McCade was in the bathroom when he heard the doorbell ring. He wrapped his towel around his waist and went out into the hall. Sandy’s door was still tightly shut, and he’d heard no sound or movement from her at all this morning.
The doorbell rang again.
McCade crossed to the door and opened it.
James Vandenberg.
McCade was as surprised to see him as he was to see McCade.
“I’m sorry,” Vandenberg said. “I guess I should have called first.” It was clear he hadn’t expected to find McCade there—especially wearing nothing but a towel.
“I guess you should have,” McCade said. “Sandy’s—Cassandra’s still in bed.” The implication being that he had at one time been there with her. If that’s what James Vandenberg wanted to believe, well, McCade wasn’t going to bother to correct him.
James was doing his best to remain expressionless, but his mouth was a little too tight. “When Cassandra told me you and she were merely friends, I told her I didn’t think that was exactly what you had in mind.”
“Smart man. But then again, you went to Harvard, right?”
“That’s right,” Vandenberg said. “And I suppose you’re one of those reverse snobs. If it’s high quality or upper class, you automatically despise it.”
“I don’t automatically do anything,” McCade said evenly, leaning against the doorjamb. “If I did, we wouldn’t be standing here talking right now. I’d be kicking your butt back into your car.”
There was a glint in James’s eyes as he looked at McCade. “Is that some kind of threat?”
“You went to Harvard.” McCade smiled dangerously. “Surely you can come up with some kind of intellectual interpretation.”
James’s eyes lingered on the dragon tattoo that decorated McCade’s right shoulder. “You need danger and violence in your life, don’t you, McCade?” he said. “On the outside you cleaned up really well. But the man on the inside’s not so easy to change, is he?”
Straightening up, McCade laughed, but there was no humor in it and his eyes were cold. “You don’t know a damned thing about me, Vandenberg, so just—”
“On the contrary,” James interrupted. “Simon Harcourt’s security team investigated every one of Cassandra Kirk’s employees. I know everything there is to know about you, McCade. I know you didn’t finish high school—”
“I passed the equivalency test—”
“Not until after you falsified high-school records to get into college—”
“Fine.” McCade had the urge to shout, so he purposely lowered his voice. “I’m a criminal because I wanted a higher education—”
“You’ve been in jail two different times—”
“Once because I was part of a news team covering a demonstration that turned into a riot. The police didn’t care who they rounded up and tossed into their vans.”
“You were also arrested for stealing a police car.”
“I borrowed it,” McCade said coldly. “I had to get some footage I shot over to the studio fast for the evening news broadcast. I couldn’t find a taxi. I had no choice.”
“That prank got you a criminal record and ninety days in prison.”
“It also got me an Emmy.”
“Maybe, but you haven’t won any awards for the way you treat women.”
McCade’s eyes narrowed. “Harcourt investigated my personal life too?”
“The longest relationship you’ve ever had was with Chardon Blakely,” Vandenberg said. “You were with her for five months and seventeen days. The only reason that lasted so long was because you were out of the country for three of those months.”
“I can’t believe—”
“During the past ten years the longest you’ve ever lived in one place was the six months you spent filming a movie on location in Alaska.”
“So I like to travel,” McCade said. “So what?”
“So all I have to do is wait,” he said. “Sooner or later you’ll be out of Cassandra’s life. I’m betting on sooner.”
McCade fought to keep his temper in control. “Was there something you wanted?”
Vandenberg held up several videotapes. “I wanted to drop these off and it was more convenient to come by here rather than drive all the way out to Cassandra’s office.”
“That’s the biggest load of crap I ever heard.” McCade kept his voice overly pleasant.
To McCade’s surprise, James Vandenberg laughed. “I know,” he said. “Bad excuse. You’re right. I really wanted to see Cassandra. But you already knew that.” He held out the tapes. “Will you see that she gets these?”
“Yeah.” McCade took the videotapes.
