Bad Boy of New Orleans (11 page)

Apparently Micah needed a reminder about their little bargain. After all, he had promised
to let her call the shots. Then again, he wasn't exactly above manipulating her into
asking for it either.

His finger teased at the nape of her neck, toying with the fine hairs there. She shivered.
He moved his hand away, resting it on the back of the couch. She looked up at him,
questioningly.

"Something wrong,
ma cherie?"

She hesitated. "No... I just... well, I liked what you were doing."

Her cheeks turned pink, as he knew they would. Her voice was higher, softer than usual
too. His body responded to the vulnerability in her.

"Oh? Then you don't want me to stop?" His fingers found their way back, continuing
their playful taunt.

The silence lengthened. He was content... almost. A sigh escaped from Micah, and he
began to slowly rub her tendons that were tensed beneath his palm.

"Nice?" he asked quietly. She nodded. "If you like the way it feels, you have to say
so... it's part of the rules."

"Yes," she said. The word came out in one languorous, sensual syllable. And then as
if she had given away too much, the muscles he had coaxed to relax flexed tight again.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" she said suddenly, turning just enough to
peer up at him.

Chance squelched the urge to scowl at her. Patience, he told himself, patience. The
heightened color of her skin, the evasive but hazy cast to her eyes, and most of all
the sight of her nipples jutting beneath the silk of her blouse... combined to give
him the momentary patience he needed.

Chance raised his eyes from her chest to her face again. Her breathing quickened,
and he smiled slowly, satisfied that he could so easily rattle her.

"Remember?" he finally said. "How could I ever forget? You were the cutest kid in
pigtails I'd ever seen, sobbing your heart out in the backyard because your kitten
was stuck in the tree. It just happened to be the one tree your parents forbade you
to climb."

"You weren't supposed to climb it either," she pointed out.

"Which only made it that much more tempting."

He leaned his head back against the faded brocade fabric and stared up at the lofty
crystal chandelier. It felt strange being in this room. Time seemed to stand still
here. He could remember peeking from the kitchen where his mother was working, and
her scolding him to get back where he belonged. Some things still hurt to think about.

"I'll never forget your mother running out there, fussing at you for ripping your
jeans. I thought you were a hero, the way you saved my kitten... the way you took
the blame on yourself instead of putting it off on me. That image stuck for a long
time."

He looked away from the ceiling, putting the unhappy memories behind him. Better to
think of Micah, she was here now. "Yeah, I guess it did, for both of us. It did wonders
for my ego when everyone else said I wouldn't amount to anything but trouble, and
you thought I'd hung the moon."

"That's exactly what I thought," she said. "I felt special that someone older than
me would take the time to play with me. Of course, as you grew up there were times
you had to act tough and not pay much attention to me in front of your friends. Once,
I went home and cried. I wrote a page about it in my diary."

Chance shook his head. He relished the feel of her beneath his fingertips, the way
she began to lean into the massage he was giving her shoulders. He tried to concentrate
on that instead of the feelings of futility and confusion the memory could evoke even
now.

"That wasn't an easy choice for me. Even when you were barely in your teens I knew
I had it bad. But you weren't only off-limits because of your family, you were too
young."

Micah lowered her lashes. "But I didn't stay off-limits." She looked back up.

He nodded slowly. His mouth settled in a half-smile.

"My conscience told me what I was doing was wrong—but somehow I was never able to
make myself feel remorse for one of the most wonderful experiences of my life."

Chance leaned over and switched off the antique lamp to Micah's left. Only the entry
light gave a faint glow to the darkness.

But the dark couldn't mask the rapid rasp of her breath—or maybe it was the dark magnifying
the silence around their breathing.

"I want to lie down beside you," he whispered. "And I want to hold you... that's all."
Like hell, that's all, screamed every instinct he possessed as she bent back, resting
against the feathered cushions. She hadn't hesitated at all. She trusted him, he realized.
It was the same trust she had given him so long ago. The movement was too familiar,
a nostalgia that was too acute, too painfully sweet.

Chance felt the swell of emotion in his throat; the even thicker swell of his groin.
He moved until her head rested on his chest, his arm secure about her shoulders. She
sighed in contentment, and he tried not to groan as she shifted and brushed against
his hardness. Micah stiffened at the contact, and for a horrible, frozen moment he
thought she might jerk free of his hold. He had a good idea she was fighting her own
similar responses.

"Chance, I'm sorry. Maybe we shouldn't—"

"Shhh. It's okay... it's okay." He brought her head back to his chest, fighting the
urge to roll her beneath him, to seduce her right there. Instead, he began to stroke
through her hair, forcing his voice to soothe, yet unable to hide the hoarseness of
desire.

"Sometimes it's hard for me to believe we've come this far. Holding you here... in
this room. Your parents, did they ever find out—"

"About us?"

"About us sleeping together. They weren't dumb, Micah. They were bound to know something
was going on."

He felt her shake her head. "No. It would have destroyed them to know what I'd done.
And not because it was you, Chance. It just went against everything they'd taught
me."

"I know that. I used to worry about... whether you had regrets."

"If that's how you felt, then why didn't you write? Or call? That was the worst part
of it—wondering if you'd forgotten me. If I'd mistaken something real and deep between
us for what you'd decided was no more than a one-night stand."

He heard the distant accusation. Chance knew he deserved it, and more. He cringed
inside every time he let himself think of how he must have hurt her.

