Free Slow Hands by Debra Dixon Page A

chair, Dave said, “I’ll talk to him. Maybe you can try the class again on the next go-round.”
    “Mmmm,” Clare murmured noncommittally.
    As Dave left her office, her intercom buzzed.
    Clare ignored the intercom and shouted through the open door, “What is it, Joshua?”
    “While you were yell—I mean talking to Dave, a ladycalled.” His voice got louder as he walked toward her door. Leaning in, he pushed his glasses up and said, “She hung up before I could get her name. Sounded all out of breath and wouldn’t leave a number. Said to tell you she was rushing to catch a plane and she’d see you tomorrow.”
    “She said
what
?” Terror flooded every crevice of Clare’s awareness.
    Patiently, Joshua repeated his message and added, “Delta Airlines. Seven forty-five. She said not to be late. She hates waiting.”
    “Go away!” Clare yelled at the insistent knock on the door and simultaneously grabbed a stack of newspapers, cringing at the two-week-old date. When the knock repeated, she stopped cleaning long enough to wrench open the door. “I’m not buying cookies, magazines or—Tucker!”
    “Bad time?” Sam asked. The question didn’t need an answer. She looked like hell, didn’t have shoes on, and had a dust rag over one shoulder, but he thought she was sexy. Of course, given the state of his suppressed libido, Clare could have been wearing an army tent and a paper bag over her head and he’d have still thought she was sexy. The past two weeks had been fun, but two weeks of looking and not touching had taken their toll. Sam jammed his hands in his back pockets to control the urge to reach out for her. His senses remembered all too well how soft and pliant she was in his arms.
    Clare sputtered and clutched the newspapers to her chest. “I can’t be in the class anymore. Didn’t Dave call you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then why are you here?”
    “Do I have to have a reason? Can’t a friend want to see another friend? You told me I couldn’t kiss you, but you didn’t say I couldn’t be your friend.”
    Warily, Clare studied Sam. He was wearing those disreputable cut-up jeans and a disarming expression. Trouble, she decided, and knew she had to end the conversation before Sam got her all tangled up in knots. She didn’t like the funny way he emphasized the word
friend.
This was how it always started. An innocent question from Sam, and then like a bolt from the blue he zapped her and had her admitting to everything but Jimmy Hoffa’s disappearance. She wasn’t going to get pulled in this time.
    “No, you do not have to have a reason to see me.” Clare shifted the bundle in her arms. “But according to Ann Landers, if you don’t call first, I don’t have to let you in. Here.” She thrust the newspapers into his hands. “At least make yourself useful. Toss these in the Dumpster on your way to the Volvo.”
    She started to shut the door, but Sam wedged his white leather Reebok between the door and the jamb. Sighing, she said, “Sam, I don’t have time tonight.”
    His deep brown eyes mocked her. “You say that entirely too often, you know. You should break the habit. Or at least come up with a better excuse. And don’t tell me the one about having to clean house because Ellie’s coming.”
    Clare made a strangled sound. “Ellie
is
coming. Tomorrow. Now, could you get your foot out of my door?”
    “Not until you tell me why you’re so twisted aboutEllie’s visit? How long could it take to fluff a few pillows?”
    Gritting her teeth, Clare let the door swing wide. The only way to get rid of him was to let him glimpse the magnitude of her problem. Admitting defeat graciously was not her strong suit, but she stepped aside and waved him in with a short, jerky motion. “Fluffing pillows is the least of my worries. It’s the rest of the place that has me concerned.”
    Vaguely thankful that he couldn’t see the kitchen or the downstairs bathroom from his vantage point, Clare tried to look