But he knew there were bigger barriers between them than the clothes they wore. They needed to talk. But when he pulled back, Sandy kissed him again, slipping her hands up under the edge of his T-shirt. The sensation of her fingers against his hot skin made him gasp. He heard her breathless laughter as she ran her hands up his back, as she wrapped one of her legs around his own.
“Sandy…” he whispered. Oh man, he could feel the heat between her legs against his thigh, even through his jeans. Did she know what she was doing to him? How much had she had to drink? Nearly four mugs of beer, he remembered, closing his eyes in despair. She’d had way too much to drink. Dammit, this wasn’t fair. “We can’t stay here like this.”
“Then let’s leave.”
McCade saw the white flash of her smile as she took his hand and pulled him toward the door.
No, that wasn’t what he’d meant. He wanted to sit down in one of the booths, with the safety of a wooden table between them. That table would keep him from pulling her back into his arms. He wanted to sit there and talk—try to talk, see if she was able to talk.
“Baby, wait.”
But she didn’t slow down until they were both outside the heavy glass door, until they were standing on the wooden porch of the restaurant.
The night air was cool and smelled like the pine trees that surrounded the area. Sandy took a deep breath, clearing her lungs of the secondhand smoke that had hung like a cloud in the bar. McCade still held her hand and his palm was damp. Holy cow, had she made Clint McCade sweat? She turned to look at him and saw a bead of perspiration run down one of his sideburns, past his ear. She had. She smiled. She’d actually made him sweat.
“Sandy.” McCade’s voice was raspier than ever, and he cleared his throat, started again. “You know, I think that—”
“McCade, just kiss me.” She didn’t want him to think. She didn’t want him to wonder, she didn’t want him to analyze where this all would lead. There’d be plenty of time to think after they got there.
Lit by the dim streetlights that were spaced throughout the parking lot, McCade’s face was shadowed and mysterious.
Sandy felt light-headed. She couldn’t believe she was actually planning to seduce McCade. But she was. If she could just get him off the porch, across the parking lot, up those stairs, and into the privacy of their room, he wasn’t going to know what hit him. And then, she thought almost grimly,
then
when he left town, at least she’d know that she’d given it her best shot, that she’d let him know how she felt.
McCade was still watching her. What she would have given to get inside his head. All she knew was, he wanted her. She could see his desire on his face and in the way he stood with one hand jammed into his front pocket, as if he was trying to hide the telltale bulge in the front of his jeans.
Yes, he wanted her. And knowing that gave her downward-spiraling self-confidence a much-needed boost.
“Come on,” she whispered, tugging gently at his hand, trying to draw him toward her. “Kiss me again.”
“Why?”
Sandy stared at him, caught in the intensity of his gaze.
Because I love you.
But she couldn’t bring herself to say those words.
“James is watching,” she said instead, motioning toward the glass windows of the bar, taking the coward’s way out.
It wasn’t the answer McCade wanted, and he looked away from her before she could see the disappointment in his eyes.
James. The man was a little too stiff, a little too straitlaced, but basically a nice guy. Still, at that moment, McCade couldn’t recall disliking anyone more.
He felt Sandy slip her arms around his neck and he groaned.
Sandy, don’t do this to me.
He never got the chance to say the words aloud—she stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his before he could speak.
McCade didn’t stand a chance. He closed his eyes and kissed her, losing himself in the lightning bolt of emotion that ripped through him. Damn, he loved her. He felt tears sting his eyelids and he wanted to push her away, to shout, to yell, to stomp his feet and beg her not to use him this way. But he also wanted to kiss her, to keep on kissing her, to let her do with him whatever she damn well pleased.
So he kissed her. And kissed her and kissed her, matching her passion and hunger, praying he’d be able to back off when she asked him to, praying she wouldn’t ask.
Through a haze of desire, McCade realized that somehow they’d moved off the porch and across the parking lot to the foot of the motel stairwell. Sandy tugged at his hand, turning to lead him up the steps, but he wanted to kiss her again. Catching her around the waist, he pulled her against him. He loved her. He loved her, dammit, and the time to tell her was long overdue. He swept his tongue into her mouth, tasting her, invading her, surrendering to the feelings he’d kept hidden from her for so many weeks.