“Tell Cassandra to call me when she’s ready to have that dinner date.” At the black look in McCade’s eyes, James laughed again. “Never mind. I’ll tell her that myself.”
McCade resisted the urge to slam the door in James Vandenberg’s face. Instead he closed it gently, placing the tapes on the table in the front entry hall. Sandy’s bedroom door was still closed, and he stood in the hallway, just staring at it for several long minutes.
Guilt.
It surrounded him, suffocating him. Why hadn’t he told Vandenberg that he and Sandy really were just friends? Why hadn’t he told him the truth?
Because McCade didn’t want that truth. He wanted to be Sandy’s lover, not just her friend. Damn, he wanted to be her husband. And now, in James Vandenberg’s eyes at least, McCade was a whole hell of a lot closer to that goal.
But Sandy liked James. Sandy wanted James. McCade had promised to help her, and here he was doing the exact opposite.
He had a persistent suspicion that James had been right when he’d implied that McCade wasn’t good enough for Sandy. Sure McCade looked the part of an upwardly mobile man—as long as he was wearing a shirt with sleeves long enough to hide his tattoo. But inside, he was still McCade. Money hadn’t changed him, not for the worse, but also not for the better.
McCade slowly dressed for work in a new pair of dark green pleated pants and an off-white polo shirt—some of the clothes Sandy had picked out for him when they’d shopped for the tuxedo. He barely recognized himself when he looked in the bathroom mirror. Besides the tuxedo, it had been literally years since he’d worn anything other than jeans and T-shirts. The fanciest he’d ever gotten, if you could call it fancy, was the pair of leather pants he wore when he rode his Harley in the cold or at night.
But here he was, looking like an upper-middle-class clone. People did some crazy things because of love, and temporarily changing his wardrobe was well within the realm of sanity.
He sighed. Sandy was going to be mad when she found out that James had come over and found him in her condo. She was going to be really mad when she found out he had said and done nothing to correct James’s obviously incorrect impression of what he was doing there.
She was going to be really mad when she found out, and she was going to find out, because McCade was going to tell her.
Or die from the guilt.
At seven-forty, McCade finished breakfast but Sandy still hadn’t awakened. Hadn’t she said something about an early-morning meeting? If she didn’t get up soon, she’d be late.
He went to her door and knocked lightly. No sound. He knocked harder, then listened again.
Nothing.
The door was unlocked, and he opened it slowly. Her room was dark, the shades blocking most of the morning sunshine. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness McCade crossed to the bed.
Sandy lay on her stomach amid a rumpled tangle of sheets, fast asleep.
“Sandy, wake up,” he said. But she was dead to the world.
McCade leaned over her, touching her lightly on the shoulder. “Yo, Sandy,” he said, louder this time, and her eyes opened. “I don’t think your alarm went off.”
She lifted her head, looking toward the clock radio on her bedside table. “Oh, shoot,” she said as she saw what time it was. “Oh, no! I have an eight o’clock meet
ing!” She clutched the sheet to her chest, pulling it with her off the bed as she ran toward the bathroom.
“McCade!” she shouted over the sound of the shower. “I’m so late. Pick me out something to wear, will you?”
McCade opened her closet and stared at the rack of clothing hanging there. Something to wear. A pretty blue-flowered sundress that he’d ordered for her from a catalog was hanging among all of her other clothes. It had arrived in yesterday’s mail, and had been waiting on Sandy’s doorstep last night when they got home.
The sleeveless dress would make her look like an angel.
McCade reached for a staid, almost mannishly cut navy-blue skirt and jacket. There was no point in Sandy hanging around looking like an angel. Not when she was planning to take the latest footage they’d shot over to Harcourt’s—and Vandenberg’s—office later that day.
He put the clothes on her bed just as she rushed back into the bedroom. Water dripped from her hair, and she had a towel wrapped around her.
