Body Language Read Online Free PDF Page A

front of her.
    “Underneath it all, he’s not half bad looking,” the woman decided, “but I really don’t think he’s your type, dear.” She leaned closer to Sandy and lowered her voice as if McCade wouldn’t be able to hear her. “His kind’s not good enough for a nice young lady like you.”
    From the circling motions Tony was making with his hand behind the woman’s head, it was obvious that he was implying she was as crazy as they came, but still her words stung. McCade turned away, not wanting Sandy to see the hurt in his eyes.
    “Oh, but you’re wrong,” he heard her say earnestly. “Men like Clint McCade are few and far between. In fact, it’s taken me fifteen years to find a man who doesn’t totally pale in comparison.”
    McCade’s mouth twisted in a wry smile as he shook his head. Good old Sandy. Loyal to the bitter end. “Come on, Kirk. Let’s blow this Popsicle stand. Tony, I owe you one.”
    “No, no, babycakes.” Tony turned as they headed for the door. “I owed
you
one, remember? Now we’re even.”
    As they walked out of the salon McCade ran his fingers through Sandy’s new curls so lightly that she didn’t even notice.
    “McCade.” Tony’s voice stopped him and he turned back, letting the door close. “She’s a nice girl.”
    “I know.” McCade watched out the window as she climbed into her car.
    “She says you’re just friends.”
    “That’s right.”
    Tony laughed. “Yeah, and my mother’s the pope.”
     
    McCade tossed his armload of shopping bags on Sandy’s big double bed, then looked up at her and grinned. “I’ll go get the rest.”
    “There’s more?” But he was already gone.
    Shaking her head, she opened one garment bag first, and then another, pulling out a collection of evening wear, mostly dresses. As she looked at the clothing lying on her bed, she realized her mouth was hanging open, and she closed it. Then she started to laugh.
    Never, ever, not in a million years would she have bought any of these dresses for herself. It wasn’t that they were ugly or garish; in fact they were all rather simply elegant—no sequins or flashing lights attached, anyway. It was just that she always went for the quietly modest dresses, the ones that would let her blend in with the crowd. But that was the problem. All too often she blended in. Sandy looked at the dresses again. Not anymore. Not a chance.
    She opened the other bags to find shoes—all simple high-heeled pumps in various colors to match the dresses.
    Then she opened the bag of lingerie and shut it very quickly. She opened it more slowly, reaching in and pulling out something very tiny made of black silk.
    McCade came into the room, and she dangled the tiny black thing from her finger. “You don’t
really
expect me to wear this, do you, McCade?”
    “I wouldn’t have bought it if I didn’t expect you to wear it.” He sat down next to her on the bed. “I think you should wear the white dress on Saturday.”
    As Sandy watched he began opening one of the last bags he’d brought in from the car. Makeup. He’d bought new eye shadow and blush, and lipstick and…
    “Go on, why don’t you try it on?” He glanced up at her impatiently, as if he expected her to be already changing into the new white dress.
    “McCade…”
    “You want to get noticed, right?”
    She nodded. Slowly, though. Reluctantly.
    “Look, Kirk, just put on that dress. If you hate it, no one’s going to make you wear it.”
    “Damn right,” she muttered. But she picked up the white dress. The fabric was soft, the dress obviously well made. She’d never dared even to try on anything like it before. It would cling to her body, hug her every curve, draw attention to her.
    But that was the point, wasn’t it? She caught a glimpse of her shiny new curls in the bedroom mirror, and suddenly wanted to see just what she’d look like wearing this dress.
    McCade settled back on the bed, obviously not going anywhere, so she took the