by Debra Dixon
Sam stopped suddenly, but not just because they’d reached her door. He began to wonder how much of the evening was an act for his benefit and how much was the real Clare. “Were you planning on ditching?”
Clare retrieved her keys from her purse and opened the door just wide enough to toss her purse inside. “The thought had crossed my mind. I thought you might cut me some slack since I’ve been such a good sport about tonight.”
“If I give you any more rope,” Sam said pleasantly, even though his eyes flashed dangerously, “you’ll probably hang us both.”
“Dammit, Sam. You don’t understand. Right now is not a good time for me. The budget’s overdue. I’ve got a new computer system to deal with, and—”
“Ellie’s coming,” he finished for her. “I don’t care if the President is coming for breakfast. You will be at class tomorrow, or you can explain why to Dave. Not that it will help, considering his frame of mind, but you can give it a shot.”
“Fine.” Clare jerked the keys out of the lock. “I’ll be there. Satisfied?”
“No,” Sam answered softly, checking his anger. “I want you to show up tomorrow. Not the dog-and-pony show you trot out to fool the general public. I want something real.”
Before she could slip away from him, Sam reached out to hook a finger in the neckline of her jersey, pulling her toward him. Objectively, Sam knew he was using his anger as an excuse to justify what he’d wanted to do since the first time he’d seen Clare McGuire. But that didn’t make a difference. He intended to kiss Clare. He needed to—had to. And he knew that kissing her would complicate his life. That didn’t make a difference either.
Part of Clare wanted Sam to hurry up and get it over with, and the other part of her savored the anticipation, the illusion that time had stopped and reality had narrowed to the feel of his hands on her bare skin as he drew her into the warmth of his body.
When Sam had settled her against his chest, he let go of her jersey and brushed the skin below her neck with the backs of his fingers. For a moment he toyed with the hollow at the base of her throat, his attention absorbed by the creamy softness his thumb discovered. Then he burrowed his fingers in her hair, cradling her head. Finally, he tilted her face to suit himself and kissed her.
FOUR
Clare had been kissed before, but never like this. Never with such complete possession. Sam didn’t kiss. He branded. His tongue traced the curve of her lips and urged her mouth open. Anticipation surged through her as his tongue delved into her mouth, finding and coaxing a response from its mate. Each swirl of his tongue spun sensation through her belly, and her nipples tightened when his hand slipped under her jersey to explore her back and press her closer.
A strangled, panicked sound escaped her throat, and she pulled her mouth from his. Closing her eyes, she tried to unjumble her emotions, to regain control, but Sam fed hungrily on her bottom lip, pulling it gently between his teeth, teasing and bathing it with his tongue. Her own body encouraged him by leaning into his hardness and molding to his desire. His cologne was utterly masculine and assaulted her senses, reminding her of winter fires and brandy. Finally, Clare gave in to the sensation building inside her, and opened her mouth to Sam’s insistence, inviting the heat of his kiss.
When Clare surrendered, Sam let his mouth seal hers in earnest, plunging his tongue into the velvet welcome. This was the Clare he wanted—open and giving. He would never forget his first taste of her, all chocolate and raspberry. When he lifted his head, he gently held her back. He wanted to see desire in her eyes. He wanted to see a part of Clare that was only for him. Slowly, her lids lifted and her hands crept up on the front of his shirt. Confusion and passion stared at him from eyes that were midnight blue in the darkness. God, she was beautiful. He wondered if she even knew that. He decided her lips were more enticing swollen from his kisses than they had been before.
His voice was rusty when he spoke. “You have two choices, Clare. You can stand here in the open doorway all night, in which case the cat gets out.” He paused to feather her short, thick hair with his fingers. “Or you can invite me in.”
Still sorting through the sensual overload caused by his kiss, Clare shook her head to clear the gossamer cobwebs woven around her logic and murmured, “Slick doesn’t … get out. He hates the outdoors.”
Chuckling, Sam propelled her backward. “Right now, I do too. Invite me inside.”
