Bad Boy of New Orleans (5 page)

At intermission she was relieved to have the excuse to escape to the ladies' room.
Elliot seemed in need of constant conversation, and it was just a little more than
she was up to right now.

Serves you right,
her conscience taunted. Yogurt might not be Chateaubriand, but at least she could
keep her self-esteem while she ate it in the hot, muggy house. Just thinking about
the heat waiting at home made her feel a surge of appreciation for the cool jets of
air flowing around the rest room.

Micah touched up her makeup, then glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror.
Her dress was elegantly simple—a strapless white silk. It plunged so that her throat
was left bare to reveal the necklace of a single emerald nestled in the hollow there,
setting off the brilliant luster of matching stones which dropped in gold filigree
from her ears.

The set was her grandmother's. She realty should have sold it along with the rest
of her jewelry, but when the jeweler started to reach for the set, she had instinctively
covered them with her hand, and told him they were no longer for sale.

Although she was tempted to stay rooted in the ladies' room for the duration of the
evening, good manners dictated that she go find Elliot at their appointed meeting
place—beside the champagne table. She shut the clasp to her gold-beaded bag, gritted
her teeth, and left.

Micah decided he must have been watching for her, and tried, to ignore the twinge
of irritation when he gestured from the distance, champagne glass in hand. The smile
she wore was vague, and she was glad she didn't have to meet his eyes as she wove
her way through the mass of people. When he was only a few feet away, she realized
her mistake.

"Look who's here, Micah. We were waiting for you."

The limp feeling she had been fighting throughout the evening surged into an explosion
of anticipation, of apprehension. Something like a light went on inside her head,
and she felt simultaneously giddy and bereft.

It was the gorgeous blonde draped on Chance's arm that caused her heart to drop flat.
Micah had thought she looked alluring, but she felt dull in this woman's radiant shadow.

"I'm glad to see you're out of mourning, Micah. White suits you a lot better than
black." Chance smiled politely, then reached for her hand and pressed a light kiss
to it. With a shock she felt his tongue flick over her skin. He did it so discreetly,
so skillfully, no one else seemed to notice what he'd done.

He let go and turned back to his date, and made the polite introductions. Micah realized
with a start she was standing there with her mouth dropped open and quickly closed
it.

Elliot said something, and she nodded, without even hearing a word he'd said. How
could Chance have done it so easily—scaled her protective wall before she could erect
a single defense? She felt stunned, rendered helpless to her need for him, the need
that had been growing since she had come to realize it was only her keeping them apart
now.

Elliot cleared his throat. "The curtain must be about to open. They're flicking the
lights. Shall we go, Micah?"

Mutely she nodded as Elliot nudged her toward the door. With an unprecedented surge
of jealousy Micah watched as the other woman clung to Chance's arm. He slipped Micah
a satisfied smile, and she knew he was pleased by her own artless reaction. Then he
fit his arm snugly about the woman's waist and pulled her closer. The coup de grace
left Micah feeling wounded. She couldn't have hurt more if someone had driven a knife
between her ribs.

He raised a single dark brow in her direction, and the silent message he sent was
clear.
Come to me, Micah. Come to me soon. If you don't, someone else gladly will.

Micah could feel herself flush with the stinging heat suffusing her cheeks. How adept
he was at the game. How ingenuous she must appear in comparison.

And wasn't she?

The whole episode was a biting reminder of just how out of her league he was. That
woman he was with suited him. She was probably a model, or a professional of some
sort. And what was she? A twenty-eight-year-old woman who couldn't get a job, had
managed to screw up her life despite all her childhood advantages, and was just now
starting to 'find herself'. The comparison was disgusting.

By the time she took her seat again in the theater, Micah was miserable. But somewhere
from the far reaches a tiny voice emerged, refusing to be shut down. It insisted that
she would learn, that she was a good person who deserved a good life. She must not
give up.

The voice was faint, but it sufficed. She squared her shoulders and mustered a slight
smile, determined to salvage the evening with as much grace as she could.

The smile didn't reach her eyes. But Elliot smiled back and she knew it was enough.

* * *

"Well, good night, Elliot. Thank you for a lovely evening."

Micah extended her hand and Elliot hesitated, then took it and squeezed. He bent forward
and kissed her lightly on the lips.

It felt strange to have another man touch her. She didn't find it unpleasant, but
it wasn't overly exciting either. It was just... strange, unfamiliar.

She was glad he didn't try to linger or deepen the kiss as she pulled away. Micah
smiled and said "Good night" once more, then turned to unlock her front door. As she
twisted the key she felt Elliot's hand come over hers.

"Wait, Micah. I want to talk with you about something." Elliot kept his voice low,
almost intimate.

It was all she could do not to groan aloud.

"Elliot," she said firmly, "I'm not interested in continuing the evening."

Elliot coughed and looked slightly embarrassed as he glanced away.

"It's not exactly that." He paused then went on, looking at her uneasily. "I have
an IOU, Micah. Jonathon's signature is on it. If you can, I need you to make good
on his debt." He hesitated, then added, "It's for five thousand dollars."

Micah was stunned. He wasn't interested in her, he just wanted his money!

