Vandenberg doesn’t know the slightest thing about body language, but he
will
unconsciously recognize any of these signals that you send him.”
“What, so you’re saying I should walk up to him and hold out the palms of my hands?” she asked.
“It’s more subtle than that.” He turned to face her. “Push your hair back from your face.”
Sandy did.
“Oh, baby. You just flashed me your palm.”
“I did not.”
“Did too,” he countered. “Instinctively, somewhere, probably at the very base of your brain where all your hormones bubble, your body recognizes that I’m a man.”
“Hormones bubble?” Sandy snorted. “Very scientific.”
“In addition to palming, all of the male courting techniques also work with women. You know, invading personal space, eye contact, surrogate touching…Oh, here’s a woman thing. A leg thing.”
He sprang up, pulling her legs out from where they were curled underneath her on the couch. He quickly slipped her shoes back onto her feet.
“McCade,” she complained.
“Sit up, sit up,” he said impatiently.
“All right, I am. Jeez.”
“Now cross your legs.”
The soft sound of expensive-nylon-clad legs rubbing together seemed to echo in the room. McCade felt himself start to sweat again. Sandy’s skirt inched up, and she moved to push it back down.
McCade stopped her. “If you fix your skirt, then the message you send out is that you wanted to sit comfortably. If you let it ride up a little, you’re courting.”
“Courting what?” she asked, pushing her skirt down anyway. “Disaster? This skirt rides up much more, I’m going to be arrested.”
“You know what I think?”
“I never know what you think, McCade.”
“I think in order to be a successful businesswoman, you’ve had to alter your body language,” he mused. “You purposely keep your eye contact and your movements to a minimum, because as a woman, you have to be sure you don’t send out the wrong signals. Maybe it’s harder to deal with James on a romantic level since he’s also a business associate.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud,” Sandy said. “What, no comment on my mother’s influence on my life?”
“If you want James to know you’re interested”—McCade ignored her, finishing off the last of his beer—“you’ve gotta tell him, and the easiest way to do that is with your body.”
Sandy slowly drank her own beer. “You never told me the third thing,” she said suddenly.
He frowned. “What third thing?”
“Your mother said there were three things men needed to learn in order to succeed. One was how to dance. Two was how to do research. What’s three?”
“When it comes to making love,” McCade said with a smile, “and I quote, ‘The size of a man’s heart is more important than the size of his penis.’”
Sandy blushed. “She did
not
say that. McCade, you’re so full of crap.”
McCade’s smile turned into a grin. “I swear, those are her exact words. I’m not even paraphrasing.”
“There’s no way your mom would
ever
have said the P-word. I refuse to believe that.”
“She also gave me a box of condoms every year for my birthday—starting when I was twelve.”
Sandy laughed. “No way!”
“She wanted me to get used to the idea of taking responsibility for birth control.”
Sandy could remember Mrs. McCade, a quiet, worn-out woman with fading brown hair and a shy smile. “I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, well, people are full of surprises,” he told her. “What you see is not always what you get. And that’s the
real
lesson she taught me.”
McCade’s mother had died halfway through his senior year in high school.
“I still miss her,” Sandy said softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do too.”
“Boy.” Sandy finally looked up from her plate. “I was starved. Did I have lunch today?”
“Not while I was looking.” McCade leaned forward from the rocking chair to grab another slice of pizza.
She flopped back on the couch.
will
unconsciously recognize any of these signals that you send him.”
“What, so you’re saying I should walk up to him and hold out the palms of my hands?” she asked.
“It’s more subtle than that.” He turned to face her. “Push your hair back from your face.”
Sandy did.
“Oh, baby. You just flashed me your palm.”
“I did not.”
“Did too,” he countered. “Instinctively, somewhere, probably at the very base of your brain where all your hormones bubble, your body recognizes that I’m a man.”
“Hormones bubble?” Sandy snorted. “Very scientific.”
“In addition to palming, all of the male courting techniques also work with women. You know, invading personal space, eye contact, surrogate touching…Oh, here’s a woman thing. A leg thing.”
He sprang up, pulling her legs out from where they were curled underneath her on the couch. He quickly slipped her shoes back onto her feet.
“McCade,” she complained.
“Sit up, sit up,” he said impatiently.
“All right, I am. Jeez.”
“Now cross your legs.”
The soft sound of expensive-nylon-clad legs rubbing together seemed to echo in the room. McCade felt himself start to sweat again. Sandy’s skirt inched up, and she moved to push it back down.
McCade stopped her. “If you fix your skirt, then the message you send out is that you wanted to sit comfortably. If you let it ride up a little, you’re courting.”
“Courting what?” she asked, pushing her skirt down anyway. “Disaster? This skirt rides up much more, I’m going to be arrested.”
“You know what I think?”
“I never know what you think, McCade.”
“I think in order to be a successful businesswoman, you’ve had to alter your body language,” he mused. “You purposely keep your eye contact and your movements to a minimum, because as a woman, you have to be sure you don’t send out the wrong signals. Maybe it’s harder to deal with James on a romantic level since he’s also a business associate.”
“Thank you, Dr. Freud,” Sandy said. “What, no comment on my mother’s influence on my life?”
“If you want James to know you’re interested”—McCade ignored her, finishing off the last of his beer—“you’ve gotta tell him, and the easiest way to do that is with your body.”
Sandy slowly drank her own beer. “You never told me the third thing,” she said suddenly.
He frowned. “What third thing?”
“Your mother said there were three things men needed to learn in order to succeed. One was how to dance. Two was how to do research. What’s three?”
“When it comes to making love,” McCade said with a smile, “and I quote, ‘The size of a man’s heart is more important than the size of his penis.’”
Sandy blushed. “She did
not
say that. McCade, you’re so full of crap.”
McCade’s smile turned into a grin. “I swear, those are her exact words. I’m not even paraphrasing.”
“There’s no way your mom would
ever
have said the P-word. I refuse to believe that.”
“She also gave me a box of condoms every year for my birthday—starting when I was twelve.”
Sandy laughed. “No way!”
“She wanted me to get used to the idea of taking responsibility for birth control.”
Sandy could remember Mrs. McCade, a quiet, worn-out woman with fading brown hair and a shy smile. “I can’t believe it.”
“Yeah, well, people are full of surprises,” he told her. “What you see is not always what you get. And that’s the
real
lesson she taught me.”
McCade’s mother had died halfway through his senior year in high school.
“I still miss her,” Sandy said softly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I do too.”
“Boy.” Sandy finally looked up from her plate. “I was starved. Did I have lunch today?”
“Not while I was looking.” McCade leaned forward from the rocking chair to grab another slice of pizza.
She flopped back on the couch.
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