Read Online Body Language by Suzanne Brockmann - Free Book Online Page B

heels clicked on the marble tile of the country-club lobby. She stopped at the entrance to the ballroom where the reception was being held.
    There had to be at least two hundred people there, but the ballroom was so big, they seemed to be scattered about, standing in small groups, sitting at tables that dotted the edges of the dance floor, and dancing to music performed by a trio of musicians.
    The men all wore tuxedos, and the women wore variations on the dresses they’d had on at Saturday night’s fund-raiser at the Pointe. Sandy spotted the woman who had worn the outrageous peacock-feather dress. Tonight she was covered in shiny blue fringe that shook and shimmied when she moved.
    Sandy’s hand was resting lightly in the crook of McCade’s elbow, and he tugged her gently into the reception. She caught sight of their reflection in a big framed mirror on the other side of the room, and nearly laughed out loud.
    McCade looked like a million bucks. He filled out his designer tuxedo to perfection and his sun-streaked brown hair gleamed in the dim light. He wore it moussed up and back, off his forehead, thick and wavy and just begging for fingers to be run through it. His gorgeous lips curved up into a smile and then a full-fledged grin as he met her eyes in the mirror.
    “Man, would you look at yourself,” he whispered to her. “You look unreal.”
    She did. She looked like someone else, not Sandy Kirk. She wore the little black velvet slip dress that McCade had bought. Spaghetti-thin black straps crossed her smooth, tanned shoulders and the dress’s neckline dipped down between her breasts, a reminder that she wasn’t wearing a bra. But the woman whose reflection was looking back at Sandy from that big mirror didn’t need a bra. That woman, with her long, thick jumble of blonde curls falling down her back, with the long, slender legs covered with sheer black hose, with her spike heels that made her taller than almost all of the women in the room and most of the men,
that
woman was self-confident, beautiful, and well-adjusted enough to know that velvet wasn’t exactly see-through, and that even without a bra, she was perfectly, adequately covered. Besides, Sandy thought wryly, there was no bra on earth that could be worn with a dress that dipped as low in the back as this one.
    McCade was right. She looked unreal. But the truth was that she and McCade looked exceptionally unreal together.
    Familiarity, she decided. They were friends, relaxed and comfortable together, and it showed in their body language. Body language, she thought wryly. Yeah, right.
    “Now that we’re here,” she said, “what do we do?”
    “How about we have a drink? You want me to get you something from the bar?”
    “No way am I letting go of you.” Sandy tightened her grip on his arm. “You go to the bar,
I
go to the bar.”
    “The most beautiful woman in the room won’t let go of my arm.” McCade smiled at her. “I think I can live with that.”
    “Careful with the flattery, McCade,” she said. “I might start believing you.”
    He looked down at her, his eyes searching her face. “Would that be so terrible?”
    She looked away, unable to meet his gaze, afraid of…What? She wasn’t afraid of McCade. She was afraid of herself. Afraid she was going to give herself away, afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep her eyes from his mouth, his lips. And McCade, an expert on body language, would know without a doubt that she wanted him to kiss her. Oh, God, she was dying for him to kiss her. What on earth was wrong with her lately?
    She studied the tips of his black cowboy boots. “How about that drink?”
    With a sigh of frustration, McCade navigated his way to the bar, trying to decide whether to get himself a beer or a soda. Caffeine or alcohol. Which would cool him down the quickest? He decided on the beer. As long as he didn’t have too many, he’d probably be better off. But God help him if he drank too much. He’d probably end