“No!” Clare’s head suddenly cleared. Cobwebs disappeared. No matter how interesting Tucker’s kisses were, he wasn’t coming in. That would be disastrous in more ways than one. Letting him inside her house was one step closer to letting him in her life. And that she refused to do. Six weeks, she reminded herself. Six weeks of Tuesday nights and Saturday mornings was all she was willing to give Tucker. It was all she had to give a man like Tucker. A man who had everything didn’t need “poor Clare.”
And she didn’t need his casual touch and clever smile. She didn’t need the warmth of his embrace. She needed to hold on to the one constant fact in her life—if she didn’t let people get close, she wouldn’t hurt so bad when they walked away. She pressed one hand against his chest and pushed. “Thank you for a lovely evening. Good night.”
Even as she spoke, Clare stepped back and shut the door. Sam didn’t need a mirror to tell him the expression on his face was complete and total shock. He cocked a hip and crossed his arms over his chest. “This is a helluva good-bye!” he complained to the closed door. “Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry?”
Silence greeted his sarcasm.
“Tomorrow, McGuire,” he reminded her, and started toward his car. Absently, he rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb. If Slick didn’t get out, then why the contortionist act earlier?
“No, Dave.”
“Yes, Clare.”
“Why?” It was more of a plea than a question.
“Because we need him. I’ve never exported auto parts to the East! I don’t talk the lingo or understand the protocol in a deal like this. Hell, knowing me, I’d probably insult an Asian businessman just by pointing to a chair and saying ‘Take a load off!’ ”
“You’re not that bad.”
“I know car parts. I’m not subtle, and I never will be. But I’m not stupid. That’s why I hired Sam. He knows how to do business outside the southern good ol’ boy network. Half the time, yes is no in the Far East. This is our chance to hit it big. Think about it for a minute. Take your time.” Dave gave her his smug I’m-the-boss-and-we-both-know-I’m-right smile. “I’ll wait right here in your office while you think.”
Clare kept her head from exploding by grabbing her skull and pushing as hard as she could. If only the same technique would keep her life from disintegrating as well. Work got farther behind every day because Dave insisted she leave at five o’clock sharp. Ellie had yet to finalize her plans beyond a nebulous “soon.” The new computer system had a glitch. A one-hundred-thousand-dollar custom-designed glitch and a programmer who didn’t exactly inspire confidence with his assessment of the situation, which was, “No problem—I think.”
And now … now Dave had succeeded in making her life impossible by jumping into bed with Japanese auto manufacturers and inviting Tucker to the pajama party. She didn’t know if her peace of mind could take any more of Sam Tucker. He haunted her, hounded her, taunted her, excited her. Pick a verb and he did it to her. For two weeks she’d suffered through classes and assignments with Tucker, facing the fire she saw in his eyes and trying to ignore the fire that flared inside her.
Even now she panicked when she thought of the kiss. Losing herself in Tucker’s arms had scared the hell out of her. Rightly so. She’d never lost that edge before, never lost sight of where she ended and the other person began. She didn’t want excitement. She wanted dependable. She wanted safe.
Look, Tucker, the kiss was nice—
When she’d said that the next morning, Tucker’s eyebrows went skyward. Then he laughed a deep rumble of a laugh that made her stoma
ch flip-flop. “Nice?” he questioned, one eyebrow still in orbit. And then he called her McGuire again. Just as he had the night before. “McGuire, I don’t know your frame of reference on the subject, but you can trust me on this one. That was one helluva kiss.”
Tucker, you don’t understand. This isn’t what I want. I don’t have time for this. For you.
For an instant, his eyes had dulled as if he were remembering something painful. Then he produced a throwaway smile and agreed to forget the kiss had ever happened.
At least she thought he had. Now, instead of straightforward lust, an undercurrent of tension rippled in the air at unexpected moments. No denying they struck a spark off each other. More than that. Tucker struck a nerve. She fought him every step of the way on every assignment, but he always managed to find out more about her than she was willing to tell.
