Body Language by Suzanne Brockmann Page A

“Now that I’m not hungry any longer, I’m exhausted. I may not live through five weeks of this. And tomorrow I’ve got to work camera number two myself. O’Reilly’s grandfather just died, and he’s got to fly to Montana for the funeral.”
    “What’s on the schedule tomorrow?”
    “Harcourt’s speaking at the teachers’-union picnic.” She closed her eyes. “And James is going to be there too. What am I going to wear?”
    “You should wear what you’ve got on right now,” he told her. “Shorts and a halter top. It’s very sexy.”
    Surprised, Sandy opened her eyes and looked over at him. But he was busy, digging in the pizza box for the last slice of pie. She turned so that she was facing him, and propped her head up on her hand. “McCade.”
    “Hmm?” He still didn’t look up.
    “Will you do me a favor?”
    He did look at her then, his eyes a flash of brilliant blue in his tanned face. He put his plate with the uneaten slice of pizza down on the coffee table next to his can of soda and stood up, wiping his hands on a napkin. “What, do you want a back rub?” He stood next to the couch. “Roll over.”
    Bemused, Sandy tilted her head up. He seemed so stern, standing there that way, looking down at her, unsmiling.
    When she didn’t answer immediately, he sat down next to her on the couch, nudging her over to make room. She turned obediently onto her stomach, resting her head on her folded arms. She felt the hard length of McCade’s muscular thigh pressing against her as he brushed her hair aside. Then his strong fingers caressed her bare back.
    She closed her eyes. His hands were gentle as he touched her, kneading the tension from her shoulders and neck. It was heavenly. His touch was tender, almost intimate, like that of a lover—Instantly, her perceptions heightened and she became extremely aware of McCade’s jean-clad leg against hers. What was it he’d said? Step one, invade the woman’s personal space—
    She opened her eyes and lifted her head to look back at him. But he met her gaze briefly, still not smiling, then looked down at his hands as he continued to massage her back. As she watched, his jaw muscle tightened, as if he were clenching his teeth.
    Sandy put her head back down, resting her chin on the backs of her hands, convinced she was imagining things. Clint McCade was
not
using body language to give her any hidden messages. No way. If he was, he’d forgotten step number two—eye contact.
    “Will you promise not to stop doing that if I make a confession?”
    McCade hesitated slightly at her words. A confession? “Okay,” he managed to say evenly, hiding the sudden acceleration of his pulse. “Confess away.”
    “A back rub wasn’t the favor I was going to ask for.”
    Hah. So much for her confessing that she was madly in love with him. “It wasn’t?”
    “I was going to ask you…” As his hands moved up her neck she tilted her head to give him better access.
    “What?”
    “When we’re in public, would you mind calling me Cassandra?”
    His hands stopped moving and she looked up at him. “I know it sounds strange, but people around here think of me as Cassandra, and if they hear you call me Sandy, then they’ll start calling me that, too, and—”
    “Cassandra,” McCade repeated.
    “It’s stupid, I know. But, see, I’m going to be thirty in a few years, and I want people to call me Cassandra, not Sandy. Sandy sounds like a cheerleader or Gidget’s best friend or something. So young and, well…Do you know what I mean?”
    He began rubbing her back again. “No, but if it’s what you want, hell, I’ll do it. Cassandra,” he said, trying it out. “It
is
a pretty name. You’re going to have to help me remember, though.”
    She nodded, closing her eyes again. “Thanks, McCade,” she murmured sleepily. “You’re a pal….”
    “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”
    Her breathing grew slow and steady. He stood up tiredly and found a blanket to pull