Bad Boy of New Orleans (2 page)

Micah stretched her anticipation to the limit. So little to look forward to these
days, she relished the small intrigue. As she touched gardenias, bird of paradise,
and several varieties of orchids, she eyed the tempting envelope beneath the petal
of an orange tiger lily.

Once opened, she had to go back to the dismal prospects awaiting her attention in
the fireplace.

All the better to make this last; play a game with no rules beyond her imagination.
A game she'd been playing from the single red rose to the potted philodendron to the
daisies and baby's breath to...
this.
A celebration bouquet.

Now... who could it be? They had to come from the same person. After all, how many
people would send thirty arrangements without so much as a note? It had to be someone
who realized she loved flowers more than chocolate. Someone who knew her well enough
not to send a note since she would have called with her thanks but refused such extravagance
after a few bouquets. A person who might know she was going crazy by mid-morning without
even the comfort of work to lose herself in, and who made sure they came before noon
each day.

Micah glided a fingertip over the envelope, then plucked it from the mauve satin bow.
Could it be an aunt or cousin, some other relation? Not likely. She was almost shunned
as a black sheep after losing most of her inheritance.

Perhaps a business associate? She owed most of them money.

Maybe one of the charities to which she belonged? They were usually after her for
more donations, and lately she hadn't had any to contribute.

Then, it had to be one of the good-hearted matrons whom she'd known all her life in
the social arena. Only they had stopped calling and bringing covered dishes over two
weeks ago.

A last possibility emerged. One she tried to shut out each time she played this little
game. She usually managed to ignore the way he constantly hovered on the fringes of
her every waking moment. But as always he didn't fight fair. He came to her at night,
penetrating her dreams.

Suddenly the game was no longer fun. Her hands felt damper than the shirt clinging
to her skin, and she fumbled awkwardly getting the message out.

Her mouth went dry. Her unsteady hand lost its grip of the card, and she watched in
paralytic fascination as the familiar handwriting sailed awkwardly to the polished
oak floor. Micah hesitated, wondering if she was wise to even touch the note again.

She couldn't just leave it there. "Pick it up," she ordered herself. "Pick it up.
Throw it away. Along with the flowers."

She bent down, her movements jerky as a marionette on a string. When her fingers brushed
over the paper, a rush of forbidden excitement swept through to heat each cell of
her body. Her eyes were drawn uncontrollably to the words she'd memorized at first
glance:

Flowers are for the living, not the dead.

You know where to find me.

Chance

She began to rip the card in half, as though she could banish the man as easily. The
paper sighed as she tore at it, but before it was half-done, she stopped.

She touched the flare of his signature. She pressed her lips against the boldness
of his message.

Chance Renault.
Some people said he'd traded his soul for his fortune, and knowing Chance, she wouldn't
be surprised. Chance was too ambitious, too single-minded. Word was, he didn't possess
a single scruple.

She could almost believe it of him. Once, he'd made her almost believe it of herself.
For her, Chance was as addictive as an illegal drug—dangerous, forbidden, a poison
her system craved.

She knew she wouldn't throw the card away.

She would take it and hide it in her drawer where she couldn't see the temptation
it represented.

She turned toward the stairs leading to the bedroom, but caught sight of herself in
the entry mirror. Her cheeks were flushed with color, and there was a glow that was
almost radiance in her face. Disgusted with herself, she turned abruptly away, determined
not to smell the flowers again. She proved her strength by not even looking at them.

Halfway up the landing, Micah stopped. She tried, she really did. But as though her
body had a will all its own, she did a quarter turn.

Just far enough to thrill once more to the ominous beauty of the celebration bouquet.

* * *

Chance sat in the driver's seat of his sleek black Lamborghini. The engine idled in
a companionable silence while he stared out the darkly tinted window toward the front
veranda of Micah's century-old house. He noticed it needed some fresh paint.

"The grieving widow," Chance muttered to himself.

The door opened and Micah stood there, poised for a moment, as though she sensed his
presence. Chance knew he should leave before she spotted him, especially since he'd
sworn to wait her out. Except he'd been waiting over a month, and the daily flowers
didn't seem to be luring her closer, the way they were meant to. Besides, she looked
too good in the gauzy tropical sundress to tear his eyes away from the creamy skin
which, even from a distance, made his fingers itch to touch.

He turned off the ignition, and let the car go dead. Leaving would be smart. But when
he thought of Micah, his smarts—street and otherwise—didn't seem to exist.

She'd been doing that to him for a very long time. Long before she'd hooked up with
Jonathon, that gutless wonder of a husband who had finally had the decency to kick
off and save Micah the pain of a nasty divorce. Unfortunately he'd left a mess behind
for her to clean up anyway.

Micah was rummaging in her purse now, probably looking for her car keys, Chance guessed.
Her silky black hair was coming loose from the clasp he knew she usually wore. He
wished she would just let it fall loose—over her shoulders, around her sweet, open
face. The one that now seemed so strained, so anxious. Even from a distance he could
see a pinched look around her eyes. Usually a sparkling jade, they seemed tired, not
hers at all.

Chance's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and his jaw clenched with anger.
The bastard. How he hated that man. Not only for taking what should have been his,
but for not having had the decency to at least take care of her once he did have her;
for gambling her security away.

Chance knew he was no angel himself; he had his own share of favorite vices. With
money to burn, he had discovered poker was a pleasant enough way to play with it.
Carefully, of course—he'd done without too long to risk losing much. But he was good,
and certainly didn't mind lightening someone else's pockets.

