Body Language by Suzanne Brockmann Page B

over Sandy. Cassandra, he corrected himself.
    The name fit her. It fit her elegant looks, her powerful position as president of a thriving company, her place in the society of upper-class, country-club Phoenix. Cassandra Kirk. Not Sandy. Cassandra.
    Damn, he thought. He wanted Sandy. Sandy was the sweet-faced little girl who followed his lead in and out of trouble, who needed him—his friendship, his advice, his help. Cassandra was a grown woman—sophisticated, elegant, and quietly in control. And after she snared James Vandenberg IV, Cassandra wouldn’t need McCade any longer. There’d be no room in her life for him.
    But right now she needed his help. And maybe…
    Maybe this situation wasn’t as hopeless as it seemed. Maybe McCade could use Sandy’s infatuation with James Vandenberg to his advantage.
    Yeah, she needed his help. So he’d give her help. Oh, yeah. Help, and a whole lot more.

FIVE
    “H I.”
    Startled, Sandy looked up from loading her camera into the back of the equipment van. James stood in the parking lot, smiling at her.
    “Hi,” she said, wishing as soon as the word was out of her mouth that she had said something amazingly clever instead.
    “I didn’t know you actually did camera work, too.” James took off his expensive-looking sunglasses and glanced down at the portable camera she’d worn on her shoulder nearly the entire afternoon. It was on the floor of the van right now, and he motioned toward it. “It’s a lot bigger than the camcorder I have at home.”
    Self-consciously, Sandy pushed escaped tendrils of her hair out of her face. She’d worn her hair back in a French braid, but after several hours of hard work capturing Simon Harcourt on videotape in the hot afternoon sun, her braid was ready to collapse—along with the rest of her. Her safari shorts were grubby and the neon-pink tank top she had on was covered with a fine layer of reddish Arizona dust.
    James was smiling at her, and she made herself hold his gaze. Eye contact, she thought, hoping she didn’t look as frightened as she felt. His smile was warm, though, and nice. But not as nice as McCade’s…
    James glanced back at the camera. “May I?” he asked. Sandy nodded, and he picked it up.
    “Whoa.” He grimaced. “I had no idea a camera like this would be so heavy. You carried this around all day?”
    Sandy smiled at the irony of him admiring her for her strength. “Just the afternoon. One of my crew had a family emergency. I had to take his place.”
    “I’m impressed.” He put the camera back down. “Remind me not to get you mad at me.”
    Was he flirting with her? Oh, brother, he was flirting with her! Flustered, she gave all of her attention to packing the camera into its carrying case. She locked the case down, attaching it firmly to the side of the van.
    “You must be tired,” James said.
    “Nothing a shower and a cold soda won’t cure.” She moved to the edge of the van, about to jump down. But her foot caught on a wire, and she tripped.
     
    Across the parking lot, McCade watched in alarm as Sandy launched headfirst out of the van. Her arms were outstretched, but he knew her hands would do little to protect her against the hard gravel of the driveway. He ran toward her futilely, well aware that there was no way he could reach her in time.
    But James was there, and he caught her, and McCade skidded to a stop. His relief turned quickly to jealousy as the man held her tightly in his arms, and didn’t release her. And didn’t release her. And
still
didn’t release her. McCade counted to ten before the lawyer stepped back. But even then, the man’s hands lingered on her shoulders, then on her arms.
    Wishing desperately that he could hear their conversation, McCade watched Sandy as she talked. She held her body tightly, stiffly, but as she spoke she gave James a beautiful smile and McCade’s stomach hurt. True, she hadn’t quite mastered the body-language thing, but there was no man alive who