Slow Hands (7 page)

“Are you trying to make me uncomfortable?” Clare demanded. “Because you are. I’m as uncomfortable as hell. I don’t know what’s going on here. I don’t have time for what’s going on here. I don’t even know where the assignment ends and you begin.”

“Is that important?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

With an effort, she dragged her gaze from his and concentrated on the sinfully rich raspberry sauce drizzled over hot fudge and French vanilla ice cream. Without hurrying, she let the spoon and its precious cargo glide into her mouth. She rolled the taste around on her tongue and closed her eyes before returning to the conversation. When she finished her first bite, she stared at him silently for a moment. Then she said, “You’re not what I bargained for, Tucker.”

“What? You think I phoned the Easter bunny and said, ‘Hey, guy, please drop an impossible woman into my life. One who’ll fit my body like I’d want a glove to fit! Give her a personality that says look but don’t touch.
Oh, and by the way, make sure she’s taking my class so I can worry about getting sued for sexual harassment.’ ” Sam glared at her and mined some more bananas from his container. “Bunnies cannot be trusted.”

Stunned, Clare began to realize Sam’s dilemma. He wanted to change her, and he wanted to jump her bones. Succeeding at one would probably cost him the other. His ethics were at war with his libido. The mighty Sam was human after all. Knowing that eased some of the anxiety in her gut.

Toying with her ice cream, Clare asked, “What are we going to do about this?”

Sam’s ethics struggled with a healthy sex drive. Ethics won. “What do you want to do about this?”

“I don’t know.” Clare cocked her head and her brow as she slowly withdrew the pink plastic spoon from her mouth. “But I’m having fun again.”

Sam almost choked when the spoon caught on her full lower lip, offering him a tantalizing sight of her tongue as it brushed against the cradle of the spoon. When Clare repeated the seductive performance with the next bite, Sam groaned and took his frustration out on his dish of ice cream.

She let him polish off several bites in silence. The final rays of daylight twisted through the sunset and accented the pale wheat and gold in his blond hair. The man was hold-your-breath gorgeous, and she knew that hair would feel like spun silk between her fingers. Before she did something foolish, she said, “Tell me about your class, Sam. Is that all you do, or do you have a real job too?”

“You don’t consider the class a real job?”

“A six-week-long party is not a real job.”

“Why do I get the feeling you disapprove of everything I do?”

“Of course I don’t,” Clare quipped with a grin. “You haven’t told me everything you do yet.”

Half finished with his banana split, Sam wiped his mouth and crumpled his napkin into a ball. “I’m a consultant.”

“Don’t tell me—let me guess.
The fun doctor.
”

Sam gave an exasperated sigh. “No, an export consultant for the Far East. Among other things, I help companies understand the nuances of Asian languages. Like communication in English, they can be filled with ambiguity.”

“You?”

“Why is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know.” Clare shrugged and knitted her brows. “I guess I thought that dealing with Asian businessmen would require a … a more polished image.”

Sam pretended to be offended. “And I’m not polished?”

“Maybe that’s not the right word,” Clare backpedaled and tried to put her impression of him into words. She couldn’t see him in a power suit holding a Mont Blanc fountain pen. She couldn’t see him with a day planner. All she could see was his killer smile and the mountain of chaos on his desk. “You’re … well … rowdy.”

Genuine amusement shook Sam as he realized that to Clare the word
rowdy
bordered on insult. “I guess I am—now anyway. Before you knew me, I was buttoned-down and bottled-up. Obsessed with my company and oblivious of life. Now I’m … rowdy.”

“People don’t change that much.”

“You’re right. People don’t change. They rediscover parts of themselves they’ve lost.”

“I don’t need changing. I’m not lost,” Clare said, knowing that his words were for her benefit.

“No, I think I’ve discovered you just in time.” Sam’s glance roved over her bare shoulder and back to her mouth.

Warmth spread through Clare’s belly at the thought of Sam discovering anything about her. She imagined his strong hands and fingers as he explored her body.
Sam.
When had he become Sam and not Tucker? Her libido supplied the answer—
the moment you started thinking about his hands.
When a man puts his hands on a woman’s body, it’s time to drop the last name.

