Bad Boy of New Orleans (8 page)

Micah could feel the melting in her, the way her heart shifted at the strength, the
honest need he didn't try to hide. His openness disarmed her in a way force never
would have.

Chance unlocked the door and pushed it open. He looked for a moment into the entry.

"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" he said, almost to himself.

"Yes, it has. Chance."

"Remember when I knocked on the door that night, and your father answered?"

Micah shivered. How well she remembered indeed.

"I'll never forget him telling me you weren't there, and I could see you looking down
from the top of the stairs. I could even see the anger on your face, fighting with
the tears. But still you didn't come down."

She swallowed on the sense of impotence she felt then, the disappointment in herself
for not being brave enough to face down her father.

"I was afraid to. I knew my father would make a scene if I did."

Chance nodded. "Yeah, that's exactly what would have happened. Looking back now though,
I probably would have done the same thing if it had been my daughter. Only I didn't
see it that way then, especially when he reminded me about my reputation and how he
screened your dates. The way he blocked my way with his arm propped against the frame,
I got the message just fine. He wasn't about to let me through that front door for
all the tea in China. When I left for good, that was the image I took with me—because
when I came back, I was determined to have enough clout that he wouldn't dare block
my way again. My mother might have used the back door, but I was damned if I was going
to."

It came back at her. Her frustration at her parents. Chance's bitterness about the
way her parents treated him, about his mother's role as housekeeper in their household...

"I hurt for you, Chance. If only I could have been with you when it happened. If I
could have helped or—"

"You helped. You came to her funeral. It helped... seeing you there."

"She was a good person, Chance. My parents...
I...
well, we appreciated all her..."

"That's okay, Micah. You can say it," he had said sadly. "'All her help.' Let's face
it, she was your maid. As much as I hate what her life was, denying it won't change
a damn thing. Besides, when I start to feel the anger I always remind myself that
at least it brought me to you."

"Micah? Are you still with me?"

She started. For a moment it had seemed so real, she could still feel the rage within
him, the anguish of his mother's loss he had shared with no one but her.

She smiled, relieved to be standing in the present.

"I'm with you. I was just thinking that, maybe—"

"Maybe?" he prompted.

She let him see the hope, the warmth he had brought to the surface. If he could trust
enough to open up, maybe it was time she found the courage to do the same.

"Maybe I could fix dinner one night... but you'd have to come through the front door."

He smiled broadly, and it gave him an almost boyish appearance.

"Dinner one night? Why. Miss Micah, I'd be delighted." He touched the earring once
and then let it fall. "And you know, I've always preferred the front door to the back."

They laughed quietly together in the faded glow of the entry light spilling out and
over them. And then they fell silent with the small distance between them, the mutual
desire still humming.

"Good night. Chance," she said, reluctantly stepping over the threshold and into the
light.

"Yeah, you too...
ma cherie."
Chance leaned forward as though he meant to kiss her again, but almost instantly
he pulled away and took a single step back.

"Tomorrow, then?"

Micah nodded and smiled tentatively, not quite able to reorient herself to the sudden
change. Not really wanting to.

"Ten o'clock. I'll be there."

Chapter 6

At ten minutes of ten Micah stood in the outer waiting area to Chance's office, her
hair down and the emerald earrings dangling beside the dark tresses. She nervously
glanced into a mirror hanging over a plush couch across from the secretary's empty
desk.

She had agonized over what to wear, wondered if Chance would notice the earrings or
the hair, and hoped he'd had as much trouble sleeping as she had. The mirror told
her the concealer had done a decent job of hiding the circles beneath her eyes.

Her stomach churned with the knowledge Chance was on the other side of the door. The
lobby she was waiting in was starkly beautiful, obviously professionally decorated.
She'd always known where Chance had his offices, she'd even driven past several times
on the pretext of going somewhere else; but she'd never been inside until now.

The secretary had apparently stepped out for a few minutes, and rather than fidget
alone, she decided to go ahead and confront Chance.

Tapping lightly on the heavy door, she waited for Chance to open it, or at least to
say "Come in."

No sound. Maybe if she just cracked it ajar to call out to let him know she was here...

"—I don't give a damn what it takes! Just hang him. No, I don't want him fired! I
want him worse than fired—demoted until he's back where he started—"

There was a small silence while Chance stood with his back to her, facing the wall
of windows which magnificently displayed the dark sheen of the Mississippi River.

She knew she should move away, go back to the outer office, but the vindictive chill
of his voice seemed to pin her where she stood. Cold fingers of warning wrapped themselves
around her heart, telling her to stay away from
this
Chance, the one who was heartless and cruel. The one that made her want to cry because
he defamed a part of himself, the part that made her weak with longing.

He cursed into the receiver again. "Then what's taking so long? You've had a month—"

Micah swallowed hard as he swung around abruptly. His eyes were flat, biting hard
for that split second before he saw her. And then they changed: Sudden delight, then
realization that she had heard—wariness now as she stood with her eyes wide, a stricken
look on her face she couldn't hide away before he saw it.