"Money?" she asked on a short, incredulous laugh. "I'm sorry, Elliot, you didn't beat
the crowd. People had to take a number to get their cut. I didn't realize half the
population of New Orleans played poker with my late husband until the day after he
died."

Elliot looked down to the ground, then up again, his eyes skittering uneasily away
from hers.

"When can you pay it then?"

Micah could feel the gathering rise of her temper. She couldn't seem to get away from
the ever-present worry about money no matter what. Her instincts took over, and she
struck back in self-defense.

"When I have it and not before," she said through clenched teeth. "Now leave, Elliot.
And don't call me again. We might not have had much to talk about before, but we have
nothing to discuss after tonight."

She stared him down, and it was with a delicious sense of triumph that Micah watched
him walk away until he got into his car and drove off.

Her face felt unnaturally tight, and her raw nerves seemed dangerously close to snapping
now that she was alone and could lower her guard.

Pressing her forehead against the dark wood, she fought the urge to slump into a heap
on the porch and sob her misery aloud. Micah drew a deep, shaky breath as she bent
to twist the key in the bronzed lock, and it was then she heard the footsteps. They
were heavy and deliberate as they came closer. She looked up and her heart stopped
in mid beat.

Chapter 4

Chance had been waiting for a good twenty minutes before he heard the car pull up
in Micah's driveway. He was leaning against the side of the veranda, away from their
sight, but positioned so that he could see a thin strip of the couple walking hand
in hand up the steps to the front door.

His own hands curled tight around the wood supporting him, so tight he could feel
a splinter digging its way beneath the skin of a finger. He knew it was wrong, but
he couldn't stop himself from listening and watching.

Chance tried to decipher just what it was he was feeling as he watched their brief
kiss. Hard as he wanted to believe he had evolved beyond jealousy or making his point
with a fist, in that moment he knew it was a lie.

All the old emotions roiled inside of him, the baseness of rage and possessiveness.
He might have done a good job of polishing his image, but the man on the inside hadn't
changed much.

Micah was his one weakness. Despite his wealth and power, he still felt something
lacking. She was the one thing he'd wanted and never had. Watching Micah with Elliot
now only steeled his resolve to win her back, never to let another man touch her again.
She belonged to him body and soul, and he was going to make damn sure she realized
it.

Their kiss ended quickly and Chance loosened his grip upon the railing. His mouth
settled into a satisfied smile as he saw her turn back to the door, obviously putting
an early end to the night.

Then he saw Elliot restraining her hand, and his slight smile faded while he fought
the impulse to bound out of the shadows and thrust him away. When Elliot began speaking
to her again, Chance leaned forward, straining to hear.

What he heard brought a mixed reaction. He wasn't surprised, of course. Jonathon had
owed a lot of money to a lot of people.

But now it seemed Elliot was hassling her. Chance almost gave himself away, by stepping
in to tell the guy to shove off when Micah turned on him. Chance was proud of the
way she stood up for herself, seeing a building strength.

Elliot turned away, leaving quickly. And then he was gone. Even from the distance
Chance could see the strain in her features, the hollowness of her cheekbones accentuated
by the shadows of dark chasing across her face.

Micah.
How many years had that name haunted him? Asleep, awake, even when he tried to blot
it out of his mind in a thousand different ways, with a host of different women. He
had a secret, a very private one. Each woman in the dark had become Micah in that
fleeting moment of release. The act may have started with someone else, but in his
mind it always ended with her.

And there she was, so close he could speak and she would hear him in the near silence
of night sounds. She twisted the key, and his legs moved of their own volition, taking
several steps away from the darkness and into the shadow of half-light.

"I've been waiting."

Micah jerked as though startled by the sound of his voice. She turned quickly to face
him, and Chance could feel his heart tighten, his loins quicken.
Damn her
that she should have that kind of hold over him.

"Chance," she whispered and stepped back as he came closer.

He hated seeing the wariness creep across her face.

"Why are you here?" she rushed on suddenly as he walked deliberately toward her.

"Why?" he asked, still walking until he stopped less than an arm's length away. "What
do
you
think? Go ahead, Micah, go ahead and say it. Tell me why I'm here."

Chance could see the changes click in one by one. The way she began to breathe faster,
the wariness in her eyes changing to a darker shade of emerald, as though she were
responding already against her will.

"We both know why you're here," she finally said. "And it's impossible." She took
a protective step back toward the door.

"Stop it," he commanded. "Just stop what you're doing
right now."
His voice came out harsher than he meant it to as he gripped her wrist and pulled
her toward him.

Micah did stop. She went very still. Only her face was animated, and it was the fear
in it that goaded Chance to smash the defenses she was throwing up faster than he
could hurdle them.

He let her wrist go only to lay his hands over the soft ripple of muscle beneath her
upper arms.

"Quit running from me, Micah. Quit running from yourself. That's the coward's way
out,
ma cher.
You said you wanted to stand on your own two feet. Well, go ahead. Do it. Prove to
us both that you're tough, brave. Face the truth for once, the truth about us. Cards
on the table, Micah. The stakes are high, so take your best shot."