Bad Boy of New Orleans (14 page)

Chance tested it with skill and ease, then nodded for Micah to receive the first glass.
The ritual done, he turned to her as the waiter settled the bottle into the champagne
bucket of crushed ice.

"Now watch closely while I order," he whispered confidentially. "I invested a lot
of time and money going out to learn how to do this right."

She laughed at that. The waiter looked puzzled as she chuckled again when Chance pulled
out his reading glasses to order from the menu.

"Dull as dishwater," she whispered under her breath. He shot her a quelling glance,
and missed a beat in his wonderfully impressive ordering technique. He opened his
mouth to start over again, but instead started to chuckle too. When she laughed along
with him, he gave up.

Pointing to the specially of the house, he simply said, "Give us two of these."

When they were alone again, Chance reached beneath the table and pinched her upper
thigh.

"That's for making me screw up. Laughing when you're ordering is like laughing during
Communion. I'm sure the chef has been duly informed and is outraged. I'll get you
for this, Micah Sinclair. So help me, I will."

"Something tells me, you'd get me anyway."

Chance clucked his tongue. "Whatever happened to that innocent little girl I used
to know?"

"She went away," Micah said, the playful tone suddenly gone. "She grew up."

The meal came and was half-consumed when Chance nodded to her empty glass. "Another?"
he offered. She nodded and he reached for the remaining champagne settled into the
deep frost of the icy silver bucket.

"Thank you." She picked up the glass and took a quick sip trying to block out the
thoughts—the horrible, plaguing thoughts she had to share before the night could truly
begin. She resented Jonathon intruding on them even in death. She finished the glass
quickly and held it out for Chance to refill again.

Micah studied her half-empty plate without really seeing it, then unconsciously began
to put the glass to her lips. Chance caught her fingers at the stem before she could
lift it.

"We've got a long night ahead of us, Micah. One that's been too long in coming. Let's
make it last."

Chance was right, she was on the road to getting smashed. Actually, except for her
troubling thoughts, she was feeling quite pleasant. Not quite inebriated. But definitely
loose. She welcomed the liberation. It made the tongue a bit thick, but a lot less
cautious.

"Want to talk about it?"

She smiled a little nervously. "You see right through me, don't you?"

His hand was in his lap, but she could feel his movement, and then the comforting
but exciting sensation of his palm over her knee. Pressing tight.

Micah remained silent. Chance was watching her too intently, and she wondered if instinctively
he knew.

The sounds of muted laughter and clinking glasses surrounded them. The distinctive
fragrance of delicate French cuisine filling the air.

Micah finished her champagne as Chance watched her drink it.

She wasn't sure, but she thought she heard him say quietly, almost to himself, "Was
it
that
bad,
cherie?"

Once they left and were outside, her spirits lifted. The never-ending party that twilight
only enhanced in the French Quarter seemed to dance around them. She almost forgot
the earlier heaviness of her thoughts as she gave into the atmosphere. New Orleans
at night always reminded her of a high-class call girl wrapped in mink.

Her heels clicked on the pavement, absorbed by the garish, rich texture of coarse
laughter, and jazz in the streets. Chance's hand felt wonderfully large and warm.
Their tightly laced fingers swayed gently between them.

Turning onto Bourbon Street, Chance stopped at the corner to shrug out of his suit
coat, then slung it casually over one shoulder. Nearby, a one-eyed vendor with soiled
clothes swayed a bouquet of flowers temptingly toward the crowd.

"Hey, monsieur," he called out when he saw Chance pause. "Flowers for your lady,
out?"

Chance fished into his pocket and peeled off a few bills from his money clip.

"Keep the change." He reached for the flowers, then presented them to Micah.

"For the most beautiful rose of them all," he said, sweeping down in a low and gallant
bow.

"Oh please, Chance," she groaned.

"Yeah, I know. I never was very good at the sappy stuff." He laughed with her, and
caught her around the back of the neck, trailing his fingers up into the short curls
of her hair.

"Want to take in a boat ride? The
Natchez
should be taking off around a quarter of ten. Saturdays usually mean a good band."

"That would be perfect. It's been years since I've been on board."

Half an hour later they were on the second deck of the
Steamboat Natchez.
Under the stars. The rhythmic swishing of the paddle wheels set the tempo for the
band tuning up. Groups of people called out with jovial spirits; couples snuggled
cozily as they looked out at the dark waters beneath. The night was sultry, and the
sensual, throbbing sound of the blues began to serenade them from the near distance.

Micah leaned against the railing. Chance moved to brace his hands on either side of
her hips, the rail smooth beneath his palms.

He kissed her then. It was a slow, leisurely kiss. And he moved discreetly, so no
one would see more than two lovers sharing mouths, and lightly, ever so lightly, cupped
her breast within his palm.

The feel of satin slid against her skin and connected with his. She could feel her
breast growing fuller, warmer, the tautening of the nipple as he rubbed his thumb
in a lazy, slow circle.

The whimper of heightened senses, the aching arousal he was pitching higher, too fast,
with nowhere to take them, made her move away.

"Not here," she said. Her voice sounded the way she felt inside—shaky, throaty with
desire, a gathering frustration that made her nails bite into her own palms.

"Where?" he said, drawing her closer again. "My house? Yours? We can even stay in
the Quarter tonight if you want." He tilted her chin, seeking her eyes in the muted
glow of the ship's light. "All I know is... I need you. For too long it's been that
way with nowhere to take it, except to a substitute. Which is a pretty poor way to
spend your life. Wasting it like that."

Now. Tell him now.