"I had my reasons, Micah. Ones I thought were good at the time. Writing was out of
the question, it would've only stirred up suspicions with your parents. And then you
would have suffered even more. And I knew there was no chance of pregnancy. What would
have been foolish was if I'd stayed. Trying to keep my hands off you, to keep away
from you, at that stage was beyond my ability to control—and at least I had enough
sense to realize it... to stay away until we could have some kind of future together.
Back then, I knew I had nothing to offer."

Her head had snapped up and even in the near dark he could see the angry challenge
glinting from her eyes. "Well, I didn't see it that way. There was yourself to offer.
I thought that was plenty at the time."

"Sure you thought that was plenty at the time—you were young with a lot of naive ideas.
I can even paint the picture for you.. you envisioned me sticking around until you
were twenty-one, then we could quit sneaking behind your parents' backs, get married,
and live happily ever after. Right?"

"You're just as cynical now as you were then, aren't you?"

"Oh, come on, Micah. You should be old enough to realize it wouldn't have worked.
Not like that. Surely you know that by now."

She tensed, her old anger close to the surface.

Damn, he thought, why did she have to dredge this up tonight? Some other time, when
they could spend their anger in passion; or scream it out, the frustration, the rage
of it all, and then fall together in a mutual forgiveness for acts they couldn't undo.
Please not tonight, not while they could simply lie together in the dark, and pretend
it all away.

"I wish it could have been that simple, Micah. Everywhere I went, I missed you...
terribly."

He could feel her relax against him. She felt good. So good. Maybe the night wasn't
lost after all.

"Even in Saudi?"

"Especially in Saudi."

She crossed her arms over his chest, close enough now that he could feel the wisp
of her breath as she spoke. Sweet, warm breath that still managed to take his away.

"Tell me about it... about Saudi."

"Saudi was... quite an adventure."

He was glad it was dark. She wouldn't be able to see the tautening of his features
as he spoke. Hopefully she wouldn't sense it either.

"Was it glamorous there? Exciting? Did you see sheikhs and camels?"

"Oh yeah, it was glamorous all right. Like something most people only dream about.
A page right out of
The Arabian Nights."

Did she believe that? A dream? It had been a nightmare. Hot. Dirty. Sweating as if
he were a faucet, doing fourteen-hour days. "Just paradise, Micah," he said.

The shortness of his tone echoed between them. Neither said anything for a few strained
moments.

"You're lying. Tell me the truth, Chance."

Could he? No one knew about those lonely, dark years. Especially not Micah.

"You really get to me, lady, you know that?"

She hesitated, then, "You get to me, too, Chance."

What those words did to him. Warm, sweet. Good. Like her. Lord, what he wouldn't give
to bury himself inside her, to take the healing warmth her body offered...

He rolled her beneath him. Micah's breath caught.

He pressed himself hard against the vee of her thighs, lying there still, atop her,
making her feel him, the length and breadth of his need. No, he couldn't begin the
movements. If he did, there would be no stopping. For this one thing,
she
must ask. His reasons were selfish—but then again,
he
was selfish.

"Ask me to kiss you," he whispered urgently, and cupped her face in his hands with
a gentle pressure.

She ignored his plea. "What was it like there?" she said, then rushed on as though
compelled to know some horrible secret he kept. "How many women did you ask to kiss
you there? You left me alone too many nights, too damn many years wondering just that,
Chance. How many miserable hours did I spend wondering where you were, who you were
with, while I was waiting—" her voice broke, he could feel the warm trek of tears
streaming between his palms. "Waiting for you to come back to me."

He felt the tears run down her face, rubbing the moisture against his skin, loving
it. Rejoicing that she could still feel so deeply about him.

"Where was I?" he murmured. "Chasing a dream. It was you, Micah. You were the dream
that kept me going when I wanted to quit. And yes, there were other women. Ones with
long black hair and cat-green eyes. Ones that didn't mind me calling them by someone
else's name—"

She gasped, and he took a perverse pleasure in showing her the uglier side of his
world; let her see him as he really was. Let her love him despite it. Nothing less
would do.

"Only that changed when I came back," he said. "When I was finally able to offer you
some kind of life. But you were married and I didn't care who I slept with. I used
other women to punish you for being unfaithful to me. But I always pretended the others
were you." Now he did move into her. His body stretched possessively, hungrily over
hers.

"I needed you." Her voice shook. She shook. In fury? In passion? He didn't know. "And
you never came back. Not until it was too late. Why, Chance?
Why?"

"Why? Because I knew if I had even a taste, I wouldn't be able to tear myself away,
to go back and do what I had to."

"I would have gone away with you. In a minute, Chance. You shouldn't have made my
decision for me. It wasn't your right. Not after I was old enough to leave."

"No? What was I going to do? Bring you along for a joyride on the rigs? Or maybe just
swathe you in soiled linens at the flophouses. That would have really impressed you.
I might not have had two cents to my name, but I had pride, Micah. I would have stayed
away for good before letting you see me like that. Or worse, offered you that kind
of life. That decision was my right. I had the right to leave you where you belonged—in
college, with your family. Leading a normal existence. Not shacking up with a loser."

"You were
never
a loser, Chance," she said fiercely. "A card, a call, any kind of sign, and I would
have come to you. None of it would have mattered, not as long as we were together."

The tears had stopped. Her voice was quiet, but firm. He needed this—this equality
of her subtle strength answering the hardness of his.

"That's right. You would have come to me. And it
would
have mattered. Feel this?" He thrust into her, the clothes doing nothing to mute
the degree of his arousal. Her breath caught, but she said nothing. "I said, Micah,
'do you feel... this?'"