Bad Boy of New Orleans (18 page)

He took a step forward, but Micah stuck her hand out, stopping him. "Don't touch me
now. All it can do is confuse me. I want some answers. Chance. Honest ones... if you're
even capable of it."

"I'll give you any answers you want or need. Honest ones, Micah. Because nothing is
worth your distrust, no matter how unsavory the answer might be."

The hurt tightened around his heart. As long as he could remember, she could tear
him apart with no more than her distance; and her distrust of him now was painfully
bitter. Chance clenched his jaw, enduring it.

She hesitated, watching his face, as though searching for anything sly or dishonest
there. She finally gave a short, curt nod of the head.

"Did you play with him often?" The words came out faint, the dread in knowing too
obvious for him to miss.

"Often enough." There was no reaction except a tight swallowing motion. She was waiting
for more, her silence told him that. "About once a month... for the last two years
or so."

She closed her eyes, as though trying to block out the damning truth.

"Then this isn't the only one?"

He shook his head slowly. He braced himself, knowing what would come next.

"How many?"

"About a dozen."

She made a noise. A strangled, sobbing catch in the throat. Instinctively he stepped
closer.

She shook her head in a short, stilted motion. "No," she said quickly. "Stay back."

He understood, and nodded, feeling a crumbling sensation inside, afraid to confront
the growing, terrible premonition.

"How much?"

"Micah, you don't want to—"

"I said, how much, damn you!"

Get it done with... and tell her no lies.

"Thirteen grand. Give or take a few hundred."

"He owed you that much and you kept playing with him?" She looked stunned, her eyes
wide and disbelieving. "You knew he'd never pay up. What were you going to do with
your collection of IOUs, Chance? Paper your office with them?"

"Buy your freedom."

Her mouth gaped open. She shook her head once, twice, as though she were trying to
wake up from a bad dream. What was he thinking in telling her this? He'd vowed the
truth, but this was better left unsaid.

"My
what?"

"Forget it, Micah. Ask me something else."

"You were going to
buy my freedom?"
She seemed hung there, unable to get past the fatal revelation.

"It was killing me, Micah," he said urgently, desperate to make her understand. "Seeing
the way you were sinking deeper, the way he was pulling you down with him. Especially
after you refused to leave, I had to think of some way, some plan to get you out of
there.... I decided if Jonathon owed me enough money, he'd be willing to make a trade.
My silence and forgiveness of his debts to me in exchange for him letting you go."

"But that's blackmail!"

"Hell, no, lady! That's desperation! For the love of heaven, Micah, I was doing it
for you. Everything's been for you."

"Well I don't want it." She shuddered, her face etched in distaste. "You've built
your empire by stepping on people, being mean and dirty, and I want nothing of it.
I've made excuses for you, Chance, always. But no more. It was bad enough that you
were a cutthroat in your business dealings, but this takes the cake." She pressed
her hand over her heart as though she were covering the hurt. Her voice came out choked.
"You tried to buy me."

"No!" He was losing her, losing everything he'd ever wanted. He had to get her back.
The desperation was eating him alive, crawling through his insides, shooting streaks
of black behind his eyes.

"No," he repeated. His hands clenched by his sides as he forced himself not to grab
her to him until he felt safe, sure that she was still his. "Listen to me, Micah.
No one could ever buy you. Because no one owns you but yourself. I just wanted your
freedom. Once he let you go, the rest was up to you. I had no guarantee that you'd
come back to me. Only hopes and dreams that refused to die, that I kept clinging to
when there was nothing else to keep me going. At least this way I had a chance. It
was all I had."

She seemed to slump with the heaviness of the confession.

"That paper was meant to be your ticket out. But that was between me and Jonathon.
What's on the floor has nothing to do with you."

"Maybe not. But it has everything to do with us." She raised her head slowly. "One
reason I could give myself to you was because I felt I had finally started to come
into my own. That I had proven to myself, and to you, that I could stand on my own
two feet."

"What are you talking about? You
have
taken care of yourself."

"Have I? You knew from the very beginning how important it was to me that I invested
my
money. Not yours. And that's exactly what our little 'partnership' is. Yours, all
yours. Because even with my paltry investment, I still owe you."

"Dammit, Micah," he growled. For once in his life he'd wanted to help someone, and
all she could do was throw it in his face. "Sometimes I get just a little sick of
your pride, you know that? You can't see beyond it. Money has nothing to do with us.
If you'd rise above this constant need to keep proving whatever the hell it is you're
trying to prove to yourself, you'd see what you've really accomplished."

She took a step back. He matched it with a step forward, then relentlessly forged
ahead, trying to make her see reason.

"Do you realize that you've painted nearly a whole house? Wallpapered it? Fixed plumbing,
and turned the yard from an eyesore into a selling point? You have real talent—an
eye. By the time you finish—"

"I'm not."

The room went deathly quiet.

"I beg your pardon?" He said it slowly, making sure she caught the edge of warning
there.

