Slow Hands (5 page)

Clare thought about that as she pulled her jeans from the dryer and slid her legs into the warm cotton fabric. The copper zipper was hot against her stomach as she gave a little hop and smoothed the jeans over her hips. Slowly, she zipped them and buttoned the waist.

What would she have said if Sam’s invitation had been personal instead of motivated by his responsibility as her class partner?
He almost kissed you and you don’t think his invitation was personal?
An almost-kiss didn’t mean anything to men like Sam, Clare told herself.

Tucker had a loose, easy charm that meant absolutely nothing. Nothing, she cautioned herself. He was out to prove his point—that he could change her. She was a challenge to him. Sort of a test for his class. And if she were smart, she’d remember that. She’d forget the unfamiliar feelings that swamped her when he looked at her. She’d concentrate on giving him what he wanted without letting him touch the real Clare.

She was good at pretending to be what people wanted. She’d done it all her life. Playing Tucker’s game was simply another bit of make-believe. She’d go out. She’d have a good time. She’d say and do all the right
things. And then she’d forget Tucker until the next assignment.

That’s how she’d handle him, one assignment at a time. In six weeks he’d be gone. Slipping on just one dangling enamel earring, Clare smiled slowly at her reflection and went to answer the doorbell.

As Sam rang Clare’s doorbell for the second time, the painted, deep-green door opened as wide as the security chain permitted. One half of her face appeared in the opening, and she startled Sam with a welcoming smile that he would have sworn conveyed genuine pleasure at his arrival. Uncertainly, he leaned back and eyed the black metal numbers on the side of the condominium.

“You’re in the right place, Tucker,” Clare said.

“I wasn’t sure for a moment,” he said bluntly. A smile escaped him as his attention was suddenly claimed by a very large, tawny-tipped gray paw that reached tentatively through the opening to catch the edge of his trousers. Sam decided the feline gesture was an invitation. “May I come in?”

“No.” The answer was immediate and punctuated by the door’s closing.

Sam’s mouth dropped open at the speed with which her face and the paw had disappeared from view. Left alone on her doorstep, he wondered at the abrupt change in her welcoming attitude. From behind the door he
heard the chain rattle and what sounded like a muffled “Shut up, Slick.” A few moments later Clare slithered out the door.

Slither
was
the correct word. She opened the door a crack and skimmed through without revealing any of the room behind her. Sam realized Slick was the cause of her exaggerated movements, and grinned. Punctual, precise Clare McGuire slithered out of her house because she lived with an escape-artist cat.

“Well, I’m ready,” Clare announced breathlessly as she whirled away from locking the door.

Her hair flared and danced around her ears before settling into the familiar, shiny blue-black cap. An earring Sam could describe only as flirty dangled from one ear. The other lobe was conspicuously bare, and so was one shoulder. Or at least covered by so little, it might as well have been bare. She wore an off-the-shoulder, abbreviated University of Memphis jersey that exposed a quarter-inch of creamy midriff as she slung a small purse over her shoulder. While he stared, Sam said a silent thank-you for an unseasonably warm spring.

Unexpectedly, awareness prickled the back of his neck as he became cognizant that he wasn’t the only one staring! Clare’s gaze roamed as freely as his, and not for the first time. She’d looked at him this way before, when he leaned against the door frame of her office. He felt his muscles tense. Objectively, he understood that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, but this was different. The woman’s gaze had actually run the length of him, stopping briefly at his hips.

Oh, and your inspection was purely platonic?
his conscience asked. Silencing his morally upright conscience,
Sam pointed toward the parking lot and tried to figure out why Clare’s frank appraisal jangled his calm.

Clare followed the familiar winding walkway toward the parking area, glad to be moving, glad to have an excuse to look away from Sam and concentrate on the white-blossomed dogwoods along the walkway. She had felt devoured beneath his scrutiny, but she would have bitten her tongue before she’d said a word. Instead, she returned the favor, and judging from his reaction, she’d finally managed to rattle him. Of course, her choice of clothing might have had something to do with his reaction. He’d been expecting prim-and-proper Clare, not the Gypsy who’d answered her door.

