Bad Boy of New Orleans (3 page)

"You
say
no. Why do I get the feeling you're lying to me? To yourself? Don't ever try to take
deception up for a living, Micah. You're lousy at it."

"Too bad you're not."

Micah regretted the words as soon as they were out. For so brief an instant she wondered
if she had imagined it, she could have sworn she saw him grimace.

"He really did a number on you, didn't he?" Chance laughed then, a little unpleasantly,
and she decided the moment of vulnerability had been in her imagination after all.

Before she could reply, Chance reached down and opened the door, stepping back to
swing it out. She got in quickly, needing to get away as fast as she could before
doing something totally insane—like giving into the urgent voice, the one without
reason, that cried out for her to take the risk.

Chance bent down so his head was level with hers. "A little more time, Micah? I've
waited years, what's a few more weeks?"

He studied her face then, and Micah did her best to shut him out, not to acknowledge
the exhilaration that came with his nearness, or the acute, unwanted things he was
doing to her inside and out. She felt confined by her own emotions, and the tension
between them was stretched so taut, she expected to hear something snap.

Then for a frozen, heart-stopping moment he bent close as though he meant to kiss
her.

Micah heard her own breath hiss through her teeth as Chance fastened her seat belt.

"You can run, Micah," he whispered, his face scant inches from hers. "You can run
as fast and as hard as those sweet, long legs can take you, but in the end you'll
still run to me. Because I'll be there every which way you turn. And Micah," he touched
her cheek with the tips of his fingers, and she felt the jolt of that touch down to
the pit of her stomach. "Remember. When you've got no one else to go to, you know
where to find me."

Micah couldn't bear to look into his searching gaze a moment longer. She shut her
eyes against him and turned the key hard in the ignition, revving the engine.

She heard the heavy thud of his own door over the throbbing pulse pounding against
her temples. His engine purred, and she opened her eyes against her will, stealing
a last, furtive glance in the rearview mirror. His darkened window slid down in a
smooth, gliding motion. Too quick for her to look away, he tilted his head and raised
a brow. Then with a casual wave he took off in his sleek black car.

A Lamborghini, she reflected wryly. It suited the man—fast and used to owning the
road, nudging out anything that got in its way.

Like Chance.

He had been known to be cruel, ruthless. A man, Micah thought, who some believed had
no capacity for tenderness, for love. She could almost believe that, although she
knew otherwise. She
needed
to believe that, and she could. As long as she didn't remember...

Chapter 2

Ian Fields peered at her over the rim of his bifocals, his pot belly hidden behind
the mammoth banker's desk. Micah sat in silence while his voice droned on from what
seemed a very great distance. She was relieved that his shocking news had at least
stunned the tears right out of her.

"I'm sorry, Ian. Did you ask me something?"

"I asked if you had a job yet?"

She shook her head and laughed with a cynicism that wasn't in her nature. "I've been
looking. There seems to be a shortage of jobs for sociology majors without any experience.
Or 'purveyors of line antiques' whose century-old family business went belly up five
years after she inherited it. Other than that, social position and volunteer work
don't seem to count for much in the employment line."

Ian wrinkled his forehead in concentration. "Do you type? Take dictation? Any secretarial
experience?"

She blew the air between her lips in a sound of disgust. "If I could have a dollar
for every time I've been asked that question in the last month, I wouldn't be asking
you for a loan. And I wouldn't be trying to start my own business."

"Collateral?"

"Just what's on the loan application—my car. I didn't want to list the house." Micah
almost wished he'd ordered her out the door several minutes ago. At least then she
wouldn't have to endure this conversation.

"That's good. After all, it did belong to your grandparents, and the bank could take
it away if you didn't make your payments."

"Which apparently makes no difference either way. You won't lend me the money."

Slowly, firmly, Ian shook his head. "As hard as it is for me to be telling you this,
it's just the facts. A bank is a business, not a charity."

Micah cleared her throat, the word trying to crawl its way back up.
Charity. She,
who hadn't dreamed of asking for anything once in her whole life, who had been raised
to wear her pride like a mantle of honor—
she
did
not
take charity.

Abruptly she stood up, grabbing her purse off the floor. Very stiffly, Micah offered
her hand. Ian rose to his feet and accepted the brief handshake, visibly relieved
she was leaving.

"Thank you, Mr. Fields. I believe you've made your position quite clear, so I won't
take up any more of your time. Good day."

She swung around, her back as rigid as a military cadet's, and started for the door.

"Micah, wait! Don't leave like this." Ian came around the desk as quickly as his girth
allowed. He caught up with her and placed a restraining hand over her arm. "Maybe
we could work something out. A personal loan... some kind of understanding between
us."

She
must
have misunderstood him, misinterpreted the inflection in his voice that sent instinctive
chills of revulsion up her spine. Then she looked down at his pudgy hand stroking
her arm and removed it from his touch with a feeling of utter disgust. She risked
a glance into his face, hoping to see the jovial, benign old man she had known for
so long, wanting to find that she had imagined the whole episode.