“Gosh, look at the time,” Clare said suddenly, ignoring his comment and the meaningful look he tossed in her direction. She slipped the errant edge of her jersey back over her shoulder. “You promised you’d have me home early.”

“So I did,” agreed Sam, and checked his watch. “But it’s still early. Mickey’s little hand is only halfway between the seven and the eight.”

“That’s late.” Clare’s comment brooked no argument. She scraped the sides of her ice cream container and popped the last bite in her mouth. “Ellie’s coming. I have to clean house. Besides, it’s getting dark.”

“It was dark fifteen minutes ago,” Sam corrected her helpfully.

“Look, Sam, are you going to take me home or not?”

“Sure. Unless you want to lick your bowl before we leave?”

Horrified, Clare realized she had eaten the raspberry
chocolate concoction much the same way a starving man might have eaten fresh-baked bread. Defensively, Clare said, “It was good.”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed. “See what you’ve been missing?”

“I haven’t been missing ice cream.”

“Then why didn’t you argue about where to go? Haven’t you got a favorite spot?” When Clare didn’t answer, he prodded, “Can you even name an establishment that sells ice cream?”

“The grocery store,” Clare snapped.

“Right.” Sam nodded his head sadly.

Clare tossed her trash into the double-sized bin and pressed her lips together. Cheerful men annoyed her. Especially when they were right. She didn’t go out for ice cream, but that was beside the point. “Stop analyzing me, Sam. Or is that the one thing you haven’t been able to change about yourself?”

“That and an attraction to impossible women.”

“Take me home, Sam.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He walked her to the car, held her door open, all the while brushing his hand against her back, her shoulder, and elbow as he helped her in. Finally, Clare said, “I can manage!”

“Yes, ma’am.” Sam walked around, got in the car, and started the engine without saying anything else. After Sam pulled the car into the street, he asked, “Who’s Ellie? Three seconds after you mention her name, you start cleaning house again. Is she coming to see you or eat off your floor?”

“She’s my cousin—” Clare paused and told the truth.
“And I haven’t the faintest idea why she’s coming. I haven’t seen her in five years.”

Clare’s flat tone was a not-so-subtle warning to drop the discussion about Ellie. Taking the hint, he steered the conversation to safer topics. Not that it mattered now. The damage was done. She’d overreacted, and he’d filed Ellie away for future consideration. As usual, her cousin was gone but not forgotten.

When the Volvo slowed to a stop in her parking lot, Clare jumped out, murmured her thanks, and slammed the door. She was halfway up the walk and congratulating herself for having survived the evening with only minor dents in her social armor, when she heard the telltale clunk of his door opening.

“A southern gentleman always sees a lady to the door.”

“Of course,” Clare said, rolling her eyes in disgust before she continued toward her condo. “I should have known.”

“Known what?” The humor in his voice was barely disguised.

“That you wouldn’t rest until I promised to show up for class tomorrow.”

Sam stopped suddenly, but not just because they’d reached her door. He began to wonder how much of the evening was an act for his benefit and how much was the real Clare. “Were you planning on ditching?”

Clare retrieved her keys from her purse and opened the door just wide enough to toss her purse inside. “The thought had crossed my mind. I thought you might cut me some slack since I’ve been such a good sport about tonight.”

“If I give you any more rope,” Sam said pleasantly,
even though his eyes flashed dangerously, “you’ll probably hang us both.”

“Dammit, Sam. You don’t understand. Right now is not a good time for me. The budget’s overdue. I’ve got a new computer system to deal with, and—”

“Ellie’s coming,” he finished for her. “I don’t care if the President is coming for breakfast. You will be at class tomorrow, or you can explain why to Dave. Not that it will help, considering his frame of mind, but you can give it a shot.”

“Fine.” Clare jerked the keys out of the lock. “I’ll be there. Satisfied?”

“No,” Sam answered softly, checking his anger. “I want
you
to show up tomorrow. Not the dog-and-pony show you trot out to fool the general public. I want something real.”

Before she could slip away from him, Sam reached out to hook a finger in the neckline of her jersey, pulling her toward him. Objectively, Sam knew he was using his anger as an excuse to justify what he’d wanted to do since the first time he’d seen Clare McGuire. But that didn’t make a difference. He intended to kiss Clare. He needed to—had to. And he knew that kissing her would complicate his life. That didn’t make a difference either.