Learning to relax was making her a nervous wreck. She couldn’t keep her guard up constantly, and when her defenses slipped, Tucker stepped in. While they were together, Clare usually forgot that he was systematically turning her neat, organized routine upside down.
Their opinions didn’t always agree, and there was something seductive about sparring. Because they weren’t really arguing about the world. They were arguing about the primitive push-pull that drew men and women together. Beneath everything there was the hunger in his eyes, the hunger in her soul. She’d forgotten about that—the hunger, the tiny space inside her that wanted to be a part of somebody else’s heart. And she’d forgotten how addictive fun could be.
Dragging herself back to the problem at hand, Clare let go of her head when she was certain it wasn’t going to shatter. She looked at Dave and tried to compromise. “Give Stuart the project. He and Sam are fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants guys.”
Dave flung his hands in the air and snorted. “Right. Like I’m going to let a sales manager put together numbers for the bid. You and I both know that Stuart can’t figure cost to save his soul, and he’ll promise the moon to close the sale! You’re the only one I trust to put this deal together. A deal we can live with, make a profit on, and actually have a shot at producing on schedule.”
Sensing an opportunity, Clare decided it was time to make Dave swallow some of the platitudes he’d been handing out so readily the last few weeks. “I’m just one person, Dave. I can’t do it all. Not with my schedule.”
His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What are you driving at?”
“I’m not driving at anything. I’m flat telling you. My dance card’s full.”
“Then sit out a few dances!” Dave roared.
“Fine by me,” Clare roared right back, suddenly angry. “But I’m dancing to your tune! What do you suggest I do? Drop Tucker’s class? Forget about the computer and go back to stone tablets and chisels? Ignore the fact that purchasing exceeds their budget on a regular basis? Tell the bank I don’t have time to discuss our new credit line? Or maybe I should tell the cousin I haven’t seen in five years that now is not a good time for a visit. Maybe she could reschedule for next year!”
Dave couldn’t have looked more stunned if she’d taken a two-by-four and whacked him square in the face. When he finally spoke, he said, “Touché! I guess I had that coming.”
Wisely, Clare said nothing. She hadn’t meant to shout, but she wasn’t sorry. Dave didn’t hold grudges, and this wasn’t the first shouting match he’d been known to have. With any luck, it wouldn’t be the last. Belatedly Clare realized that two weeks before, she wouldn’t have dreamed of shouting at Dave. Decorum had been her motto for so long, she’d forgotten her mother called her Quick because she’d had a short fuse as a young child and had been quick to anger. Maybe Sam was right. People didn’t change. They just rediscovered parts of themselves.
A half grunt, half sigh escaped Dave as he dropped into a chair. A companionable silence settled around them. “I guess I’m as much to blame as you for your workaholic tendencies.”
Clare grinned. “Let’s just say you nurture them.”
“I need you on this project.”
“I know. But that means you can’t boot me out the door at five, and I’m going to have to skip Mr. Tucker’s Saturdays.” Clare waited for him to absorb what she’d said. Then she dropped the other shoe. “Tomorrow’s Saturday.”
He didn’t look happy, but when he heaved himself out of the chair, Dave said, “I’ll talk to him. Maybe you can try the class again on the next go-round.”
“Mmmm,” Clare murmured noncommittally.
As Dave left her office, her intercom buzzed.
Clare ignored the intercom and shouted through the open door, “What is it, Joshua?”
“While you were yell—I mean talking to Dave, a lady called.” His voice got louder as he walked toward her door. Leaning in, he pushed his glasses up and said, “She hung up before I could get her name. Sounded all out of breath and wouldn’t leave a number. Said to tell you she was rushing to catch a plane and she’d see you tomorrow.”
“She said what?” Terror flooded every crevice of Clare’s awareness.
Patiently, Joshua repeated his message and added, “Delta Airlines. Seven forty-five. She said not to be late. She hates waiting.”
“Go away!” Clare yelled at the insistent knock on the door and simultaneously grabbed a stack of newspapers, cringing at the two-week-old date. When the knock repeated, she stopped cleaning long enough to wrench open the door. “I’m not buying cookies, magazines or—Tucker!”
