Slow Hands

by Debra Dixon

  Resting her forehead against the door facing, Clare plunged ahead. “We need to talk.”

  Suddenly the door swung wide, and as she jumped back, Sam filled the opening. “I don’t want to talk. I said you could borrow the house if William approved. He did. You can. Now, do you mind if I finish changing clothes?”

  “N … no,” Clare managed to say, and forced herself to calmly face the half-naked man in front of her. Sam’s chest and feet were bare. The cut-up jeans hung precariously on his hips and the open button above the zipper formed a provocative V that drew her eyes downward. Her mouth and throat went dry at the sight of dark bronze hair disappearing into the V. Swallowing gave her something to do and eased the dryness in her throat.

  “I’ll wait out here,” she said more primly than she intended. Unable to stop herself, she looked down the hallway, wishing the cavalry hadn’t just ridden off to the store.

  Sam stepped back and leaned a forearm on the door edge. “I’m only changing shirt and shoes. If you think you can handle it, you can come in.”

  “Of course I can handle it,” Clare said stiffly. “I was attempting to be polite. However, if I’d known you were an exhibitionist, I wouldn’t have bothered.”

  As Sam pulled her into the room, his eyes glittered dangerously. “Not an exhibitionist, Clare. Voyeur maybe. At least, where you’re concerned.”

  Clare froze as the door clicked softly into place, and Sam stood silently behind her.

  “You see,” he continued, leaning so his voice was close to her ear, “I don’t want to show off. I want to watch you hover on the edge and fall off the world with me.”

  The thud of her heartbeat sounded in her ears, and her lungs fought to continue the subconscious act of simply breathing in and out. “Stop it, Sam. You’re going to make the situation impossible for both of us.”

  “It’s already impossible for me,” he whispered into the soft skin at the back of her neck, his nose almost brushing against the nape. “I need you, and you’re completely wrong for me. You don’t want what I want. You don’t care about fun.”

  “Sam—” Desperation invaded her voice. He hadn’t so much as laid a finger on her, and her knees were already beginning to buckle.

  “Just say no.” He repeated the popular slogan not as advice to her, but as if he were pondering the power of those three little words. “So simple. But I didn’t. And now you’re here. Punishing my imagination. Of course, I’m not the only one who’ll be tortured.”

  He adjusted his body to fit the curves of her bottom, pressing his bare chest against her back and holding her lightly by the shoulders. His words feathered the lobe of her ear as he spoke. “Look around. You’re in my bedroom. This is where you’ll stay because you don’t want to explain to Ellie why you haven’t taken the master bedroom.

  “You’re going to sleep in my bed because your pride won’t let you admit I get to you. That would be the first step in losing control, and you can’t do that. You don’t want people in your life who’ll endanger your safe, comfortable routine. You don’t want magic or surprises. That’s why you’ll tell yourself that sleeping in my bed won’t make the slightest difference.”

  As he spoke, her gaze shifted to the wide four-poster, exactly as Sam had intended. Her imagination supplied images of tangled sheets and entwined limbs. Clare’s eyes widened as she realized that regardless of whether or not the bed was stripped and the sheets changed, it would smell like Sam. Going to sleep would be like immersing herself in his scent, wrapping herself in his essence. This was his room. All around her.

  “I’ve never made love in that bed,” Sam said, his hands beginning to massage her shoulders.

  Closing her eyes against the onslaught of feeling, Clare knew she was losing the battle for control. Sam’s slow hands erased the tension in her shoulders. She swayed backward, letting his strength support her for a moment before she angrily pulled away to put distance between them.

  “Don’t do this, Tucker. It’s not fair.”

  “Fair?” Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I never promised you fair.”

  “You promised friendship,” she accused him as she turned around.

  “And you used it to get what you wanted—this house for show-and-tell with Ellie.”

  Then Clare sucked in a breath, and Sam ruthlessly quelled the impulse to apologize or drop his gaze. What he’d said was the truth. Whether she liked it or not. He wanted more than sex from Clare. He wanted a little self-realization. She had to see that the pattern of her life would eventually leave her empty and alone. She didn’t want people to care about her, and he had to find out why.

