Bad Boy of New Orleans (10 page)

He took the sheet from her sticky grasp, and Micah couldn't help but notice the way
his arm muscles rippled in the sleeveless old football jersey as he strained to reach
the upper edge of the wall. The jersey rode up, giving more than a glimpse of the
taut dark skin of his waist, the even darker hair tapering from his chest and plunging
beneath his jeans. It left her with little doubt that Chance had managed to only get
better with age.

"You're not watching... at least not where you should be."

Micah's gaze swung upward, encountering an amused, if not possibly smug expression
on his face. Her own face colored immediately.

"I... I—" She felt foolish, caught like that.

"Yes?"

He raised a brow, throwing her balance off even more as he reached for the roller
lying beside her. He leaned down close so that his arm brushed against her bare legs.
Despite the shorts she wore, Micah felt next to naked from the contact.

"I was just wondering about Europe."

"What do you want to know?"

Oh, nothing, she wanted to say. Just things like, who were you sleeping with there,
what kind of life were you leading while I waited for you to come back?

He stood upright again, brushing her leg once more as he did. He handed Micah the
roller and motioned for her to do the honors. She tried to ignore the prickle of gooseflesh,
and stepped onto the stool that put them at eye level, then began to roll the air
bubbles out.

"When were you there?" So much for the questions she really wanted to ask.

"About two years after I left New Orleans."

"For how long?"

"Long enough." He pried up an edge of the paper and smoothed it out. "Go over that
again."

"How long is long enough?"

"You don't give up easy, do you?"

"Not when I want to weasel some information out of you, I don't." She laughed and
went over the place he'd indicated. "Besides, you're so mysterious about it, you made
me curious."

"Did it ever occur to you maybe there's a reason for that?"

"What, did you end up on the wrong side of a gun when a peasant farmer caught you
with his daughter?"

She meant for her words to come out lightly, a joke. But instead the words hung suspended
and heavy. She looked straight ahead at the wall.

Chance caught the hand she had clutched tight about the roller. Her movements had
stilled, and slowly, steadily he began the up-and-down motions again. His chest was
so close to her back, she could hear his breathing, feel the heat of their bodies
mingling, though nothing touched but his hand at her wrist.

"Is that what you think?" he said quietly, close to her ear.

She shivered at the wisp of his breath fanning her neck. Her eyes shut, letting him
lead her strokes, reveling in their closeness, the deep rumble of his voice.

"There were others, I'm sure."

"Naturally," he said.

Don't think about it. Don't wonder if they were blond or dark or what secrets he'd
shared with them.

"So.. Europe must have been a cornucopia of pleasures."

"Not exactly." He chuckled. "More like a three-year stint in the fine art of working
my butt off. In France I tended grapes. Rome found me waiting tables. When I got tired
of that, I laid bricks for a living in Germany. And when I got to Switzerland, well..."

"Switzerland?" she prompted.

"Switzerland," he sighed, '"is where I landed a job transporting cargo for a wealthy
investor. He was going to teach me the ropes, how to get a business going, that kind
of stuff. Hell, I thought I'd landed in a gold mine—found the ticket to success that
had escaped me everywhere else I'd looked."

Chance stopped working the roller, but he still kept hold of her wrist. Stroking the
pulse beating faster now.

"He taught me some things all right. Such as how to launder dirty money coming in
from the States, how to set up scams and cover yourself so the authorities couldn't
track you down. Wonderfully ethical business ventures like that."

Micah swallowed hard. Chance's nearness was doing a number on her senses, even as
his revelation was managing to unsettle her stomach.

"Were you a quick study?" she asked hesitantly.

"Oh, yeah. Real quick. I caught on fast enough to know that I was being set up to
take a fall for the boss. Seems someone had caught whiff of stolen paintings being
transported over the border. Funny how he trusted me, his newest employee, more than
anyone else to take the next shipment. He assumed, of course, I hadn't figured out
the truth."

Micah turned quickly, nearly upsetting her balance, and Chance caught her to him.
Their faces were close, and their breasts pressed evenly against each other. Hearts
beat quickly, heavily in countertime.

"What happened?"

"I took a powder."

"You mean you left?"

"Caught a flight to the Middle East and dropped out of sight. But not before I took
an advance on the job and put an anonymous call through to the authorities on the
case. The man was a jerk, and an unethical jerk at that. Made me look like a choirboy.
In fact, he probably had a lot to do with reforming that streak of hellion in me.
By the time I was drilling oil with the Saudis, I'd had my fill of illegal ventures.
Knowing how close I'd come to spending time behind bars managed to knock some sense
into me. Not only that, but I learned it gave me a sick feeling to steal from other
people—no matter how white the paper was that handled the nasty transaction."

Micah laid her free hand over his shoulder, feeling the solidness of him. People had
said so many evil things about Chance through the years that his story wasn't what
she'd expected.

"And what about the Saudis? What was your life like there?" Although she'd learned
a lot about him over the past minutes, she didn't really find out what she wanted
to know. He had revealed nothing about his personal life.

"The Saudis, young lady, are yet another chapter in the
Mysterious Adventures of Chance Renault."
He smiled suddenly and tweaked her nose. "Save your breath, Micah. You're only allotted
one chapter per interrogation."

