Bad Boy of New Orleans (13 page)

He quirked an eyebrow, and his grin grew wider. "Or else... what?"

"Or else I'll belt you with
this."
She hoisted the sodden roller.

"My goodness, Micah, you're touchy today. Sorry the air-conditioning's down... it
must be the heat."

"I'll give you heat." She jabbed the roller in his vicinity.

"Promises, promises." He started in her direction. "Come on, Micah. Show me a little
heat."

"I'm warning you. Get back unless you—"

"Unless I what? Want to find out just how
hot
you can get?"

"Why don't you just keep your nasty thoughts to yourself, you...
you
—" She took a threatening step forward.

"Scallywag?" Chance stopped a few inches away from her dubious weapon and touched
his finger to the sopping roller.

"Yes! And—'"

"Riffraff?" In the blink of an eye he grabbed hold of the stick attached to the roller
and jerked it out of her grasp, sending it sailing across the room. Micah watched
in horror as it hit against her newly painted wall. The roller left a blob of white
over the peach tint she'd put on the day before.

"My wall!" she gasped. "Just look at what you did to my wall!"

"Oops."

"Oops?
I spent hours on these walls yesterday, and all you can say is
oops?"
Impulsively she lunged at him, throwing her paint-streaked body heedlessly against
his expensive suit.

"How dare you!" she raged, striking a white hand against his chest. "There you sit,
day after day, week after week, shuffling papers behind your cozy little desk, probably
drinking cafe au lait out of your silver chalice. While I'm sweltering here, painting,
grouting, tiling, papering... you name it! Do you have any idea when the last time
was I dressed in something more elegant than a T-shirt and beat-up jeans? No, of course
not, because you're too busy in your air-conditioned office, wearing your ritzy Italian
silk ties, your pompous Georgio Armani suits—"

Micah's eyes suddenly riveted to where her fists clenched his jacket, the white imprint
of a hand on his tailored shirt.

"Your suit! Chance, I've ruined your suit! Oh, no... quick! Let's get to the bathroom,
maybe if we hurry I can get it—"

"Micah." Chance stilled her frantic attempts to pull away, drawing her closer instead.
One hand smoothed down her spine before catching her around the waist. "I don't care
about my suit. I care about you." His other hand came up to tilt her face to his.

Unshed tears sparkled in her eyes. Ridiculous. How could she further disgrace herself
by crying at a time like this?

"What's wrong,
ma cherie
? Tell me what's troubling you."

And then she did disgrace herself. The tears, hot and stinging, burned the back of
her throat as she tried to close them off. But in spite of her most valiant efforts
they broke loose.

Chance made a shushing sound and rocked her back and forth against him in what was
meant as a comforting gesture. Her head against his chest, he rubbed her back soothingly.

"There now," he murmured, "There now." And it was such a small thing, this paternal
inflection she had never seen in him before, that made her suddenly think of what
he would be like as a father. Loving, fair... but sometimes unbending. A good father,
to make up for the one he hadn't had.

The old feelings flooded through her, the ones she couldn't control or ignore. But
there was more, something in him she hadn't considered before this moment. And it
made him all the more desirable. She was tired of the tug-of-war between her head
and her heart that went on every time they were in the same room. Even when they weren't.

No more words were spoken, but she raised her face to his, and reached for him.

"Chance," she whispered. "Please... I need—"

That was all it took, as though he had been waiting on edge for these very words since
the night on her couch over three weeks before.

She opened her mouth, invitingly, drawing him deeper.

He wanted her to give. Even as she took, she knew he did, the way he urged her tongue
to trail the path of his own. The haze beat wildly, mercilessly through the flame
coursing her veins. Damn the defenses, the plague of too much thought. She let him
take her to a place they had been before, where instinct and desire ruled; a place
where innocence was lost, where she embraced the joy, the exquisite fury of untender
love.

"Touch me," she moaned against his mouth, not caring if she pleaded.
Take me. Burn me. Make me your own.
He had to put his hands on her, to mold her curves to his sleek, hard thighs. She
had waited for too long, this slow burning to cinders and ash, this hollow want that
cradled her when all she really wanted was him.

In the agony of the small moment when his hand was moving, she caught it, brought
it to her lips, and kissed it. His hands, his beautiful, work-worn hands were hers
for now. She loved them, just as she loved him.

And she did love him. She didn't care anymore who he was to anyone else, only that
now he was hers completely. In all his goodness, his badness, his wonderful complexity,
she did love him. She'd never stopped. No, never...

"Oh, Micah," he groaned, his eyes slitting open. "Micah. I—"

He stilled abruptly, the fallen kerchief lying like an accusing, dead weight on the
floor.

His brows drew together, and his mouth, swollen from their kisses, slanted disapprovingly.

"You cut your hair." She heard the regret in his voice. The sound seemed misplaced
in the sudden, wilting stillness that continued to crackle with the hum of sexual
tension.

Micah touched the short-cropped curls, suddenly self-conscious. She hated the cut,
too, had hated it as soon as it was done. That had been the reason she had lashed
out at him earlier, trying to transfer the disappointment.