And she’d expected him to arrive in clothes selected at random more for their comfort than appropriateness. Instead, he wore pinpoint oxford in pale pink, and khaki pants obviously tailored by an expert. Briefly, she felt flattered, but instantly crushed the emotion. Tucker wasn’t trying to impress her. More likely he was trying to soften her up so he could slip past her guard. Not likely, she promised herself.

“Which one?” Clare asked as she balanced on the curb and surveyed the numerous cars in the lot.

“The black one.” Sam pointed and placed a gentle hand on her back to urge her forward.

Clare rebelled at the intimacy of such a casual gesture. His touch wasn’t lecherous. That she could have disliked and dismissed. No, Tucker touched because … because, she suspected, he didn’t know how to be any other way. That he had no idea of the havoc he engendered in her each time he touched her forced her to deal with the fact that she liked his touch.

Suddenly Clare realized she hadn’t moved an inch
and that Tucker’s hand still rested against the small of her back, skin touching skin in the brief space between waistband and shirt edge. Clare took an unsteady step toward the car he indicated and then stopped short, turning to gape at him. A second look at the car brought a peal of laughter.

“A Volvo?” Her voice shook with amusement. “Live-for-the-moment devil-may-care Sam Tucker drives a
Volvo?
The safest car made?” She grabbed the door handle and wrenched open the door. “Jeez! And you think
I
have no sense of adventure?”

Sam leaned across the top of the car to defend his transportation, but she disappeared into the automobile with an unladylike snort that eloquently expressed her opinion. The car rocked as Sam dropped behind the wheel. He wanted to argue with her, to dispute the stodgy image of a Volvo, but he couldn’t. She was right. The car was a remnant of his practical past.

“Okay. I don’t have a sports car.” Sam started the engine. “But that’s the point I’m trying to make with this class. You don’t have to overhaul your entire life. All you have to do is make a few changes.”

Locking her seat belt, Clare let an exasperated sigh slip out. “Tucker, you are like a dog with a bone! Why don’t you take a page out of your own book and make a few changes yourself. You’re the one who’s so tradition bound, you can’t fire your baseball-toting butler!”

“I wasn’t aware you could fire family,” Sam said flatly.

“Butlers aren’t family.”

“I wouldn’t say that in front of William if I were you.”

“You’re serious!” Clare exclaimed, and found the idea oddly satisfying. “About him being family, I mean.”

“Dead serious. A mere servant couldn’t be nearly as irritating as William can be. And why can’t William be family? Have you got rules about family too?”

“No rules. Just experience.”

Sam looked quickly over at Clare’s blank expression and then returned his attention to merging into the kamikaze traffic on the torn-up I-240 expressway loop. Threading his way through the confusion of highway construction reminded him of how carefully he had to negotiate the secrets of Clare’s past.

“Experience?” he echoed. “Exactly what
is
family in your experience?”

Outside the car, orange drums and concrete sped past as Clare chewed on her bottom lip. What was family? She didn’t know. She could tell him what family
wasn’t.
But not what family was. Her aunt dutifully called every Christmas and extended the holiday invitation. Clare always managed a plausible excuse and was rewarded with her aunt’s tiny sigh of relief. Each year Christmas cheer was delivered by men in brown uniforms driving brown trucks.

Without looking away from the window, Clare said, “I’m an orphan.”

Immediately, the car slowed as Sam physically felt the impact of her words. Just as quickly, though, he recovered, and the Volvo resumed speed. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Clare ordered. “I told you. I didn’t have to. And don’t
feel
sorry for me either. I had good food, clean clothes, and a roof over my head.”

“But that wasn’t enough, was it?” Sam asked quietly, and this time he was prying.

No! It wasn’t enough. I wanted to be first just once when Uncle Pat came home from a trip. I wanted to be the first one swooped up and tossed into the air. I wanted to hear Uncle Pat say, “I missed my girl!” And, damn you, Tucker, I want you to stop pushing the buttons.

But Clare didn’t say any of that. Instead, she plastered a smile on her face and lied. “I did all right. And contrary to what you might think. I’m even happy.”

“Except about my class,” Sam goaded, and steered the car onto the off ramp and the conversation into safer waters.