"I want to do things to you, Micah... all sorts of delicious, wonderful things. I've
had a long time to think about tonight, about us. By morning I'm sure you'll rather
stay
with
me than away from me... tomorrow, the next day, and the one after that."

"Chance..."

"Hmmm?"

He nibbled her fingers with tiny, exciting bites. Skimming her palm with his tongue.

She swallowed hard. "Could we dance?"

* * *

The clip-clop of the horse echoed through the side streets. The hat with the ears
cut out of it bobbed unsteadily on the mare's head, while the driver looked straight
ahead, guiding the reins through the familiar route. He paid no heed to the couple
nestled in the back. Oblivious to them and caught in his own thoughts, he opened a
flask and touched it to his lips.

She leaned back against the warm, cracked leather of the buggy seat. Chance's arm
crooked around her shoulders as he pulled her more tightly into his embrace. Moonlight
spilled between the gnarled branches of the trees, flitting patterns over the distant
worry etching her face.

"I've waited all night, Micah. You've had any number of chances to tell me what's
holding you back. I know there's something. And it probably has to do with Jonathon.
Let's get it done and over with, because he's not going to come between us when we
go to bed. And the night's getting late already."

She couldn't help but stiffen beside him, despite the delicate, soothing motion he
made, gliding his fingers through the short, silken bob of her hair.

"Is it so bad, you can't tell even me? Do you really think, knowing where I've been,
who I am, that you could say anything that would shock me, or disappoint me?"

She peered into the gathering gloom. Darkness helped. She would talk to the night.

"I'm going to tell you everything, Chance. Don't stop me once I start because I may
never find the courage to start again."

He answered her in silence with the reassuring squeeze of her shoulders, while the
past waited for her like a gaping abyss.

"You've wondered why I stayed with Jonathon. You've never understood my guilt. But
it's all so simple... you see, I was part of his sickness. I perpetuated it."

"Micah—"

"No, just let me get on with it." She looked up at the branches reaching toward the
sky, trying not to think as she talked. "You weren't the only one who used substitutes.
I pretended too. Only the difference was, I was married. To a man who actually loved
me. I know what you saw... the drinking, the gambling, the other women. But none of
that started until... I called him by your name in bed."

The branches of midnight darkness passed overhead as she concentrated on their sway,
trying to block out the guilt, the black pitch of cloying emotions tainting this night.

"For a long time we tried to pretend it didn't happen. But it did. You were a ghost
between us, even from the beginning. I thought you'd never come back when I talked
myself into being in love with Jonathon. As for Jonathon, I think he made himself
believe that he would eventually be able to make me care for him instead." She shrunk
down farther into the seat. "That never happened, of course. Things went from bad
to worse."

"But you stayed anyway."

His voice rumbled beneath her ear, a soothing strength she could feel him will to
her, helping her to go on.

"Crazy, wasn't it? We saw marriage counselors on several occasions, and for months
at a time everything would even seem to be getting better. I would think to myself
'We can
make
this work.' Stubborn pride. I didn't want to admit defeat. And I felt guilty, of
course."

"But you shouldn't have."

She shook her head against his shoulder. "Oh no? A wife whose husband loves her is
in love with another man, even calls her husband by his name in bed, shouldn't feel
guilty?"

"You can't take that all on yourself, Micah. I was to blame too. Jonathon didn't have
to stick around knowing what had happened. We all choose our own courses. We all have
to live with our own decisions."

"Jonathon was weak. He couldn't break away. He didn't have the strength. And I lacked
the good sense or the guts to make the break for him."

Lord, this hurt, laying the bones bare. And yet, already, she could feel the burden
lifting... getting lighter as Chance listened to what she had dared tell no one else.

"I'm curious, Micah. Tell me what kind of blackmail he used to keep you with him."

Her head snapped up and her eyes met evenly with his.

"How did you know?"

Chance snorted in disgust. "How? I know you, Micah. You might be loyal to a fault,
maybe even have a touch of the martyr bred into you. But you're no masochist. Besides,
don't forget I knew Jonathon too. He might have been weak, but he was also manipulative.
I can't help but believe he held something over you to keep you there. Especially
after he started going down."

She looked away from him. "You're right, Chance, he did manipulate me. But I let him
do it. I think subconsciously it was my self-punishment for wronging him to begin
with. He... he said he would kill himself if I ever left him. That in spite of everything...
he couldn't live without me. I know that sounds too farfetched, too dramatic to believe...
but I believed him. He was too unstable. I felt I had contributed to his instability.
So I stayed."

Chance's voice was rough, angry. "He wouldn't have done it, Micah. If he had, it wouldn't
have been your fault. Only his own."

She drew in her breath, then quickly rushed on before she lost her nerve.

"He did, Chance. I'm sure of it." Her voice suddenly caught. She let Chance move her
around until she sat on his lap, not even wanting to resist as he tucked her head
beneath his chin.

"It's all right,
cherie.
Get it out of your system. You've been poisoning yourself, keeping it all bottled
up."

"Oh, Chance," she sobbed out suddenly. "It was a nightmare. He came home with cheap
perfume on his clothes, and liquor on his breath. I even remember seeing lipstick
stains smeared on his throat. I think he did it to make me jealous, to get back at
me for what I had put him through, for 'castrating his ego' as he used to say. But
I was never jealous, in fact I was glad. I thought maybe someone else could have him,
take the child off my hands so I wouldn't be responsible for him anymore. By then
I was so tired of it all. I didn't care anymore. I didn't pity him. I didn't love
him. And I knew that no matter how many counselors we saw, no matter how many times
he cleaned up his act only to fall again, it would
never
work. Too many years wasted. I was losing my self-respect for staying with it. And
for such stupid reasons... guilt, pride, fear."