"I
said...
I'm not finishing. I'm going to have my lawyer turn over my share of the property
to you. And I'm going to do it today."

She turned as if to leave. His hands snaked out. Taking her by the shoulders, he snapped
her around to face him.

"Oh no, you're not," he said.

"Oh yes. I am."

His hands tightened and he fought the urge to shake some sense into her. "My patience
is wearing thin, Micah, so get this straight. You are legally bound as my partner,
like it or not. When I had my lawyer draw up our agreement, I made sure it was airtight,
and there's no way you're getting out of it. You're going to finish that house, come
hell or high water."

"Like hell I will. It's yours, Chance. Just count my labor and down payment toward
the outstanding balance. Send me a bill for the rest. I'll make sure you get your
money before anyone else does."

He had to make her stick it out; it was the only way to keep her close until they
solved this.

He measured each word carefully, spooning the acid to bite. "You disappoint me, Micah.
I never had you pegged for a quitter. After all, quitters are cowards. The yellow
streak sticks to their backs like neon. You can see it a mile away, every time they
run. That's something I've never understood—how quitters must figure it's easier to
walk than to confront the problem head-on."

She flinched. He smiled mirthlessly, detesting the cruelty of what he had no choice
but to do. Chance went on, forcing his voice to sound businesslike and impersonal.

"See, Micah, what we've got is a problem with direction here. If you decided to stay
and work things out instead of running, you should have the balance worked off by
the time we sell the house. And have a profit to show." He shrugged with supreme indifference.
"However, if you do decide to quit, you'll still have the entire balance to settle
with me. You would have worked free of charge, and your down payment would be mine,
too, of course. By default, Micah. Think about it. That's an awfully high price to
pay for a load of false pride."

Something was going on behind her eyes... it was hard to tell what. An assessment,
some kind of mental gymnastics as she came to grips with reality. Common sense and
incredulity and hurt pride warring within her.

"All right," she said quietly, slowly.

He gave a curt nod. "You'll make a shrewd businesswoman yet, Micah. The cardinal rule
is... never let emotions interfere with a sound decision."

"So I'm learning from the master. All the more reason to leave any kind of emotion
out of our business... and that is all we're dealing with here. Business. I'll keep
my end of the bargain, you just stay out of my way."

"If that's the way you want it."

His eyes searched hers, before she took a deep breath and looked away. He knew she
still felt enough for him to hurt, the pain in her too obvious for him to miss.

"That's the way I want it."

His hands were still on her shoulders, no longer clenching in anger, but soft with
regret, and the need to harbor what tenderness he could before she pulled away.

Micah seemed to be savoring it, too, and then with a determined look she shrugged
them away. Reaching behind her ears, she unlatched the emeralds that he knew had been
her grandmother's—the ones that enticed him even now to press his lips against the
sweetness of her neck.

She reached for his hand, and drew it between them, palm up. He felt the emeralds
fall lightly in the center.

"Micah, please—"

"No." She shook her head. "Those are worth at least the balance, Chance. Keep them
until we sell... just consider it collateral."

He reached for her. She shrugged his touch away. Stiffly she got herself together,
and without another word, strode to the door.

"Wait," he called out. "Let me drive you home."

She paused there, her hand grasping the frame. "I need to be alone. Chance. I... want
to walk awhile. When I get tired, I'll catch a cab. Don't worry about me."

Even with the distance between them, he could see her unsteady hold, the way she trembled.
She turned just enough that their gazes met.

There were volumes spoken in that small silence. They shared a common pain, an unlikely
affinity in this moment—the confusion of how things had gone so wrong.

"How
could
you, Chance?" she whispered suddenly through the falling of her tears. "Can you even
imagine what this does to me?"

He nodded, knowing too well. Her gaze shied away from his, as though even looking
at him was too incisive, the cut too fresh to endure it.

"I know it's too soon," he said quietly, around the unbidden constriction of his throat.
"But when you can start seeing past your own pain, just try to remember that I'm hurting
too."

He wasn't sure, but thought she gave a small, hesitant nod. As she walked away his
feet moved compulsively to the door to watch her as long as he could. Then she was
gone, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. He wanted to curse, he wanted
to go after her and force the earrings back where they belonged. Even more, he wanted
to lay her down and take her to a place where none of this torment existed, where
lips soothed, and bodies forgot.

Chance opened his palm and looked down at the emeralds. He remembered the night on
the porch when he had first touched them, the kisses, the hunger. Then he remembered
the fleeting glance that had passed between them as she had taken them off moments
ago.

Despite her words, despite it all, it was a glance that he clung to now as he let
that final parting mingle with his despair. He grasped the emeralds tight, and shut
his eyes, taking his only comfort in the unspoken message:

She might not like him, she might not trust him. But, thank Heaven, she couldn't stop
loving him.

Chapter 13

Chance listened to the reverberation of the engine, trying to block out the pounding
between his temples. Drumming his fingers on the dash released some of the pent-up
energy that had been building over the past few weeks.