Slow Hands (2 page)

A few students came up to ask questions, but most filtered out of the book-lined room, oblivious of everything except their murmured conversations about ice cream and coffee houses. As the last of the pairs left, an aggressive silence invaded the room.

Tracing the silence to its source wasn’t difficult. Clare sat comfortably ensconced in the chair she’d graced all evening. Soft lighting from a nearby brass floor lamp lent serenity to her face. Sam dropped into the worn leather chair behind his desk. He’d gone enough rounds in the
corporate boardroom to recognize manipulation. If you wanted to keep the enemy on their toes, silence was an effective weapon. He’d used it himself. Nothing inspired self-doubt faster than a carefully orchestrated lull in the conversation.

Well, two could play the “quiet game.” So Sam said nothing and peered at Clare over the stacks of files that littered his massive mahogany desk. Following his own advice, he took a good look at his partner. Proper southern belles never wore white before Easter, which explained Clare’s pale pink linen suit. Lashes the same blue-black color of her hair fringed bottomless blue eyes, and small old-fashioned cameos decorated her ears. She wore her skirt short, which meant she knew she had great legs. Warming to his assignment, Sam moved on to other more delicious parts of her anatomy. He decided she probably made a conscious effort to hide the fullness of her breasts. Too bad.

“Like what you see?” inquired Clare. Only a touch of sarcasm seeped through her control.

Sam leaned back, propped his feet on his desk, and laced his hands behind his head. “Would it make a difference?” When she gave him a look designed to freeze the blood in his veins, he said, “Didn’t think so. You’d rather be anywhere but here, wouldn’t you?”

“I have more important things to do,” Clare answered stiffly.

“Such as?” His tone implied serious doubt.

A slight huff escaped Clare, and she shifted in her chair. “What? You want a list?”

Sam nodded lazily. “I’m sure you’ve got one. Or two.”

Suddenly Clare laughed. “Several.
You’re
on one of them.”

There it was again. That unexpected wit. Sam found himself liking Clare more every minute and damned if he could say why. Compulsively organized business executives weren’t his style anymore. “Which list am I on?”

“Things I’m giving up for Lent.”

“Giving things up for Lent,” Sam repeated slowly, and thought for a moment. “Spent a lot of your life giving up things, Clare? Is that why you’re so hell-bent on getting ahead?”

The question slammed into Clare like a fist. Was she so incredibly transparent? Or was Tucker simply taking the proverbial shot in the dark? If so, he had damned good night vision. But “giving up things” wasn’t quite right. Giving up implied that she’d had something to begin with, and she hadn’t really
had
anything since she was seven years old. Since her parents died and her aunt and uncle took her in and she became “poor little Clare.”

Her aunt and uncle had things. Her cousin Ellie had whatever her heart desired. Clare McGuire had charity and was noticed only when she became tattered and faded. She could still hear her aunt. First the accusation as though she’d deliberately outgrown her clothes—
You’ve outgrown last year’s dungarees!
And then the gentle rebuke—
For heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say something?

“Clare.
Clare
,” called Sam. “You’re bruising my ego. That’s the second time I’ve caught you daydreaming.”

“What?” By degrees, Clare returned to the present, amazed at the vividness of her recollection, and at how easily a stray comment could bring back a forgotten moment. More than likely, Ellie’s promised visit had prompted the childhood memories. Clare dredged up a
smile. “Sorry. I already told you I have a lot on my mind. It’s been a long week.”

“It’s only Tuesday.”

“Yeah, well.”

“Care to talk about it?”

“No!” Clare wanted to bite back the quick refusal and replace it with a gracious declination, but before she could, she realized her trip down memory lane had given Tucker the opportunity to drag his chair around the desk and angle it in front of hers.

Obviously Tucker seized opportunity as well as fun. He had one foot casually planted on either side of her chair, making it impossible for her to uncross her legs without asking him to move or tangling her legs with his. When Tucker leaned toward her expectantly, her focus narrowed to the rich tobacco brown of his eyes and the gentle concern mirrored there. Her breath escaped in a rush as she realized his concern was every bit as intimate as a kiss.