Part of Clare wanted Sam to hurry up and get it over with, and the other part of her savored the anticipation, the illusion that time had stopped and reality had narrowed to the feel of his hands on her bare skin as he drew her into the warmth of his body.

When Sam had settled her against his chest, he let go of her jersey and brushed the skin below her neck with the backs of his fingers. For a moment he toyed with the
hollow at the base of her throat, his attention absorbed by the creamy softness his thumb discovered. Then he burrowed his fingers in her hair, cradling her head. Finally, he tilted her face to suit himself and kissed her.

Clare had been kissed before, but never like this. Never with such complete possession. Sam didn’t kiss. He branded. His tongue traced the curve of her lips and urged her mouth open. Anticipation surged through her as his tongue delved into her mouth, finding and coaxing a response from its mate. Each swirl of his tongue spun sensation through her belly, and her nipples tightened when his hand slipped under her jersey to explore her back and press her closer.

A strangled, panicked sound escaped her throat, and she pulled her mouth from his. Closing her eyes, she tried to unjumble her emotions, to regain control, but Sam fed hungrily on her bottom lip, pulling it gently between his teeth, teasing and bathing it with his tongue. Her own body encouraged him by leaning into his hardness and molding to his desire. His cologne was utterly masculine and assaulted her senses, reminding her of winter fires and brandy. Finally, Clare gave in to the sensation building inside her, and opened her mouth to Sam’s insistence, inviting the heat of his kiss.

When Clare surrendered, Sam let his mouth seal hers in earnest, plunging his tongue into the velvet welcome. This was the Clare he wanted—open and giving. He would never forget his first taste of her, all chocolate and raspberry. When he lifted his head, he gently held her back. He wanted to see desire in her eyes. He wanted to see a part of Clare that was only for him. Slowly, her lids lifted and her hands crept up on the front of his shirt. Confusion and passion stared at him from eyes that were midnight blue in the darkness. God, she was beautiful. He wondered if she even knew that. He decided her lips were more enticing swollen from his kisses than they had been before.

His voice was rusty when he spoke. “You have two choices, Clare. You can stand here in the open doorway all night, in which case the cat gets out.” He paused to feather her short, thick hair with his fingers. “Or you can invite me in.”

Still sorting through the sensual overload caused by his kiss, Clare shook her head to clear the gossamer cobwebs woven around her logic and murmured, “Slick doesn’t … get out. He hates the outdoors.”

Chuckling, Sam propelled her backward. “Right now, I do too. Invite me inside.”

“No!” Clare’s head suddenly cleared. Cobwebs disappeared. No matter how
interesting
Tucker’s kisses were, he wasn’t coming in. That would be disastrous in more ways than one. Letting him inside her house was one step closer to letting him in her life. And that she refused to do. Six weeks, she reminded herself. Six weeks of Tuesday nights and Saturday mornings was all she was willing to give Tucker. It was all she had to give a man
like Tucker. A man who had everything didn’t need “poor Clare.”

And she didn’t need his casual touch and clever smile. She didn’t need the warmth of his embrace. She needed to hold on to the one constant fact in her life—if she didn’t let people get close, she wouldn’t hurt so bad when they walked away. She pressed one hand against his chest and pushed. “Thank you for a lovely evening. Good night.”

Even as she spoke, Clare stepped back and shut the door. Sam didn’t need a mirror to tell him the expression on his face was complete and total shock. He cocked a hip and crossed his arms over his chest. “This is a helluva good-bye!” he complained to the closed door. “Here’s your hat. What’s your hurry?”

Silence greeted his sarcasm.

“Tomorrow, McGuire,” he reminded her, and started toward his car. Absently, he rubbed his bottom lip with his thumb.
If Slick didn’t get out, then why the contortionist act earlier?

“No, Dave.”

“Yes, Clare.”

“Why?” It was more of a plea than a question.

“Because we need him. I’ve never exported auto parts to the East! I don’t talk the lingo or understand the protocol in a deal like this. Hell, knowing me, I’d probably insult an Asian businessman just by pointing to a chair and saying ‘Take a load off!’ ”