Body Language

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “Where are you going?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

  “I need to go for a ride,” he told her.

  Need. Sandy’s heart sank as she climbed out of bed to help him look for his keys. This was how McCade’s restlessness, his urge to wander, started. He’d go off on his bike in the middle of the night to roar along the highways, to feel the wind on his face and in his hair. At first that illusion of total freedom was enough to satisfy him, but eventually his midnight jaunts would get longer and longer. One day she’d wake up to find him packed and ready to leave. And then, as quickly as he had appeared, McCade would be gone.

  They were on her dresser—a plain metal ring with four keys attached. “Found ’em.”

  McCade watched her cross to him with the keys. She was wearing one of those ridiculous little white cotton nightie things she liked to wear to bed. It was extremely sweet looking and demure. Except in this light the damn thing was nearly transparent. With her hair in an unruly jumble around her face and down her back, she looked so sexy it hurt.

  “Can’t you sleep?” he asked quietly.

  He held his breath, waiting for her reply. Ask me to stay, he thought. If she would just ask him to stay and keep her company, he would tell her that he loved her and maybe—

  “I’ve got a lot on my mind,” she said. “I keep thinking about all the things that can go wrong this weekend up at the Grand Canyon.”

  Please ask me to stay. Their eyes met and something sparked, and Sandy quickly looked away.

  She handed him the keys. “Be careful. I always worry when you ride at night.”

  It was clear that she wasn’t going to ask him to stay. He swallowed his disappointment. “I don’t have to go.”

  She just looked at him.

  “If you want me to stay,” he said quietly, “I will.”

  “No. You need to go, remember?” She shook her head. “Go for a ride, and get it out of your system, Clint. If you don’t, you’ll be strung way too tight for the weekend. And I need you—and your camera—to be at one hundred percent.”

  But he didn’t need to go. Not anymore. He needed to stay. He needed to talk to her. He needed to make love to her….

  Sandy climbed back into her bed. “Good night, McCade.”

  The phone rang. It was quarter to four in the morning, and the phone was ringing. Sandy groped for it in the darkness. “Hello?”

  “Yo.” It was McCade. “Sandy, baby, you still awake?”

  It was McCade and he had clearly had too much to drink.

  “I am now.” She turned on the light. “Where are you?”

  “Where the hell am I?” she heard him ask someone. She could hear bar sounds in the background—distorted country music and the unmistakable relentless ringing of a pinball machine. “The corner of Van Buren and Vine,” he repeated for her benefit. “I’m in a real dive of a roadhouse called the Cactus Ranch. What the hell is a cactus ranch anyway?”

  Sandy could hear a good-natured voice on the other end, but couldn’t make out the words. Whatever the man had said, it made McCade laugh. “Shut up, Peter,” she heard him say. “My pal Peter, the bartender, took my damn keys,” he said to her. “He won’t let me drive home and this dump is closing in less than an hour. I don’t have enough money for a taxi, and Peter won’t give me an advance on any of my credit cards. He says they don’t take plastic here. I need you desperately, baby. Come and save me.”

  Baby? That was the second time he’d called her that. “Just let me throw on some clothes and—”

  “But I like what you’re wearing right now.” McCade lowered his voice. “It’s very sexy. Did you know that when you’re backlit, I can see right through that nightgown?”

  God, no, she didn’t know that. She managed to keep her voice steady as she pulled on a pair of jeans. “Van Buren and Vine. I’ll be right over.”

  “Hey, Sandy?”

  “What, McCade?”

  “Don’t tell Peter, but he’s right. I’m a little drunk.”

  “A little,” she agreed.

  This part of Van Buren Street could not be mistaken for the garden spot of Phoenix. Near Sky Harbor Airport, it was an endless strip of cheap motels, neon-lit roadhouses, and fast-food restaurants. The street was deserted at this late hour, and Sandy wasn’t sure whether that was cause for relief or worry.

  The Cactus Ranch had a dirt parking lot with huge potholes. One dim spotlight lit the sagging front door of the ugly, squat building. A row of motorcycles stood out front. Other than the bikes, there was only one car in the lot.

  She parked as close to the door as she could and got out of her car.

  She’d intended to tuck her nightgown into her jeans and pull her denim jacket on—until McCade made his comment about being able to see through her nightie. After that, she felt obligated to change entirely, and now she wore a plain, blue cotton work shirt with her jeans. With any luck, she’d fit right in, no one would notice her, she could grab McCade and leave.

  The door opened with a squeak, and she hesitated before stepping into a room filled with cigarette smoke and loud music.

  There were about fifteen people in the entire bar, but most of them were big—even the women—and covered with leather and chains. So much for fitting in.

  Sandy spotted McCade sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender—a friendly-looking man who seemed to be at least part Native American.

  She ran the gauntlet of interested male and hostile female eyes and finally reached the bar.

  “McCade.”

  He spun on the bar stool to face her and fell onto the floor. But he grinned up at her as if he didn’t feel any pain. “Hey! Sandy! What the hell’re you doing here?”

  “You called me.” She nudged him with her foot. “To come and take you home?”

  “You must be Sandy. I’m Peter,” the bartender said with a smile, holding out his hand. She shook it briefly. “You’re actually as pretty as McCade said you were.” He reached under the bar for McCade’s keys and handed them to her. “We’ve all heard an awful lot about you tonight.”

  McCade was struggling to get to his feet. “I called you?” He frowned. “When did I call you?” He waved his frown away. “Hell, it doesn’t matter. You’re here now, baby, and that’s what counts. Wanna dance?”

  It was amazing. Even falling-down drunk, McCade still managed to be the most attractive man she’d ever seen. His hair was messy, he needed a shave, and he could barely stand, but his crooked smile was charming and his eyes were still an impossible shade of blue.

  Very, very hot blue. He moved closer. Step one—invade personal space…. “Come on, baby, let’s dance.”

  Sandy crossed her arms and took a step back. “McCade. I got out of my nice warm bed to come and bring you home. Assuming I ever make it back into bed, I have to go to work in less than three hours. So, no, I’m not going to dance.”

  “Mercy! Will you look at her body language,” McCade said to Peter. “Is she mad at me, or what?”

  “Go home,” Peter said gently. “I’ll keep your Harley safe. You can pick it up tomorrow, okay?”

  McCade turned to Sandy. “Six women—” He looked back at Peter. “Six different women?”

  “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…

&
nbsp; 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

  BY 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.