“Listen, Tucker,” she blurted out. “I don’t know what Dave told you—” She stopped, sighed, and shrugged. “Actually, I have a good idea what he told you. But I’m not obsessed. My secretaries aren’t dropping like flies. I don’t have problems, and I love my job.”

Sam nodded wisely. “You’re not like the others in the class. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Right.” Relieved that he understood, she let out the breath she’d been holding. “I admit to having had five secretaries in three years, but not for the reasons Dave thinks. He thinks it’s because I work too hard, demand too much. The truth is—you can’t always get good help.”

Dear God, she’s serious, thought Sam. He studied his
hands and bit hard on the inside of his mouth before he said, “Maybe your expectations are too high.”

“Hardly.” Clare leaned toward him to make her point. “Well, maybe at first, but I’ve been worn down by a stream of well-meaning but undertrained assistants. Call me picky, but I like my paperwork filed according to the standard American alphabet. I like my telephone answered by the third ring. And
later dude
is not an acceptable closing phrase to any letter of mine!”

The laughter that had been building inside Sam got the better of him, and a chuckle escaped. Covering it quickly with a cough, he managed to push his amusement back long enough to say, “Sounds reasonable. You had no choice. You fired five secretaries.”

“Not exactly,” Clare mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“Not exactly,” she repeated more clearly, and settled back against the chair.

The way she retreated reminded Sam of an irritated feline, and the tiny rocking movements of her foot suggested the twitching of a cat’s tail. She hadn’t hissed or spat fire at him yet, but the night was still young. He could hope. And imagine. Anger would put sparks in her eyes and color in her cheeks. Passion would do that to her too, he decided. God, what a thought.
Those legs. Wrapped around him.

Stunned, Sam jerked upright and pushed his chair backward across the hardwood floor. He wasn’t exactly shaking, but was damn close to it. So he added another case of scotch to Dave’s tab and reminded himself that he wasn’t interested in obsessed company controllers who couldn’t keep secretaries.

“Look, Tucker—” Clare began, mistaking his sudden
movement for impatience. “What does it matter how they left? They’re gone.”

She pushed a few wisps of hair away from her face with well-shaped fingernails, and Sam noticed the wedding ring for the first time. For a split second, overwhelming relief flooded through him. Married meant off limits. Then he felt disappointment and a slight stab of envy for her husband.

“Dave strikes again,” he said softly, unaware that he’d spoken aloud.

“What does Dave have to do with this?” Puzzlement drew her brows together, and she tilted her head.

A breath of disgusted laughter slipped out of Sam as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Everything and nothing.”

Clare studied him as he prowled around the room and wondered why he looked like a man wrestling with disappointment. Suddenly his words echoed in her mind—take a good look at your partner; decide if you like what you see. She wondered if he regretted the impulse that made them partners. With horror, she realized she cared about his answer.

And not just because his class was the key to her continued employment at Racing Specialties. His opinion mattered because he felt like one of
them.
One of the ones who always fit in, who always had friends, who never made mistakes. One of the ones who sealed your social fate with a welcoming grin or a disinterested nod.

Dear God, she breathed silently. For the first time in years, she suddenly felt like she’d been sized up, found wanting, and put outside the circle by one of
them.
Dammit all! It wasn’t fair. She didn’t want to feel like that again; she didn’t want to care about other people’s opinions.
But she did. One class and the wall of indifference that kept her safe was beginning to crumble. And Tucker was to blame. Or Ellie. Or both of them. Or everything.

Uneasily Clare shook off the old demons and forced herself to concentrate. She had to ace this ridiculous course so she could keep her job long enough to hire secretary number six. With that thought in mind, she studied Tucker, looking for a key to his personality, something that she could use to her advantage. He was restless now. Like a man who wanted something he couldn’t have.

Clare shifted, ran her tongue over dry lips, and recrossed her legs. Wondering why Tucker was restless made her nervous. Watching him pace played havoc with her whole nervous system. When he finally stopped beside a spiral staircase tucked unobtrusively in a corner, she whispered, “Thank God.” Louder she asked, “Where does that lead?”

Absently Sam looked up. “Bedroom alcove.”

“You
live
here?”

“No, but I sleep here occasionally.”

“Why?”

