog, and then maybe in a few years, a pony or two for the kids—”

“Kids,” Sandy repeated faintly.

“I want you too,” he said, cupping her face with his hands and kissing her. “I want you beside me for the rest of my life, Sandy. I want to wear a ring on my finger that tells the world you own my heart. I want to make babies with you, lots of babies with your beautiful eyes—”