He knew in a flash of desperate hope exactly what he had to do. He had to take her upstairs, up to the privacy of their room, and tell her the truth. If she’d had too much to drink and couldn’t understand, he’d put her to bed, let her sleep it off. But then he’d tell her in the morning. First thing. Regardless of the six
A.M
. wake-up call. Regardless of the morning’s shooting schedule.
Sandy had molded her body to his, and McCade nearly choked as she pressed herself against his arousal. Lord have mercy, she knew he was hot for her, he thought, instantly realizing just how inane an observation that was. Of course she knew. Damn, he had a hard-on the size of Alaska. She was
bound
to have noticed.
But she was kissing him again and rubbing herself against him—her body language was unmistakable.
With a strangled groan, he swung her into his arms. He took the stairs two at a time, and was at the top in an instant.
Sandy’s heart was hammering as McCade gently set her down outside the door to their room. Suddenly afraid of what she’d see in his eyes, she kept her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling his mouth down toward hers for yet another kiss. Even as he kissed her she felt him dig in his pockets for the room key, and heard the bolt click as he unlocked it.
The door swung open and they were inside, and McCade was looking at her in the muted light.
Although he hadn’t moved away from her, although he was still holding her, Sandy could tell that mentally he had taken a step back.
The door was closed, the curtains drawn, and unless James Vandenberg had X-ray vision, there was no way on earth she could use him as an excuse. McCade released her, and she knew she had no choice. She’d have to tell the truth.
He moved away from her, his lean face unsmiling.
Now. She had to say it now.
Sandy took a step forward, following him, keeping them close together. She took a deep breath. “What would you do if I asked you not to stop?”
He froze, and she took another step toward him. They were inches apart, close enough to kiss, close enough for her to feel his body heat. But he didn’t reach out, didn’t touch her. He looked into her eyes, though, and the connection between them was nearly palpable.
“I guess I’d have to ask you why.” He spoke slowly, carefully. “Unless you could give me a damn good reason why we shouldn’t stop, I’d have to assume it was the beer talking, and leave it at that.”
His eyes were remarkably beautiful. As Sandy looked into them, at the flecks of gold and green that adorned the blue, his gaze flickered for a moment, down to her mouth.
It was just for a second, maybe two, but McCade’s unconscious message was clear. Despite his words of caution, he wanted to kiss her.
That awareness gave Sandy the confidence she needed. “Clint.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and it shook slightly as she tried to make it louder. “What would a damn good reason be? I mean, can you give me an example…?”
She moistened her lips, and again his gaze dropped to her mouth, this time lingering.
“Yeah,” he said huskily. “Like, if you told me that you want me.
Me,
not James. That would be one hell of a damn good reason.”
“If that was what I told you,” she said, “what would you say then?”
McCade closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them he looked directly at her. “I love you, Sandy,” he whispered. “I’d tell you that I’m in love with you.”
He loved her. Clint loved her. Sandy could barely breathe. She had to concentrate to draw air into her lungs, to push it back out.
“And then,” he added softly, “if you could convince me that you didn’t have too much to drink, if I could be sure that you really know what you’re doing, I’d take your hand and lead you over to that bed and I’d make love to you.”
Sandy stared into McCade’s eyes for many long seconds, as his words seemed to echo in the room.
I’d make love to you.
The seconds stretched nearly into a minute before she realized he was waiting for her to say something. It was her turn, her move.
“I only had one beer,” she told him.
McCade frowned. “But—”
“I had all those beer mugs on the table,” she answered before he could even ask. “But most of ’em held water. I’m sober. How about you?”
If you still want to make love to me when you’re sober, just let me know.
Their eyes met. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?”
Sandy shook her head no.
“I’m sober too.” He grinned, a quick nervous flash of white teeth against his tanned face. “Lord, I don’t think I’ve ever been more sober in my entire life.”
“Then…don’t stop,” she whispered. “Make love to me, Clint.”
“Why?” McCade asked her, just as he said he would.