“Bad time?” Sam asked. The question didn’t need an answer. She looked like hell, didn’t have shoes on, and had a dust rag over one shoulder, but he thought she was sexy. Of course, given the state of his suppressed libido, Clare could have been wearing an army tent and a paper bag over her head and he’d have still thought she was sexy. The past two weeks had been fun, but two weeks of looking and not touching had taken their toll. Sam jammed his hands in his back pockets to control the urge to reach out for her. His senses remembered all too well how soft and pliant she was in his arms.
Clare sputtered and clutched the newspapers to her chest. “I can’t be in the class anymore. Didn’t Dave call you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Do I have to have a reason? Can’t a friend want to see another friend? You told me I couldn’t kiss you, but you didn’t say I couldn’t be your friend.”
Warily, Clare studied Sam. He was wearing those disreputable cut-up jeans and a disarming expression. Trouble, she decided, and knew she had to end the conversation before Sam got her all tangled up in knots. She didn’t like the funny way he emphasized the word friend. This was how it always started. An innocent question from Sam, and then like a bolt from the blue he zapped her and had her admitting to everything but Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance. She wasn’t going to get pulled in this time.
“No, you do not have to have a reason to see me.” Clare shifted the bundle in her arms. “But according to Ann Landers, if you don’t call first, I don’t have to let you in. Here.” She thrust the newspapers into his hands. “At least make yourself useful. Toss these in the Dumpster on your way to the Volvo.”
She started to shut the door, but Sam wedged his white leather Reebok between the door and the jamb. Sighing, she said, “Sam, I don’t have time tonight.”
His deep brown eyes mocked her. “You say that entirely too often, you know. You should break the habit. Or at least come up with a better excuse. And don’t tell me the one about having to clean house because Ellie’s coming.”
Clare made a strangled sound. “Ellie is coming. Tomorrow. Now, could you get your foot out of my door?”
“Not until you tell me why you’re so twisted about Ellie’s visit? How long could it take to fluff a few pillows?”
Gritting her teeth, Clare let the door swing wide. The only way to get rid of him was to let him glimpse the magnitude of her problem. Admitting defeat graciously was not her strong suit, but she stepped aside and waved him in with a short,
jerky motion. “Fluffing pillows is the least of my worries. It’s the rest of the place that has me concerned.”
Vaguely thankful that he couldn’t see the kitchen or the downstairs bathroom from his vantage point, Clare tried to look at the scene objectively, laying bets with herself as to what would draw his attention first. The decor was early garage sale. Her laundry spanned the long hallway in piles haphazardly sorted by color. Counted cross-stitch paraphernalia from an unfinished project littered the coffee table, as did a collection of soft drink cans and plastic microwave dinner plates. Maybe she could say she was recycling?
In a whimsical mood she’d written her name in the dust on the top of the television. A string of red lights in the shape of chili peppers still hung cheerfully around the outline of her hallway. She’d forgotten to take them down after Christmas. All of these things stood out amid the general clutter, but the one overwhelming embarrassment was the black lace bra Slick alternately attacked and dragged around the room. Clare narrowed her eyes and plotted cat revenge.
“Cute cat,” Sam said, and enjoyed the show. Elation shot through him. He felt like an amateur slob in the presence of a master. Raising his head heavenward, Sam murmured gratefully, “Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.” Then more loudly and with enjoyment in every word, he said, “Clare McGuire, you hypocrite. You’re not as perfect as you pretend. You’re a first class slob.”
“It’s my house. I like it this way,” she said stiffly. She did. When she moved away from her aunt and uncle, she decided she’d have a home, not a house filled with “things.” A living, breathing home that swallowed her with welcome when she walked in the door. A home that didn’t judge her by how neatly she kept the medicine cabinet. A home that said “I belong to you.”
Clare held open the door. “Now, if you’re through laughing at my expense, could you take the papers to the Dumpster and leave me alone. I’ve got work to do.”
Together they said, “Ellie’s coming.”