  Clare’s chin snapped up as she said, “I didn’t use you. I offered to pay you for the house. I’m going to pay you. This is a business deal.”

  “This isn’t about money, Clare. This is you hiding from your past. Which is why you’re never going to have a future.” Sam turned away from her before she could answer and walked to his closet. He swept several neatly hung shirts aside, considering and discarding them without conscious thought.

  “And who the hell are you to make that assumption about my future?” Clare demanded when she could finally speak.

  Sam pulled a white polo shirt off the hanger and turned. “Who am I? You don’t want to know, Clare. When you know a person’s secrets, good or bad, you can’t ignore your feelings anymore. The secrets are always there in your mind, something you share with that other person. Creating a bond. You still want to know who I am, Clare?”

  She put out a hand to steady herself against the long mahogany bureau littered with bits of Sam’s life: loose change, cuff links gathering dust, school photos of tow-headed young boys, and an open paperback mystery. She nodded and said, “I want to know how you can stand there and presume to tell me I have no future. I’ve worked damned hard for five years to get what I want and where I want.”

  Tossing the shirt onto the bed, Sam crossed the room until he stood in front of her. “Because I learned the hard way that the people in your life, people you love, are all that matters. When I spent all my time and energy avoiding chaos and unpleasantness, I also avoided the joy in life. When I spent my days worrying over budgets and meetings, I didn’t have any time left for my widowed father or the woman in my life.”

  He paused, making sure he had her complete attention. “Because while I was busy being busy, my father committed suicide when the loneliness in his life became unbearable.”

  Stunned, Clare felt the pain of his confession wash over her. Guilt over a parent’s death was something she understood. Instinctively, she reached out.

  Sam caught her hand before her fingers touched his bare chest. “I changed my life, and I won’t go back to schedules and profit margins, Clare.”

  “Who asked you to?” Clare whispered, nervously aware that Sam’s gaze shifted from her eyes to her mouth and that he hadn’t let go of her hand.

  “You did.” Sam inched closer, never taking his eyes from her mouth, making her a promise. “I want more than you can give, and if you stay here, you’re going to have to learn that people and family are more important than a tidy life.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No?” Sam whispered the question against her lips and then drew back a fraction, waiting.

  Clare couldn’t answer without opening her mouth to the heat of his. Ironically, that’s exactly what she wanted to do, and the impulse scared her. For the umpteenth time, she asked herself: Why him? Why not him? came the uneasy reply. She wasn’t a virgin. An adequate affair in college had opened her eyes to the mysteries of the sexes. She knew exactly what he wanted.

  So why was she suddenly dismayed by the prospect of kissing him? Because this wasn’t college, and she instinctively knew that Sam was a great deal more than adequate. She closed her eyes, only to see his strong hands in her imagination as they slid over her body. A moan of frustration escaped her. Her body wanted something her mind knew would be a mistake. Body and soul overpowered logic as she
leaned forward.

  SIX

  Sam let her come to him, but the wait was unbearable. Seconds felt like minutes. Finally, he heard the soft sigh of surrender, and her lips met his. His body responded hard and fast to the feel of her fingers as they brushed across his nipples.

  He tried to fit her body to the length of his, and growled angrily when the bureau didn’t provide the support he wanted. He needed to feel every inch of Clare against every inch of himself. He needed a wall or a bed. He had both. Clare gasped when he scooped her up, but his mouth on hers silenced any protest she might have made. Depositing her on the bed, he followed, letting a leg rest between her thighs and his arousal press into her belly.

  The slow, sensual movements of his body against hers made Clare conscious of the pulse of desire that arched her back and began her own rhythmic movements against his thigh. At the motion, Sam made a sound that was unmistakably satisfied as he pulled her shirt off her shoulder far enough to trace her collarbone with his tongue.

