Tony stared. “Did you just say…?” He laughed, dancing in a circle around McCade’s chair. “I knew it, I knew it,” he singsonged. “Oh, this is too good. Clint McCade married.”
“Knock it off,” McCade said crossly, standing up.
Tony stopped dancing and smiled at his friend, his brown eyes warm. “Sandy’s going to be one happy lady tonight.” He shook McCade’s hand in congratulations. “Tonight, and the rest of her life.”
McCade smiled, but he wondered—not for the first time—if he was doing the right thing. He knew it would be more than right for him. But for Sandy? He headed for the door, unable to shake the feeling that he was getting away with something here.
ELEVEN
THE COLLAR OF McCade’s tuxedo shirt was way too tight. He stood, sipping his soda, watching Sandy work her way around the room at Simon Harcourt’s side.
The Harcourt project had come full circle, and they were back at the Pointe resort for the first public screening of the thirty-minute mini-documentary Video Enterprises had put together for the Harcourt campaign.
It had been good. Very good. It was classily done and extremely effective.
McCade moved slightly to the side so he could see her. She was wearing her favorite dress, the black slip dress with the string straps. Her hair was piled high on her head, a few stray locks falling down around her smooth shoulders. She looked charming and sexy. She also looked elegant, beautiful, calm, and in control.
The man she was talking to stepped aside, and McCade realized James Vandenberg was there, too, standing at Harcourt’s other shoulder. Sandy’s attention was on the man in front of her, but Vandenberg was watching her. McCade’s fingers tightened on his glass as he saw Vandenberg’s eyes start a slow amble south from Sandy’s face.
Relax, McCade ordered himself. The woman was a knockout. Men were going to look at her. And that’s all Vandenberg was doing, just looking.
He could feel the weight of the jewelry box in the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. A few hours from now, when this party was over, he’d take Sandy aside and…McCade smiled. After she had his ring on her finger, James would certainly think twice about giving her the eye.
“Clint McCade, isn’t it?” A voice at his shoulder made him turn around. “I’m very good with names.”
It was portly, florid Aaron Fields, the guy from Channel Five, the guy Sandy had dated once, with such disastrous results that she still hadn’t told McCade the whole story. Standing next to Fields was a thin long-nosed man who seemed very bored.
Fields held out his hand and said, “Aaron Fields, Channel Five.” He pointed to his companion. “This is Jim Grove, assistant producer.”
“How ya doin’?” McCade switched his glass of soda to his left hand in order to shake.
“I was glad we found that footage of Harcourt in our archives,” Fields said. “You know, the film from that community center? That was ours.”
McCade nodded. “I thought Sandy—Cassandra used that piece well.”
“Yeah.” Fields looked over McCade’s shoulder, obviously not listening.
The thin man was also looking at something behind McCade, so he followed their gaze across the room to where Sandy was shaking the hand of an elderly woman. Fields motioned with the hand holding his drink for Grove’s benefit.
“That’s Cassandra, the killer blonde in the little black number.” He turned to McCade. “I heard through the grapevine that she’s seeing you these days.”
McCade made himself smile pleasantly. “That’s right.”
“You’re happy about that, huh?” Fields smirked back. “I bet. When I first heard you two were an item, it really bothered me—you’re the cameraman, for chrissake. You’d think she’d go for a director or a producer, someone who’s somebody, someone with clout instead of some lowly techie. I was actually surprised she didn’t hook up with James Vandenberg. Now, there’s a man with power….” He shook his head, looking back across the room at Sandy and James.
McCade tried to quell the anger that was building in him. This guy was an idiot, a fool, a jerk. Nothing he said should be taken seriously. Still, he turned to the smaller man, freezing him with a black look and a dangerous smile. “Lucky this lowly techie is so easygoing, or he might take that as an insult,” he said.
“Hey, no offense, I just figured…” Fields shrugged and turned to Grove.
McCade began to move away, but he stopped when he heard Fields say, “I don’t know what the big deal is. Turns out Mr. McCade’s an Emmy Award-winning cameraman. ’Course, Video Enterprises couldn’t possibly have the kind of budget they’d need to pay him what he’s worth, so Cassandra Kirk puts out to get what she wants. She did the same thing with me when I had that tape she wanted and—”
“You lying son of a bitch!”
McCade reached for Fields’s shoulder and swung him around…knowing he shouldn’t. Part of him stood helplessly by and watched as the rest of him hauled back and popped Aaron Fields in the nose.
He noted with some detachment that Fields actually rose slightly off the ground, landing somewhat gracelessly and bowling over a passing waiter who was carrying a tray of champagne glasses.
Guests within a twenty-foot radius were showered with the wine. There were screams and squeals of surprise that turned to cries of outrage as Aaron Fields hauled himself to his feet, blood pouring from his nose.
McCade had to hand it to the guy. He didn’t have much in the way of brains, but he knew enough not to launch himself at McCade and continue what surely would have been a losing battle. Instead, Fields drew himself up to his full height. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
“Fine,” McCade said. “When you call him, you might mention the words ‘defamation of character.’”
Fields was undaunted. “The words ‘assault and battery’ come more readily to mind.”
