Body Language Read Free Page B

air-conditioned darkness of the lobby. As he took the elevator up to the second floor, he took off his sunglasses, hanging them casually by one earpiece over the neck of his black T-shirt.
    The elevator door opened and McCade stared directly at his reflection in the big mirror that hung on the wall. He almost didn’t recognize himself. His long hair and beard, combined with his imposing height and muscles, made him look like a bouncer at a biker bar, or a patron who would probably need to be bounced.
    McCade walked down the hall to the main conference room—the briefing room, he liked to call it. It was a large airy room with big windows that looked out over the desert-landscaped front yard of the building. A big oval table sat in the middle of a soothing, earth-toned carpet, surrounded by more than a dozen comfortable chairs.
    “Can I help you?” Sandy’s assistant, Frank Williamson, intercepted McCade almost before he was in the room.
    “Yo, Frank,” McCade said, and behind his glasses, the younger man’s eyes widened in surprise.
    “McCade, my God, this may come as a shock to you, but you’re covered with hair.”
    McCade grinned. “It’s the new me. Whaddaya think?”
    Frank crossed his arms and studied McCade. “I think for a guy who usually has chicks fainting in the street, you look like hell,” he finally said. “What’s up? Was your last gig on a desert island?”
    McCade crossed his own arms. “Frank. When someone says ‘what do you think?’ they don’t
really
want to know what you think. Ever hear of something called ‘tact?’”
    “Tact is for little old ladies who’ve just had their hair done,” Frank told him. “Not for a guy like you who could stand in as a body double for Arnold Schwarzenegger”—he lowered his voice—“you know, the boss hasn’t gone out on a single date since you were here last.”
    Both men turned and looked across the room, to where Sandy was standing by the windows, talking to a man who had to be James.
    McCade’s heart sank as he took in the expensive cut and fabric of the man’s obviously hand-tailored suit. It sank even further as he studied the way James filled his suit. He was a tall man, just a little bit shorter than McCade’s own six feet three inches, and he was built like McCade—strong, broad shoulders, narrow waist, slim hips. James turned slightly, and McCade caught a glimpse of the man’s face. His features were chiseled and handsome, his nose long and aristocratic. His chin was strong and his lips almost too femininely shaped. Almost, but not quite.
    Damn. With his wavy black hair cut conservatively short and his dark eyes, this guy’s picture should have been in the dictionary under
dreamboat.
    “How you can keep a relationship platonic with someone like the boss is one of the last great mysteries of the world, McCade.” Frank glanced down at his clipboard, then up at the clock. “Grab a seat, pal, we’re gonna get started.”
    McCade crossed to the conference table and slid into the chair immediately to the left of the seat at the head of the table, where he knew Sandy would sit.
    He watched her talk to James. Her shoulders were tense, and her body was tight. She didn’t seem to be able to look the man directly in the eye. Boy, she was nervous. Her hands fluttered about, then grabbed onto the files she was holding as if they were a lifeline.
    As McCade watched she glanced at her watch and said something to James with a weak smile. It was an approximation of her usual five-hundred-watt grin. McCade shook his head. Unless she relaxed, this guy was only going to see a high-strung, stressed-out, rough imitation of Sandy. And with her hair wrapped tight in a bun, wearing that much-too-conservative navy jacket and skirt, she wasn’t winning any points appearance-wise either. It’s not that she wasn’t pretty, he quickly corrected himself. She was. She just wasn’t as earthshakingly beautiful as he knew she could be.
    She spotted him