Something glittered behind the glasses he wore. It was a look that even in her limited
experience Micah recognized.

"Keep the loan," she said coldly, though she couldn't keep her voice from shaking.
"I don't take charity. And I'm not collateral."

Quickly then, Micah strode out the door and closed it firmly behind her.

"I can handle this," she said aloud to herself. What had just happened, didn't happen.
It couldn't have.

Although she knew it had.

She hurried on, wanting to get away as quickly as possible.

Several people greeted her, but the best she could do was nod her head while she kept
walking fast, then faster, trying not to think any further than reaching her car.

"Micah."

Chance.

She quickened her pace, unable to look at him, much less return his greeting.

He grabbed her arm and brought her up short.

"Let go, Chance." The anger, the anguish was too close to the surface, and right now
she didn't even care if he heard it.

"Did you hear me?" she said through clenched teeth. "I said, 'Let... Go.' "

An immediate, uncanny understanding registered in his eyes. "What happened?" he demanded
gruffly.

"What happened? Oh, nothing. Just that I found out Jonathon withdrew the last of my
inheritance the week before he died. Just that he had credit and I didn't because
I was too naive, too
damned
ignorant to realize I had to sign some stupid papers to—"

"Micah, don't." His voice was firm but quiet, a commanding contrast to her rising
rage.

"Don't what?" she flung out, managing to keep her voice lowered in spite of the urge
to yell. "Don't get upset because it makes no difference I've had an account here
for years, or that my parents, even my grandparents, did business with these... these
jerks
before I was even born? Oh, and let's not forget that above all, this
is
a
business. Not
a
charity."

Chance at least had the decency to appear stunned. And then she noticed he hadn't
let go yet. In fact, he was tightening his hold and starting to escort her out of
the bank as he spoke with a concern that even in her agitated state was unmistakable.

"For the love of... Micah, what in the world happened in there? I've never seen you
so upset. So help me, if anyone's been mistreating you, I'll—"

"You'll what? Punch their lights out? Withdraw your money and give up your seat on
the board of directors? Save yourself the trouble, Chance. It won't make a damned
bit of difference. The only thing that's going to change is me."

They were outside and she whirled around, palm flush against her chest. Her eyes snapped
emerald fire, and without the restraint of an audience, she gave in to the impulse
to raise her voice.

"Look at me, Chance. Twenty-eight years old, and with nothing to show for it. I've
got less now than I had ten years ago. Well, I'm tired of going through life like
a helpless, simpering fool without the ability to stand on my own two feet—needing
my family, or a man to keep me financially secure. And obviously there's plenty out
there happy to do just that as long as I'm willing to pay with interest. Not money,
of course. Just sexual favors."

Chance's features changed before her eyes. Something very hard and mean and dark was
carved into his face, as though he was suddenly cast in granite.

"Has some man tried to come on to you like that?" he demanded harshly.

"I—" Her voice dropped to a whisper.

Caution sounded in her head. Chance was ready to make an ugly situation into a field
of carnage. He wouldn't just tell Ian to back off, he'd draw blood then drown him
in it. As much as she'd like to see Ian brought to task, she would not be responsible
for his ruin.

"Answer me, Micah." Chance caught her arms in a steely grip and brought his face close
to hers. His brows were drawn together and his teeth were clenched.

"No," she said. "No one. I was just upset, that's all."

"I don't believe you. If someone's been hitting on you, you'd better tell me.
Now."

"I don't have to tell you anything, Chance Renault. Now take your hands off me, because
if anyone's been hitting on me, it's you."

This time he flinched, Micah was sure of it. She had wronged him, and she knew it.
She felt herself cringe inside for hurting this man she had loved above all others.
This man she must now avoid above all others.

"I'll see you to your car," he said in a tight voice. "Where are you parked?"

Micah looked away, unable to meet his gaze a moment longer. She saw her BMW a few
cars down, and Chance followed her train of vision.

He loosened his hold and led her over to her car in silence.

Micah let herself in, still not risking another glance at Chance.

"When you're through being mad at the world in general," he said, leaning down, "and
me in particular, call me. Or come see me. Morning, evening, middle of the night.
I don't care when, because I'll be waiting. For you, Micah. It's always been you and
no matter how many times you turn me away, I'll never forget the way your mouth tastes,
or how it felt when you took me inside and wrapped your legs around me and told me
you loved me."

She gasped, suddenly speechless.

"I thought that would get your attention." She looked away quickly, and his face hardened
with resolution.

"Oh, you can try to forget it, Micah. You can pretend it never happened. But it did.
It was the best thing that had ever happened to me then, and nothing's come close
since. Only don't take too much longer, Micah. Twelve years is a long time, and even
I have my limits."

He touched her hair then, grazed his fingertips over her flushed cheek, letting them
linger. He could feel her muscles tighten beneath his touch, and suddenly he jerked
away, fighting the urge to haul her out of the car and kiss her as he longed to do.
Without a backward glance, he strode toward the bank.

* * *