McCade laughed. “Battery? I don’t think so.” He took a threatening step toward Fields, who instantly cowered. “You want battery? Step outside, and I’ll batter your butt across the parking lot, scumbag.”
“What’s going on here?” It was James Vandenberg, cool, calm, and collected. The crowd parted for him, and he stepped between the two men.
“This man assaulted me.” Fields again pointed accusingly at McCade.
Sandy pushed through the crowd, and McCade saw the look of shock on her face, the flare of anger in her eyes.
As McCade watched she pulled Vandenberg aside and spoke softly into his ear. The lawyer nodded, and Sandy disappeared back into the crowd, without a second glance at McCade.
James took both Fields and McCade firmly by the arm. “Gentlemen, perhaps we could continue this conversation outside…?”
The night air felt hot after the air-conditioned lobby.
Once they were out on the driveway, away from the staring eyes of Harcourt’s guests, James crossed his arms. “What the hell is going on here?”
“I want to call the police.” Fields held his bloodied handkerchief to his nose. “I want to press charges.”
“Did you hit him?” James asked McCade.
“Yeah, I did,” McCade said evenly. “He said some things about Sandy and—”
“I think my nose is broken,” whined Fields.
“If your nose was broken,” McCade told him, “you wouldn’t just think it. You’d know it. Trust me. Besides, I didn’t hit you hard enough to break it.”
Fields began to sputter again, and James pulled him aside. The lawyer’s voice was too low for McCade to hear, so he leaned against a pole that supported the awning at the entrance of the resort and waited, wishing he still smoked, wishing he had a cigarette.
Sandy had been pretty damn mad. And the way she’d walked away without even looking at him…That had really stung. He wanted to go back inside, to find her and try to explain what had happened, what Fields had said about her. He stood up and moved toward the door, but Vandenberg glanced up at him, giving him a “don’t move” look. The guy woul
d’ve made a great high-school principal.
He wasn’t sure just what Vandenberg said to Fields, but the end result was that Fields was escorted to the nearby medical center in a sleek, white limousine, with one of Harcourt’s aides dancing attendance.
As the taillights of the car disappeared down the driveway, Vandenberg turned coolly to McCade. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” he said. “Why don’t you take Cassandra’s car? I’ll give her a lift home.”
McCade laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah, right. Not a chance, Vandenberg.”
“Have we had a little too much to drink tonight? Should I call you a cab?”
“We have been drinking nothing but cola all evening long.” He crossed his arms. “I’ll wait out here for Sandy. Cassandra. Thank you very much.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. I’d like you to leave the resort property.”
McCade took a deep breath, calming himself down. “Look, the guy was being a jerk.”
“And what were you, McCade?” James countered sternly. “Cassandra’s in there, talking to a representative from the Arizona Board of Tourism, trying to negotiate a deal to do some of the state’s travel commercials. And what do you do? You start a brawl! What’s she supposed to say? ‘Excuse me while I go see if my date—who also happens to be one of my employees—has broken some poor slob’s nose?’”
“I didn’t know.” McCade swore softly, squeezing his eyes shut. “I didn’t think—”
“No kidding. Why don’t you do both Cassandra and Mr. Harcourt a favor and make yourself scarce? All we need is a little media involvement to turn this into a real three-ring circus.”
McCade turned to walk away, down the driveway, but then turned back. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, sincerely.
“Go back to California, McCade.” Vandenberg was unmoved by the apology. “Cassandra will be better off without you. You’re not good enough for her.”
McCade bit back the words he wanted to say, the words that would tell James Vandenberg quite explicitly and concisely what to do with himself. The lawyer expected him to say them, was waiting for him to do so, a small smile playing about his perfect mouth. But McCade was damned if he’d give the other man that satisfaction.
Silently, he turned and walked away, down the driveway, into the darkness of the hot Arizona night.
McCade was sitting on the back of his motorcycle, waiting for Sandy as she pulled into the carport.
He got to his feet as she climbed out of the driver’s seat and she stared at him unsmilingly.
The silence was deafening, and McCade moistened his lips nervously. Damn, she was furious with him.
What could he say? “I’m sorry.”
She laughed, but it was more like a sob. “And that’s supposed to make it all better?”
“I don’t know what else to say,” McCade told her quietly. “I can’t tell you that I wouldn’t do it over again exactly the same way, because I probably would. The guy deserved it—”
It was obvious that Sandy had been on a slow burn for the past two hours, and now she all but exploded. “What about me, McCade? Did I deserve it? How could you do that to me?” she asked, her voice rising. “How could you start a fight at the most important event of my career? God, I was mortified!”
“I said I was sorry—”
“You’re sorry. That’s just great. You’re sorry.” Sandy slammed the car door shut. “I’ve worked hard to get where I am in life, and you come damned close to ruining all of that in one single night with your stupid, no-brain, low-class behavior!” She started pacing, unable to contain her anger, unable to stand still. “I left all that back in New Jersey, back in that crummy apartment complex with the bugs and the rats and the neighbors who shouted and threw things at each other all night long. I got out of there, McCade, and where I went, people don’t just haul off and hit other people—in the nose, of all places—in the middle of a party!”