Anyone's, really. Except for Jonathon's. Because Jonathon had gambled and lost the
last of both his and Micah's inherited money, Chance had always felt distaste when
he took Jonathon on in a card game. He wouldn't have stooped to playing with him,
except the only way to pick up bits and pieces of information on Micah was when Jonathon's
tongue loosened from too much booze.

More than once he'd used every shred of willpower he possessed not to jump across
the table to get at the drunken slob for making some offhanded comment about her.
Only one thing was worse. The sick feeling he got every time Jonathon left for the
night. Home to Micah. Home, where he had the legal right to touch her and make love
to her, to be all the things that Chance longed to be.

Now he was dead. Chance grinned mirthlessly as he mused that by plunging off a narrow
bridge and drowning in the car, Jonathon had died with more style than he'd lived.
That should mean Micah had double indemnity coming her way with the insurance, and
Lord knew she probably deserved—and needed—every penny.

She was halfway to the carriage house where she kept her car, bypassing the fuchsia
blooms of azalea bushes without bending to smell them as she usually did when he was
watching. He studied her as she walked, the hurried way she passed through the black
grille work of the iron gate surrounding the house. As Micah got into her car, an
older model BMW, Chance idly wondered how many more miles she had left in the thing.

Before he gave himself time to think about it, he turned on the ignition. With perfect
timing he backed up until he blocked the driveway just as she pulled out of the carriage
house to navigate her way down the narrow strip of asphalt.

Chance climbed out of his car, knowing she'd seen him. He saw her hesitate and wondered
if she would simply head back to the carriage house. He felt sure Micah was a little
afraid of being alone with him.
Smart lady,
he thought.

He leaned back against the car, casually crossing his arms. He fixed her with a steady,
mocking stare and waited to see if she would rise to the silent challenge.

* * *

Micah held her breath until her lungs felt as if they might burst from the pressure.
Her skin prickled as Chance continued to watch her with a cool, predatory stance that
belonged solely to him. Even in his tailored suit he looked like a man who would be
more at home in a leather jacket. A black one—to match his dark, brooding features,
his cutting edge presence.

She felt a sudden impulse to gun the car forward, fast enough to burn rubber. Instead,
she reached for the handle to let herself out, hating the way her hands were suddenly
damp, the way they trembled. Her legs weren't doing much better as she approached
him. She held her back erect though, and fixed what she hoped was a stern expression
on her face.

"Chance." She greeted him warily.

"Glad you decided to stay, Micah."

Damn him anyway,
she felt like screaming.

Couldn't he have the decency to stay away from new widows? And couldn't he look just
a little less cocky, a little less blatantly sure of his masculine prowess?

"It is my driveway. Chance." She managed to sound in control, and was proud of herself
for that. "Were you ready to leave?"

Chance didn't flinch or raise an eyebrow. "Nice try, Micah. But I don't buy it. Why
don't we get the preliminaries over with? Say you'll see me Saturday night, then we
can talk."

"You seem to forget that I'm in mourning. Jonathon's only been gone six weeks, Chance.
Can't you show a little respect?"

Chance pushed away from his car and came closer. Micah could feel her heart begin
to race even faster, and for a horrifying moment she thought she was going to hyperventilate
in front of him. Micah took a self-protective step back, and then another, and another
until she backed herself against the BMW. She reached for the handle behind her, not
quite sure what she meant to do.

He quickly closed the small distance and propped his arm beside her on the roof of
the car. "Respect?" Chance's voice was smooth. "You know I respect you."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she retorted, flustered now.

"Come on, Micah," Chance said, his voice holding a trace of bitterness. "He was a
sorry excuse for a man and you know it." He cocked his head as though expecting a
reaction, but when she looked away, he went on relentlessly.

"In fact, I'm curious. Tell me what kind of legacy he left you now that his gambling
buddies have had a chance to come collect their debts."

Micah drew her breath in sharply. "That's none of your business," she snapped. "And
I am none of your business. Leave me alone, Chance. Go toy with someone who wants
to play your games."

Micah tried to fling the car door open, to make him step away. Chance caught the door
and slammed it shut. His hand was braced against it, and Micah couldn't seem to tear
her gaze away from the leashed strength of his arm, the near mahogany color of his
sun-glazed skin, the rough, dark hair covering his wrist. Chance caught her chin with
his free hand and made her look at him. She tried to flinch away from his touch. A
touch she couldn't wipe out, no matter how hard she tried to forget she had succumbed
to it years ago. She thrilled to it even now.

"Toy? Games?" he repeated in a low voice. "I'm disappointed in you, Micah. Because
if one of us is guilty of playing games, it's you. Now face the truth and admit it.
You want to see me, you
need
to see me, as much as I—" He stopped suddenly, his fist striking a soft blow against
the top of her car.
"Damn.
If you'd only waited when I asked, we would have happened a long time ago. We've
lost too many years already. I'm not willing to lose any more."

He wasn't hurting her, but the subdued force of his hand was intimidating, and strangely
exciting. So were his words. She didn't hear the accusation in them she'd expected,
but the underlying command was just short of domination. The force of his touch, his
nearness, his penetrating gaze boring into hers suddenly threatened to swallow her
whole.

In a surge of self-protection Micah jerked her chin away, refusing to meet his eyes
a moment longer.

"Please leave."

"Look at me and say that, then maybe I'll believe you."

Micah forced her eyes to meet his once more for a brief, agonizing moment. "The answer
is no," she said, her voice sounding like a plea in her own ears.