"I'll get back to you on this."

He hung up without saying "good-bye," and for a moment they stood watching each other.

Chance raked a hand through his thick, dark hair, mussing it so that he looked even
more inviting. Micah tried to disregard it. Just as she tried to disregard the way
his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the masculine appeal of hair covering his forearms,
the tops of his hands. A man's hands that were large, well formed, and looked as though
they had done years of hard labor despite the careful way they were kept. She wrenched
her gaze away as it began to descend to his hips, and encountered the tie he'd already
loosened around his neck.

It was almost ten o'clock in the morning and Chance looked as though he'd been working
since the crack of dawn. He probably had. He was the hardest worker she'd ever known,
always had been. Micah gave herself a mental shake. She couldn't excuse his behavior
just because he applied his energy to it.

Chance smiled at her hesitantly. He came forward, his hands outstretched.

"Micah, you're early! Come in, I wasn't expecting you just yet."

He closed the distance quickly, but didn't reach for her.

"I... gathered that," she said hesitantly. "I didn't mean to intrude, Chance. But
the sec—"

"You, intrude? Never. But I'm sorry you had to catch the lion in his den. It's just"—he
shrugged his shoulders indifferently—"business."

She couldn't think of an appropriate response that didn't sound judgmental. She remained
still as they silently measured each other. Last night had been glorious beyond words.
Now they were stilted. Too carefully polite.

Chance was the first to speak. "You look lovely, Micah. I like your hair down." He
smiled disarmingly and touched the emerald dangling from her lobe. "And you wore the
earrings. For me... I hope?"

The war waged within. Part of her still abhorring what she'd walked in on; the other
half thrilling to the words he spoke so gently, moving her with the lightness of his
touch, his notice of such little things.

She started to lie, to say no. But he wouldn't have believed her anyway.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, Chance. I did wear them for you."

He reached for her hands, and this time she didn't draw back. Not even when he bent
swiftly to brush his lips over her cheek. The skin prickled on the nape of her neck.

"You just made my day," he said.

She coughed and glanced away, trying to cover up the intimacy that was pulling at
her, trying to remind herself why she was here.

"Remember? No special treatment," she teased, trying to ease the building tension.
"I just hope the lion doesn't decide to sharpen his claws on me too."

Chance threw his head back and laughed. His laugh was rough, a little alien sounding,
and she realized it was a sound she hadn't heard often.

He led her to a sleekly styled chair in front of his desk, then went around and sat
down, forming a steeple with his fingertips.

"So you want to start a business."

"That's right. Something I can call my own."

"It's a jungle out there. Think you can handle it?"

"I don't see that I have much choice. It's either that or starve." She smoothed her
hand over her skirt self-consciously and noticed Chance's gaze followed the movement,
lingering at her legs. "Besides," she went on, hoping he'd look back up, "I seem to
have this driving urge to prove something to myself. I want to accomplish something
with my life. It doesn't have to be grand, especially not at first. But I have to
start somewhere." As she fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, Chance looked back up
and smiled. He was obviously enjoying himself.

"Then I'm glad you came to me. You're right if you think I'm tough. Mean, too, if
you ask the right people. But I won't steer you wrong, Micah. And believe it or not,
I usually try to be fair. Even where others are concerned."

He reached to the side of his desk and pulled a thick manila folder off a pile of
papers that were neatly arranged. Opening the folder, he flipped through several pages
before picking up a gold pen that matched half a dozen gold accessories on the heavy
mahogany desk. He seemed to be squinting as he went through the papers, then with
a scowl, he opened the top drawer and withdrew—glasses?

"Reading glasses," he said, before gliding his finger along the bridge of his nose.
He perused the papers while she watched him, feeling for some strange, inexplicable
reason that he looked appealingly vulnerable. Especially the way he seemed to disdain
them, keeping them hidden as long as possible as though it hurt his pride to be less
than perfect.

"I like the glasses, Chance. They make you look—" she tilted her head, considering,
"distinguished."

He glanced up from the papers and seemed to be expecting something insincere or teasing
in the remark. Finding none, he nodded and grinned.

"Thanks. I hate the damn things. I think they make me look... dull as dishwater."
He shrugged.

"Dull?" Micah couldn't keep back the hoot of laughter. "You, Chance? Dull? As dishwater?
The bad boy of New Orleans is going to hurt his reputation if he keeps talking like
that."

He grinned then began to laugh too. "I love to hear you laugh, Micah. If wearing these
is what it takes, I'll resign myself to the duration. I'm totally unscrupulous in
my methods when it comes to you, you know."

Micah didn't doubt that for one minute, and the laughter died as the truth of that
single statement sunk in. Chance seemed to realize his mistake, and covered up the
ensuing silence as he poured over the papers once more.

"So," he said. "You're interested in rental property, right?"

One... two... three... the seconds ticked past as Micah absorbed what he'd just said.
When had she told Chance about her plans? She couldn't remember... because she hadn't.
She was sure of it.