“McCade, it’s going to be one hundred and fifteen degrees out there this afternoon,” she complained as she caught sight of the outfit he’d picked. “You can’t be serious. I’m not wearing long sleeves.” She pulled the new dress from the closet. “Besides, I want to wear something pretty today.”
Sandy pushed him out of the room.
“Why?” he asked.
Why? She was about to close the door, but stopped, looking up into his eyes. Because she wanted McCade to notice her. She looked down at the water that was dotting the floor from her dripping hair. “Because I think James is going to ask me out to dinner today.”
“I’ve got to tell you something,” McCade said.
“It’s got to wait.” Sandy closed the door and quickly dressed. When she opened the door, McCade was still standing there. He followed her to the door of the bathroom and watched as she stood at the sink, quickly putting on makeup.
“Look, Kirk, I’ve really got to tell you this,” he said. “You’re not going to like it, but…”
She glanced up at him in the bathroom mirror. “What didya break, McCade? My favorite coffee mug?”
“I wish.”
“My grandmother’s teapot?”
“No—”
“Not the mirror in the hallway.” She stretched her lips to put on lipstick, then smacked them together, looking at herself critically. “I’m not sure I can deal with seven years’ bad luck—”
“I didn’t break anything. I did something,” McCade said as she rushed past him. He followed her into the kitchen. “Actually, it’s something that I didn’t do.”
Sandy grabbed an apple from the refrigerator and washed it in the kitchen sink. Holding it with her teeth by taking a bite, she tucked her briefcase under her arm and headed for the front door. She unlocked the safety chain and the dead bolt, then spotted the videotapes on the hall table. Picking them up, she took the apple out of her mouth and turned to McCade. “What’s this?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He smiled ruefully. “Um…Vandenberg came by early this morning and dropped those tapes off. You were still asleep.”
She took a thoughtful bite of the apple, staring down at the tapes in her other hand. Nodding, she balanced her briefcase on the table, and slipped them carefully inside, and looked up at McCade. “James Vandenberg,” she repeated. “Came by. This morning.”
It was McCade’s turn to nod. “Yup.”
Sandy fought the urge to giggle. This was about as bad as it could get. So why did she have the urge to laugh? “You answered the door.”
It wasn’t a question, but McCade answered anyway. “Yup.”
“Before or after you took a shower?”
McCade studied the worn-out toe of his boot. “Um. After. But not by much.”
“I suppose you were wearing my pink bathrobe.”
He shook his head. “Nope. Just a towel.”
Sandy could picture it, like a scene from a romantic comedy. McCade, draped in a towel, his hair wet and his muscles gleaming…“I suppose James assumed…?” She let her voice trail off delicately.
“Yup.”
“Oh, perfect, McCade.” She leaned her head against the door. “I told him last night there was nothing between us.”
“Yeah, he mentioned that, and, well, now he thinks you finally succumbed to my charms.”
Sandy closed her eyes. If only she had…
“I’m sorry,” McCade said. “I should have straightened Vandenberg out as soon as I opened the door.”
“He probably wouldn’t have believed you. Not many people would believe a man like you could spend the night in a woman’s house and end up sleeping on the couch.” She took a deep breath, letting it out in a long sigh. “Oh, well. I suppose it’s fate. I suppose James and I aren’t truly meant to be together.”
She looked up to find him watching her intently, a strange expression on his face. It didn’t seem fair. She’d lost her chance with James Vandenberg—not that she really wanted him—because he thought she was involved with McCade—who she really did want.
Why couldn’t life be easy? Why couldn’t McCade just realize how perfect the two of them would be together? Why couldn’t he come to his senses and pull her into his arms and tell her that he was madly in love with her?
Because he wasn’t madly in love with her, that was why he couldn’t. He wasn’t, and he never would be.
McCade watched Sandy’s eyes fill with tears, and his chest felt tight. Damn, she was really upset about this. She really did like this Vandenberg guy. “Look,” he found himself saying. “It’s not that bad. All we have to do is…break up.”