“I am especially unhappy about your class.”

Before she could elaborate, her attention was captured by the neighborhood, its familiarity nagging at her. Enormous oak trees draped over the streets, forming a natural arbor. Wrought iron railings marched around the perimeter of yards that belonged in garden magazine layouts. In this area of town, hundred-year-old homes were the rule, not the exception. And despite all its upscale touches, the neighborhood possessed character not found in modern subdivisions. The houses had architectural quirks, and oddities unique to this particular section of Memphis.

Uneasily she realized it was familiar because she’d driven down streets just like this one on her way to Tucker’s class. Four blocks later, she stopped fighting her suspicions. Ice encased her words as she asked, “Tucker, where the hell do you think you’re going?”

“Midtown.”

“Yes, thank you. I can see that. I drove down this street last Tuesday.”

“Then you know my house isn’t much farther.”

Clare adjusted the shoulder on her jersey. “I guess you’ve cleverly planned an intimate little dinner?”

Without bothering to flip on his blinker, Sam turned the corner and grinned at her. “Well, that’s what
I
planned, but as far as William’s concerned, I’m bringing you home to meet the family. Which means he’ll be annoyingly underfoot all evening.” The Volvo slid to a stop in front of the big house. “Ready?”

“No.” Confused, Clare asked, “If William’s going to ruin all your devious plans, why did you bring me here?”

“
Because
William will ruin all my devious plans. With him around, maybe you’ll relax and enjoy yourself.” Sam opened his door. “Besides, no one in town makes a better bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. Come on. William’s hovering in the foyer, waiting to greet us and pretending to be my butler.”

Clare got out of the car and tried to figure out how to handle the situation. On the one hand, she knew an intimate little dinner with Sam would be a self-control accident waiting to happen. But she couldn’t quite wish away the tiny feeling of disappointment that sank into her bones when she found out that she wasn’t going to be in a candlelit room, swirling wine in a crystal glass, and wondering when he’d kiss her. And then she realized she hadn’t once thought about the office in the last half hour.

As she approached the door, Clare decided that this was a house for romance. The glow of polished walnut and brass framed an oval panel of frosted glass etched with flowering vines. Silently the door opened, and an elderly man bowed, or, rather, bent stiffly at the waist for a fraction of a second.

“Evenin’, Miss Clare.”

“I hate it when he does his proper-southern-butler routine,” Sam muttered to Clare as he put a hand on the small of her back and urged her across the threshold. “Good evening, William.” Sam did a quick double take as he passed the man. “White gloves?”

William’s smile evaporated into a thin line of disapproval as he shut the door. “And what’s wrong with a little respect for the lady? It’s been long enough since we’ve seen one in this house. My memory isn’t so good anymore, but I remember how to treat a lady, even if you don’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam demanded, and scowled at Clare when a strangled sound—suspiciously like a laugh—escaped her.

“I mean, in my day we took a lady out properly. Bought her dinner in a nice restaurant.”

“But this isn’t a date,” Clare said quickly. Too quickly. And she knew it. Both men looked at her, tilted their heads and raised their eyebrows in that infuriatingly male way that silently suggested she was confused. “No, it’s true, William. I’m here only because Sam blackmailed me.”

That wiped the smug look off Sam’s face. Satisifed, Clare continued. “He said if I didn’t go out with him, I’d miss the world’s best BLT sandwich.” Clare gave William a half-smile.

“Hmmph. He ought to know. The boy’s eaten enough of ’em over the years.”

“Do you use thick-sliced country bacon?” Clare asked hopefully.

William put his hands on his hips and demanded, “Now, what else would I use?”

“I’ll bet you cut the strips in half and layer them
between thin, ripe tomato slices.” When he nodded, Clare added, “If you tell me you lightly toast the bread, I can die a happy woman.”

In disbelief, Sam watched Clare finesse his butler with the skill of a tournament bridge player. William straightened as he realized that here was a woman who would appreciate his talents. Just the right amount of flattery mixed with a basic human need like hunger sent William scurrying off to do her bidding.

“Been handling servants long?” Sam asked as William’s back disappeared.