  The trail blazed by his mouth and tongue was hot, wet, and then cold as he moved on to the skin above her breasts. Clare luxuriated in the forgotten feelings of being held and touched. Desired and aroused. Of losing control. Her fingers craved the texture of his skin, the ripple of muscle beneath her touch.

  Impatiently, Sam unbuttoned her shirt, pushing aside the fabric. Clare caught her breath as Sam paused, tantalizing her with promises as his forefinger dipped beneath the lace edge of her bra to tease her nipple. When he flicked the hardened nub, Clare bit her tongue to hold back a moan. The pulse between her legs began to escalate to a throb. Conscious choice ceased to exist. The dance began in earnest.

  “Sam—” The ragged sound was warning, plea, and satisfied sigh.

  “Shh,” Sam whispered against her neck. He kissed her lips, her eyes, and the shell of her ear as he began to strip her. A lazy smile tugged at his mouth as he felt her kick off her shoes. The shirt was disposed of quickly enough, but he lingered over the bra. The dark rose of her areolas was visible through the sheer lace. Each nipple jutted upward, straining the cloth. Slowly, he fingered the front clasp, sliding his hand over the creamy mounds before releasing the catch.

  “Samuel!” William’s voice was faint, but without a doubt drawing closer. “Miss Clare!”

  The words dashed ice water on Clare, and she struggled free of Sam’s intoxicating hold. All she could say as she grabbed frantically for clothing was “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

  Sam’s language was more colorful and varied.

  “Samuel?” William tapped on the door, and Clare disappeared over the side of the bed despite Sam’s attempts to stop her.

  Cursing again and snatching up the white polo shirt, Sam managed to look unruffled as the door swung wide. He tossed the shirt over his head and mumbled, “Yeah?”

  William knitted his brow and looked curiously around the room. “Where’s Miss Clare?”

  Sam shrugged his shoulders into his shirt. “Don’t know. Isn’t she downstairs?”

  “Now, would I be asking you if she were?”

  “She’s probably gone over to the carriage house,” Sam offered, purposely nonchalant.

  “You don’t say?” William didn’t say anything more, but he stared with great interest at a spot on the floor beside the bed. Sam’s eyes closed briefly as he remembered the soft thud of Clare’s tennis shoes as they hit the Oriental rug. Recovering his composure, he knew better than to look down. Being caught wasn’t the same as admitting he was caught. And he had no intention of telling Clare, who crouched out of sight, that William had spotted her shoes.

  “What do you want, William?” Sam tried to keep his voice even.

  “Money. I got to the store before I realized I was going to have to stock the whole kitchen.”

  Sam frowned and tucked in his shirt. “The household emergency fund is two hundred dollars, William. That buys a lot of food. We’re having one guest, not the Queen of England and her entourage!”

  The butler raised his eyebrow, a subtle reminder that sarcasm wasn’t necessary. “Samuel, I don’t care if you stock the kitchen or not, but don’t ask me to explain to Rebecca why we have company coming and no food.”

  “She’s your daughter!”

  “That’s why I won’t be doing the explaining.”

  Since Rebecca’s tongue was every bit as sharp as William’s, Sam fished his wallet out of his pocket and silently handed several twenties to the older man. William’s eyes widened, once again riveted to the spot on the carpet that boasted Clare’s sneakers. Risking a glance from the corner of his eye, Sam watched as a feminine hand carefully pulled the last tennis shoe beneath the bed.

  William nobly ignored the mysteriously disappearing shoes. “When you see Miss Clare, you tell her not to worry. I’m going to treat her right.”

  “When I see her, I will tell her,” Sam agreed darkly, and jerked his head toward the door.

  “I’m going now,” William said a little too loudly.

  “Not soon enough,” Sam muttered under his breath, knowing that by then Clare had convinced herself yet again that losing control was her worst enemy. She’d never laugh about this fiasco, never see the humor in the situation.

  William ambled toward the door and stopped halfway there. “I expect I’ll be gone for quite a while this time, what with buying the food and all.”