When he hesitated, Clare stood up, dropped her day planner into the chair, and reminded him of the rules. “We’re supposed to be finding out about each other. Over coffee. Since I don’t drink coffee, we can skip that part of the assignment, but it should at least be my turn to ask the questions.”

Sam considered that for a moment. “Okay. It’s been a long time since I played truth or dare, but I’m game.”

“Why do you sleep here?”

“Occasionally sleep here,” Sam corrected her.

“Why do you
occasionally
sleep here?” Clare walked toward one book-lined wall.

Sam tried not to follow the gentle sway of her body as she wove a path between the chairs strewn about the room. “Sometimes I lose track of time, and the porch light goes off at midnight.”

Intrigued, Clare turned and leaned against the high back of a Queen Anne chair. Sam’s expression was bland as he met her gaze, no help at all in deciding if he was setting her up for a punch line. Whether he was or wasn’t didn’t matter. She had to ask. “Why do midnight and a porch light affect your sleeping arrangements?”

Shaking his head, Sam ignored her question and walked toward her. “My turn. What happened to your secretaries?”

“What is it with you and Dave and my secretaries?” Clare asked in frustration, digging her nails into the plush flame-stitched upholstery.

A wide old-fashioned windowsill made a good seat, so Sam plunked his rump down on it and stared pointedly at Clare. “You’re the one who can’t keep help. I’m just trying to find out why. If they didn’t
exactly
get fired, then what
exactly
did happen?”

“They quit.”

“I guessed that much. Why did they quit?”

She didn’t answer immediately, and a blush began to stain her cheeks. Sam clasped his hands between his knees and called himself a fool. He had absolutely no business noticing how vulnerable she looked, because that made him want to hold her. And that was her husband’s privilege, not his. His sense of timing where women were concerned was less than perfect.

“The general consensus is that I’m difficult to work for and have no sense of humor.”

“That’s what Dave thinks,” Sam said gently. “And I can vouch for your sense of humor. So what do you think?”

“I think they didn’t like me.” Clare lifted her chin and waited for a reaction. She didn’t expect a pleased smile, but that’s what Sam gave her, a warm, approving, and slightly crooked smile.

“Good. That’s the first honest thing you’ve said tonight.” He hopped off the sill and stuck his hands in his back pockets. “Tell me something, Clare. Did these secretaries who didn’t like you give
two
weeks notice?”

The question surprised her, and she tried to find the trick in it. She couldn’t, so she answered. “They all gave two weeks notice.”

“Then it wasn’t you. People don’t volunteer to work another two weeks for bosses they dislike. They’ll work one because they need the good reference. But they won’t work two. Maybe they left because they graduated McGuire boot camp and were ready for higher-paying jobs.”

Clare’s mouth dropped open in astonishment, but she snapped it shut quickly before she said something sappy like Do you really think so? Tucker already knew too many of her secrets without her volunteering any insecurities.

“Your turn,” Sam said, and held his arms open, inviting her to take her best shot.

“I want to know about the porch light.”

Sam rocked back and forth for a moment. “The porch light,” he repeated. “You’re from the South. You should know about porch lights.”

“Born in New Orleans, but raised up north. I moved to Memphis only five years ago. Explain porch lights to me, Tucker.”

“Explain porch lights,” he repeated, and walked a few steps away. How did one explain southern tradition and old family retainers without sounding pretentious and hopelessly out of step with the modern world? As far as he could tell, his reputation was about to go right out the window.

“I live in the big house,” he began.

Clare laughed and tucked her hair behind her ear. “The big house?”

Sam made a shushing sound and pointed to a chair. “Sit and listen. Yes, I live in the big house. I’m sure you noticed it when you drove around the corner—three stories, lots of ivy. Antiques, one helluva staircase and curving banister on the inside. The kind of house all good southern sons inherit from their fathers. It’s a great house. The problem is that I also inherited the family butler, who turns off the porch light at midnight.”

Pausing to make sure she was following him, Sam waited for her nod and then continued. “As far as he’s concerned, a southern gentleman will either be home by twelve o’clock sharp or not at all. If I go through that door after midnight, William’s liable to whack me on the head with a baseball bat and ask questions later.”