Too late, she wished for her long hair back.

She sniffled; she was being ridiculous. But Chance was looking at her with such visible
disappointment, while his hand, the one that even now should be caressing her breast,
hovered beside her head.

"I was so hot. Here, at home..." she lifted her chin. "Please don't look at me like
that. I hate the way it looks, and you're making it worse." She was still aching with
longing, and at the same time stinging with the knowledge that he didn't like what
he saw. His reaction was the most deflating blow of all. Worse than the heat, or the
frustration of her work. She wanted Chance to pretend he liked her hair whether he
did or not. And most of all she wanted to grab the moment back, so that he held her
until she didn't care about paint or the heat or especially not the cut of her hair.

"I'm vain." She looked away. "I wish I looked better for you. You only see me like
this these days, like a drudge. And now... you don't even want to touch my hair."

Her voice caught. She hated feeling like this, robbed of some feminine extension.
Silly. Vain. Where was her pride, letting him see her so emotionally naked over something
so trivial?

Chance caught her shoulders and pulled her to him as she pushed away. Then slowly,
very deliberately, he brought his hand to her hair. She tried to pull back in some
idiotic surge of pride when his touching her was what she really wanted.

One of his arms slid around to her back until he braced his hand at the nape of her
neck, immobilizing her head. His eyes searched hers as though he were looking for
something he'd lost, and then skimmed to the short, dark locks as his fingers lightly
touched their springy texture. And then he was stroking his fingertips through, watching
the waves of onyx tread between them.

The sensation sent a trickle of chills from the roots of her hair to the soles of
her feet, and culminated in between.

"I love your hair," he murmured huskily.

She swallowed hard, thrilling to the words. It didn't matter whether they were true
or not. "No you don't," she said. "You're just saying that to make me feel better.
But... it's nice to hear you say it just the same."

There was a rumbling sound that came from his throat—not a chuckle, not even a satisfied
murmur.

"I do love it. Because you care enough that it matters what I think."

He pressed his lips against the soft curls, and then again next to her temple. She
still wanted to cry. But this time from joy.

He pulled away and looked at her then, holding her out just far enough to look her
up and down.

"Let's put this stuff up. I'll help."

There was such a tender expression on his face.

"But I'm not through yet."

"Yes you are. We're taking the rest of the day off. From the looks of you, it's going
to take at least an hour to get cleaned up and put your best clothes on. Enough of
this scullery maid duty. You're the classiest number this side of the river. And tonight
you're switching colors."

"I'm what?" Baffled, but laughing anyway, she followed his lead and went to pick up
the fallen paint roller.

"Colors, I said." He swatted her unceremoniously on her white paint-stained rear end.
Micah whirled around with a gasp just before he hoisted her over his shoulder and
picked up the roller all in one swoop.

"Tonight,
ma cher,
we're painting the town
red."

Chapter 10

The opulence of the Louis XIV French restaurant blended marvelously with the evening's
mood of romance. Romance, and some feeling of joy that was almost frightening in its
anticipation.

She was wearing her best perfume—the last precious few drops she'd saved for...
this
night. Micah let herself admit it. Deep down in her heart of hearts she'd known it
would come to this. And when she'd reached for the bottle, she knew exactly how it
would make her feel: Elegant, womanly, pampered... feelings she'd lost for a long
time.

It was the secret knowledge that she wanted to wear it for Chance, to stir him with
the hint of sensual sweetness pressed behind her ears, in the hollow of her neck,
her wrists. And other more intimate places.

Beneath the elegantly set table, she extended one shapely, long leg, and innocently,
deliberately, brushed the silk of her hose against the smooth fabric of his trousers.
Chance's eyes were dark, probing, but held no mysteries.

Across the linen cloth of the table, he reached for her hand. Micah's fingers curled
into his strong ones. She hooked their tapered length, the deep polish of her nails
covering the bits of paint she hadn't been able to completely wash away. She could
feel the surge of anticipation mounting, trying to revel only in that, and push away
the thoughts she knew would have to be spoken before they could consummate this night.

The sound of a throat being cleared brought them out of their mutual, silent trance.

"Wine, monsieur?"

"A bottle of Perrier-Jouet. The '82 vintage, please. And make it well chilled."

"Of course, monsieur."

The waiter left, and Micah couldn't help but smile.

"Sounds like you know your wine."

"A bit. But I've been practicing."

"Oh? I'm impressed."

"Good. I meant for you to be." He laughed at his own self-depreciation. "In fact,
I've been practicing things for years with that in mind. Just waiting for the opportunity
to show off my acquired panache. I wasn't exactly the smoothest operator around when
we were kids."

"I thought you were smooth. And very worldly."

"And I thought you were spun sugar wrapped in a package of dynamite. Sweet, but sexy
enough to keep my teenage hormones running in overdrive. Only you were always just
out of my reach."

She shook her head. "You just thought I was."

"No. Back then you really were. But not anymore."

The waiter appeared and presented the bottle of champagne, serving it with proper
finesse. She actually preferred Mimosas, but there would be something profane about
mixing orange juice into this vintage.