Sandy looked at him as if he were crazy. “What?”
“Look,” he said again. “Vandenberg really likes you, right? He made that more than clear this morning. All you have to do is pretend that you and I are an item for a few weeks, until this project is over. Then we stage a fight and break up.”
As McCade spoke, the idea began to appeal to him. He would have the chance to play Sandy’s lover for several weeks. It was a role he could assume with absolute sincerity, and who knows? Maybe, with a little time, Sandy would want him to play it permanently, and much more realistically.
“We can set this up so that I’m the bad guy,” he said. “You know, I’ll dump you. It’ll look as if I led you on and—”
“We pretend we’re an item?” Sandy asked, trying to get it straight. “How much of an item? I mean, what exactly does that mean?”
McCade kept his face expressionless. “It means we keep up this charade by pretending that we’re lovers.”
Sandy glanced away, frowning slightly. How did lovers act? It had been so long since she’d been in a relationship. Did people still hold hands, or walk with their arms around each other? Did they kiss each other hello and good-bye?
She felt a rush of heat to her face as she considered the ramifications of having McCade kiss her regularly over the course of the next weeks. After a few days she’d probably become totally incoherent. After a week she’d probably throw herself at him. No, this definitely wasn’t a good idea at all.
“This isn’t going to work.” She went out the door.
McCade followed, several steps behind. He smiled. This was going to work perfectly.
SEVEN
“OKAY,” SANDY SAID. “We’re all clear on the schedule for this weekend?” She glanced around the conference table where James Vandenberg sat surrounded by her technical crew.
Late Friday night, the video crew was heading up to the Grand Canyon. Simon Harcourt owned a small cabin just outside of the national park and he frequently hiked down into the canyon with his family. This weekend, Video Enterprises was planning to hike with him and get it all on tape. A hike into the Grand Canyon would provide perfect footage for the bio piece—Simon Harcourt at play in Arizona’s own natural playground. It was all about the environment, about good health, family living, and the canyon itself would provide a pretty spec
tacular backdrop. “Now, if only we can get a guarantee we’ll have good weather.”
“This is Arizona,” Frank said. “That’s about as good a guarantee as you can get when you’re talking weather.”
McCade was sitting across the table from her, and she glanced up to find him watching her. Again. All during the meeting she’d been aware of his steady, heated gaze. He’d been playing the part of her lover for the past few days, and even though he didn’t touch her at work, he always watched her this way. Whenever their eyes met, he would smile. It was an outrageously sexy half smile. Combined with the look in his eyes, McCade almost succeeded in making even Sandy believe he was remembering every little touch, every single caress of a steamy, passionate night spent making love to her.
She pulled her eyes away from McCade and cleared her throat. “We should be able to get all the footage we need on Saturday and Sunday,” she said to her technical crew. “But be ready to stay longer. Keep Monday and Tuesday open too. And Wednesday, while you’re at it.” She softened her words with a smile. “I don’t want to hear any whining about prior engagements if we need to stay up north a few days longer. Got it?”
At the murmured agreement from her crew, Sandy stood up. “Let’s hit the road, then.” It was nine o’clock and time to get the equipment vans going. They had an eleven o’clock shoot with Harcourt at a local mall.
“Yo.”
Sandy looked up from her computer as McCade poked his head and shoulders in through her office door.
“Yo yourself,” she said with a smile. “You’ve got the day off. What are you doing here?”
He opened the door wider. He was wearing his trademark jeans and T-shirt and carrying a brown grocery bag. “I had this uncontrollable urge to see you.” His husky voice was low, but Sandy knew her secretary was probably straining her ears to hear their conversation.
McCade leaned back into the outer office. “Hey, Laura, hold all of the boss’s calls, will you? She’s taking a lunch break. So, do not disturb. Got it?”
Sandy heard Laura’s affirmative giggle as he closed the door behind him. He clicked the lock firmly—and loudly—into place, and she stood up. “McCade—”
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