McCade stood quietly. She was right. She had every reason to be angry with him.
“You were lucky Aaron Fields didn’t demand to press charges!” she continued. “That would’ve looked great in the paper in the morning. ‘Video Producer’s Lover Hauled Off to Jail!’”
“Don’t you even want to know why I hit him?”
“No!” Sandy shouted, then worked to lower her voice. “No, I don’t! Why you hit him is irrelevant. The fact is, there’s no place for violence of any kind, for any reason, at a place like the Pointe. It’s not a biker bar, McCade! Fighting isn’t an acceptable form of communication among my friends and business associates! If you can’t learn that, then maybe you should just go to Florida! Maybe you’ll have better luck communicating with the dolphins!”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back. McCade looked dazed.
“You’re right, I don’t fit in. I can’t change any more than I already have, and still there’s no place for me in your world. You should have left me behind with the rats and the roaches.” He looked at her, pain in his eyes. “Or maybe you already have,” he whispered, “and I just haven’t noticed.”
With a jump, he kick-started the Harley.
“Clint, wait!” Sandy shouted, but he didn’t hear her over the roar of his bike. She ran toward him, but before she could reach him, he’d peeled out, leaving behind the stench of burning rubber and the echo of her harsh, angry words.
It was after three o’clock in the morning before McCade returned. Sandy was waiting up for him on the couch. She stood up as he came into the apartment.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “I didn’t mean what I said, Clint.”
McCade looked at her. The words stuck in his throat, but he had to say them. He’d made up his mind, and now he had to follow through. “I think it’s probably time for me to go.”
His eyes filled with fresh tears, and he swallowed hard, blinking them back. Dammit, he couldn’t let her see him cry.
“No—”
He had to look away. She wasn’t hiding her own tears, and the sight of her crying was too much.
He had to get out of there. Fast.
“James Vandenberg was right,” he murmured. Sandy would be better off without him. “I called Graham Parks and told him I’d take the Florida job. You were right all along,” he lied. “I really want that job. And it’s probably time for me to move on.”
Sandy stared at him in silence, and McCade felt sick, seeing the pain his words had caused. But if he stuck around, he’d hurt her far more in the long run. He had to hold on to that thought.
She nodded, and her quiet acceptance made him ache. She’d expected him to leave. Despite all of his words of love and promises of forever, she hadn’t believed him. And now here he was, forced to prove her right.
“When?” she asked softly.
“I think it would be better if I went tonight.”
McCade went into the bedroom and quickly changed out of his tuxedo. He hung it neatly in Sandy’s closet, next to the pants and shirts she’d bought him. Where he was going he wouldn’t need a tuxedo, and he didn’t want to wear those other clothes.
He slipped on his jeans and a clean T-shirt. His other pair of jeans went into his duffel bag, along with the rest of his T-shirts and his underwear. He tried not to think as he packed, tried not to feel.
He carried the duffel bag to the entry hall and took his leather jacket from the closet, setting it all down by the front door. His camera case was in the living room, and he went to get it, checking to make sure the latches were locked.
“Stay for tonight, Clint.” Sandy’s voice was so soft, he almost couldn’t make out her words. Almost.
She was sitting on the couch, her face pale, her eyes big and full of hurt. McCade had to look away.
He wanted to stay. Lord, how he wanted to stay. But he wanted to stay for forever, not just for tonight. There was no way he could sleep in her bed tonight, no way he could make love to her without giving himself a
way.
And he wasn’t going to do that.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
It was obviously the answer she’d been expecting.
“I gotta go.” Hefting his camera in one hand and his duffel bag and jacket in the other, he went out the door, closing it tightly behind him.
Sandy didn’t go in to work for four solid days.
She scrubbed her condo until it was clean enough to eat off of the floors. She watched soap operas and reread her favorite books. She slept late and napped in the afternoon. She alphabetized her bookshelves, but didn’t like the way it looked, so she reshelved the books according to size and color. She watched her entire video library of romantic comedies, but didn’t laugh once.
McCade was gone.
On Thursday, she had a meeting with Simon Harcourt and James Vandenberg that could not be rescheduled. After so many days of wearing nothing but pajamas or baggy shorts, she dressed carefully in her blue-flowered sundress and took extra time with her makeup. She wore her hair down, the way McCade liked it.
It was strange leaving her condo, after four days of isolation. The sun was molten and the air felt like a furnace, hot and dry in her lungs. But it was only late spring. Summer was coming and it was going to be hell.
McCade had the right idea, Sandy thought as she cranked the AC in her car to high. It made sense to travel around the country, moving with the weather. Nothing beat Arizona in January, but July was a different story.
As she drove to work she wondered where McCade would go after he finished filming on Key West. She wondered for the five millionth time since he’d left if she’d ever see him again.
She’d toyed with the idea of buying a plane ticket to Miami and following him. What would he do if she just suddenly showed up in Florida? God, what if he’d already found another lover? But even if he hadn’t, nothing would be different, nothing would have changed. All she would have done was buy a little more time, put off the inevitable—because the sad truth was, McCade had finally admitted that he loved his freedom more than he loved her.
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