  “Fine,” Sam gritted out between clenched teeth as he advanced on his butler with every intention of shoving him bodily out the door if necessary. Obviously spurred onward by the look in Sam’s face, William crossed the threshold a fraction of a second before the door banged shut behind him.

  “Samuel.” Even through solid oak the older man’s voice was loud and strong.

  Sam hung his head in defeat and pulled open the door a crack. “What!”

  “I think we’ll put Miss Clare’s guest down at the end of the hall. In Pamela’s old room. That way the noise on the stairs at night won’t disturb her.”

  “Whatever,” Sam agreed, and slammed the door again before William’s subtle observation registered in his consciousness. That way the noise on the stairs at night won’t disturb her. The impact of those words sent fear into Sam’s heart. William approved. William was matchmaking. Unraveling the threads that kept Clare wrapped tighter than a drum was going to be hard enough without William lending a hand.

  “Is he gone?” The disembodied words floated toward him from beyond the bed.

  “For the moment. But William’s like flypaper. Once he has a hold on you, he’s very hard to get rid of.”

  Clare peered over the bed and swept the room with her gaze. Apparently satisfied, she plopped her shoes on the bed and elbowed her way to a standing position. Sam noted the shirt he’d worked so hard to remove was now securely buttoned and hugging the curves he should have been hugging. The thought irritated him as much as Clare’s nervous posture did.

  “Thank heavens I remembered the shoes,” she said, gesturing lamely toward them. “You don’t think he saw them, do you?”

  “No,” Sam lied. “Come here, Clare.”

  She actually took a step toward him before sanity rescued her, pushed the panic button, and reminded her how close she’d come to losing control before. The man leaning so casually against the door represented everything she struggled to eliminate in her existence. He didn’t care about control. He wanted anything and everything in life. He encouraged her to want, to lose control. And she couldn’t do that. She couldn’t. Bad things always happened to people who lost control.

  The first time she could remember completely losing control, she’d told the people she loved most in the world to go away and never come back. And afterward, wanting her parents back had hurt too much. Wanting to be loved like Ellie was loved had hurt too much. Wanting to be anyone but poor Clare had hurt too much. When she finally stopped wanting and finally got control of her emotions, she stopped hurting. A hard lesson, but one she learned very well. A lesson she didn’t want to learn
again.

  No was a hard word to say to Sam, but she said it.

  “Dammit, Clare. We’re adults. And contrary to what my butler thinks, this is my house. What we do to and for each other is none of William’s business. I intend to straighten that out first thing tomorrow.”

  Startled, Clare said, “William has nothing to do with this.”

  “Then come here,” coaxed Sam.

  “No.” The refusal came easier this time, especially since she didn’t look in his direction.

  “Hey,” Sam said softly as he pushed away from the door. “Look at me, McGuire. I’m not suggesting a quick tumble in the sheets and money for cab fare. I never have been very good at one-night stands.”

  Clare lifted her chin and drilled him with as honest a gaze as she could muster. “Too bad. I’m not much good at anything else.”

  Looking as if she’d just landed a solid blow to his midsection, Sam dropped the hand reaching for her back to his side. She circled the bed and sat down to put on her shoes. “I need to get home and pack. I’d better make a list. I’ve got a million details to settle before tomorrow. Not the least of which is figuring out where everything is in this house. Ellie will never believe I live here if I don’t know where the silverware is.”

  As he watched the efficient, list-making perfectionist sneak back into Clare’s personality, Sam managed to contain his anger. Barely. He’d never wanted to shake a woman in his life until then. But he wanted to shake Clare, shake some sense into her, make a connection. The minute he got close, she pulled in her emotions like a turtle pulled in its head and shut the flap. Why did she need the wall around her?

  A better question would be why did he care? Why had he continued to push inside her defenses? Why hadn’t he gone looking for the right kind of woman to love? One that would have been capable of loving him back? Sam felt the blood drain from his face as he confronted the one fact he’d overlooked. He was falling in love with the woman who sat on the bed, knee to chin, tying her shoelace.