Sandy looked down at herself, saw the way she was standing, and frowned slightly. She relaxed her arms and held out her hands to McCade, palms up. “Because I want you. Because I love you.”
He took a step toward her, and then another, and Sandy met him halfway. She caught her breath, amazed at the sight of tears shining in his eyes as he took her in his arms. He kissed her, not fiercely, the way she expected, but tenderly, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world.
“And I love you.” He kissed her again, long, deep, unhurried kisses that made the room seem to tilt around her.
His hands were gentle as he unfastened the buttons on her blouse. The tips of his fingers brushed lightly against her bare skin, pushing the soft cotton back, tugging the shirt free from the waistband of her shorts.
“This is weird.” Sandy shook her head. “I know you so well, but, God—”
“It
is
weird,” McCade agreed. “Wonderfully weird.”
Her braid had long since come undone. He kissed her again and slid his fingers through her hair.
Taking her by the hand, he led her to the bed. Letting go, he pulled off his T-shirt and tossed it onto the floor.
“Do you remember the time I got that fishhook in my foot?” Sandy asked suddenly.
She could see surprise in McCade’s eyes as he turned to look at her. She sat down on the bed and slipped off her boots, pulling her legs in close to her chest and wrapping her arms tightly around her knees, in an attempt to keep from reaching for him.
With his shirt off, his tanned chest gleamed in the lamplight. The shadows defined his muscles, making him look rugged and strong.
His face relaxed into a smile as he threw himself down next to her on the bed. Almost magically, he turned back into McCade again—McCade, her old buddy, her best friend. The muscles were still there, and the heat of desire still shone from his eyes, but in this relaxed, almost nonchalant pose, the effect he had on her wasn’t quite so overwhelming. “It was the summer you turned fourteen. I carried you to the hospital on my back. Three miles. You screamed the entire way.”
“I was scared,” she said defensively. “It hurt like hell.”
McCade propped his head up with one elbow, reaching out his other hand and lightly touching the tips of her toes. “Then when we got home, your mother had a fit, kicked me out, and told me never to come back.” He smiled into Sandy’s eyes. “At least not until she got over the shock of seeing her poor baby bandaged up.”
Sandy looked down at his hand, which still stroked her toes. How could such a seemingly nonintimate touch be so sensual, so sexy? “You snuck up the fire escape to my room that night.”
“I was worried about you.” He grinned. “The way your mother was carrying on, I thought you were maybe going to drop dead from tetanus or something. I wanted a chance to apologize before they buried you.”
“Do you remember what you told me?” she asked.
He shook his head. “No.”
“You said that we should never have gone fishing in the first place. You said that it was a stupid idea, and that my getting hurt was all your fault.”
McCade shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t
all
my fault.” He gave her a quick smile. “You were the genius who didn’t watch where you were walking. But the fact is, if I hadn’t had the brilliant idea to go fishing, you never would have been hurt.”
“If I hadn’t been born, McCade, I never would have been hurt,” Sandy said tartly. “It really makes me mad to think that we never tried to fish again.”
His hand stilled on her foot, and he frowned down at the bedspread. “I wasn’t cut out to be a fisherman, at least not the kind that sits on the end of a pier and waits for a fish to swim by and grab the bait. After you got hurt, it seemed kind of pointless to try again.” He glanced up at her searchingly. “Why are we talking about fishing?”
She closed her eyes and answered honestly. “Because I’m stalling. I’m scared.”
McCade was quiet for a moment.
“I guess I am too,” he finally said. “But it’s a good kind of scared. It’s a kick, like a roller-coaster ride, you know?”
She knew. But roller-coaster rides always ended too soon.
McCade rolled onto his stomach, reaching for her, pulling her down next to him on the bed. He kissed her sweetly, but that sweetness was laced with passion, intoxicating passion.
Sandy felt herself respond, felt herself cling to him, felt her arms tighten around his neck, as if she was holding on for dear life. A roller-coaster ride, he’d said. She’d always been drawn to roller coasters. But it was a love/hate relationship. She dreaded the thought of that hellish ride up, up, up the tracks. And the first teeth-rattling drop was nothing short of torture. Yet somehow she always found herself coming back for more….