She took a deep breath. "But I still have a question about Switzerland."

Chance's smile faded. He ran his knuckles against the ridge of her jaw.

"No, Micah. There wasn't anyone special there, if that's what you're asking." His
gaze flicked over her, lingering on her hair. He tucked a curl behind her ear. "Besides,
there weren't many around with dark hair and green eyes."

A flush of pleasure swept through her at the implied compliment, but Chance suddenly
moved away. Picking up the next sheet of wallpaper, he handed it to her.

"Let's get crackin'. At this rate we'll be hanging paper next month. And my stomach's
already growling for that dinner you promised me tomorrow night."

"But, Chance, what did you—"

"I'll make some more paste in the kitchen. Try not to let it overlap while I'm gone."

"But, Chance—"

"Be careful to match the pattern. And don't forget to enjoy this—"

"But—"

"Because next week you learn to cut tile."

* * *

Micah opened the door leading out back, cursing profusely at the fumes invading the
kitchen. Cooking was never her specialty and in her excitement she had managed to
do even worse than usual—namely, forgetting to take the stuffed Cornish hens out of
the oven. Even now billows of smoke rose to the high ceiling while the charred hens
lay in state beside the sink.

"Damn, damn,
damn!"
So much for impressing Chance. And worst of all she'd broken down and decided to
turn on the air conditioner only to have the air go out the back—

"What the hell.. where's the fire?"

Micah whirled around, the wet towel she was flapping furiously, clutched in her hands.

"What are you doing here? You're not due for"—she took a glance at the kitchen clock—"five
minutes." She motioned toward the back door he'd come through. "And you're supposed
to use the front door. Now go sit out there while I tend to this. There is no fire,
just a little smoke."

"A
little
smoke? You could pass out from the fumes in here." Chance strode over to the offending
oven and closed its door, muttering something about grease and broilers not mixing.
"And another thing," he threw over his shoulder, "if you want me to use the front
door, you've got to answer it." He whirled back around and faced her.

For a minute they shared a belligerent stare. Micah wasn't sure who cracked the first
smile, but soon they were both chuckling. She pointed to the back door.

"Now, would you please pretend you were never here and go back the way you came? You're
due in one minute and I don't want to miss answering the door."

"Yes, ma'am." He gave a smart salute before exiting with his coat. Just as she slumped
against the kitchen sink, he poked his head around the door frame. "And by the way,
blackened redfish is one of my favorite dishes. Never thought I'd get a chance to
try out blackened hens. You must be a real whiz in the kitchen, Micah, thinking up
things Paul Prudhomme and Julia Child put together couldn't come up with."

He ducked quickly as the wet towel slapped beside the frame. Micah could still hear
his laughter as he rounded the outside corner of the house. She wished she could be
mad at him—he really was a beast.

She glanced morosely at the hens, sighed, and headed through the swinging doors. She
had a terrible suspicion that she smelled vaguely of smoke.

Micah stood in the entryway, just as Chance rapped twice on the front door. The leaded
glass on either side distorted his figure, and she imagined him standing there years
before, a wildcat with a leather jacket. Taking a deep breath, she twisted the heavy
gold knob.

"Evening, Micah."

"Good evening, Chance."

He propped his arm on the entry frame, stopping short of entering. No leather jacket
this time, he was darkly handsome in his finely tailored clothes.

"You look good to me."

"Thank you. You're not so bad yourself."

"May I come in?"

"Please, do."

She moved aside and he stepped over the threshold, stopping for a moment, as though
savoring a victory. She followed his gaze as he looked up toward the banister, where
she'd stood that night. When his gaze met hers again, it was hooded, serious.

"I could get used to this," he said.

"Could you?" She could, too, she realized. And all too easily, at that.

Suddenly he looked perplexed and he cocked his head, sniffing.

"Mmmm. Smells like someone's been cooking. Can't wait to see what's for dinner."

"It's a new recipe. Blackened Cornish game hens. I hope you like it."

Micah didn't bother to hide her mischievous smile or the glitter of amusement in her
eyes. He'd be crying for McDonald's long before she was through.

Chance laughed and extended his arm.

"Why don't you show me to the parlor? I prefer to eat my crow in there."

Chapter 8

Chance studied Micah as she poured the coffee out of the silver service. He thought
the demitasse set ridiculous, but had to admire the practiced grace of her movements.
Micah looked every inch the proud Southern lady as she sat beside him on the Victorian
couch daintily sipping at the hot liquid; he, however, felt like Goliath cradling
a midget's teacup in his palm. Two gulps and he set it down.

"More?" she inquired.

"No thanks. That topped the dinner off just fine."

"Why, you... you rat!" She chuckled and set hers down, then took a playful punch at
his arm. "You're a worse tease now than when we were kids, Chance Renault."

"Like the song says, 'I was so much older then,' and believe me I am younger than
that now." Chance stretched his arms out over his head, then nonchalantly draped one
around the back of her neck. He smiled as she shifted closer to him while pretending
she wasn't. It reminded him of the old days, back when nice girls gave the "okay"
signal without taking the initiative.