Bad Boy of New Orleans (21 page)

"Why?" he said. "Because I'm afraid. Afraid of losing you. Just like I lost my mother."
He shook his head at the past, his shoulders stooped by the burden of it. "I loved
her so much, and she died so young. I blamed myself for that. If only I'd been able
to provide for her, if only I could have taken care of her... she might still be alive."

His pain was her pain, and compassion for what Chance must have gone through melted
the last fragile barrier. She laid the palm of her hand against the lightly whiskered
darkness of his cheek, and stroked.

"You can't blame yourself for that, Chance. You were young. There was nothing you
could have done to make a difference."

"I suppose not, but it didn't seem that way then. All I could feel was the impotence,
my inability to take care of her."

He caught her to him then, holding her so urgently, she thought he might crush her
very bones. But she didn't care. Let him hold her until she was wholly his, a part
of him, until they were one. She returned his embrace, hearing the words he whispered
husky with need and more need against her hair.

"Don't leave me, Micah. Don't ever leave me. It would kill me inside to lose you...
just thinking about it is more than I can stand. Losing you... it would be even worse
than losing my mother. I know I grasp you too close, but sometimes, I swear, I can't
help myself. Be patient. Give me some time to mellow... just enough to be sure I won't
ever lose you again."

She ran her hands hungrily over his face, through his hair, clinging tight, tighter
still. "Chance," she whispered fervently, "I won't leave you. I promise, I'll never
leave again."

"Swear it, Micah."

"I swear it, Chance. I do swear it to you."

He rubbed his lips against her tears, then lapped at them until the salt upon his
tongue sealed the vow within her mouth. Tempered by fire, they fell into the heat.
Christening this haven, now home.

Epilogue

The flowers hadn't arrived yet. Chance checked the clock again—noon. Maybe he should
call the florist to make sure they hadn't forgotten.

There was something about anniversaries that sent even guys like him straight down
memory lane. A knock sounded, and Chance went to answer it, immediately greeted by
flowers. The wrong ones.

"I didn't order these," he said, gesturing to the big white basket filled with baby's
breath, daisies, pastel carnations and a stuffed bunny. "I asked for a fancy, tropical
arrangement. Without a card. There's even a card attached to this."

The delivery boy shifted the basket in his arms and rechecked the address.

"This says it's for Chance Renault. Wrong person, right address. Sorry, I'll take
these back."

"Wait a minute.
I'm
Chance Renault."

"Oh. Then I guess these are for you after all. Your order must have been mixed up
with someone else's. I'll take it back and get the problem straightened out."

"Don't bother with it, Theo. You've delivered exactly what I requested."

Theo looked beyond Chance to Micah.

"Ms. Sinclair! It's been a long time. And you've moved. How are you doing?"

"Just fine." She smiled and took the basket. "Wonderful, in fact. But you can call
me Mrs. Renault now. I've changed more than addresses in the last two years."

Chance cleared his throat. "I hate to break up this reunion, but if you don't mind,
I'd like to speak with you, Micah.
Alone."

Micah pressed a tip into Theo's hand and bid him good-bye. Chance pulled her inside
and closed the door.

"Why did you change my order?" he demanded. "I had something special picked out, something
you'd—"

"Chance." Micah pressed her fingertips against his lips. "I didn't change your order.
I didn't even know you were sending me flowers."

"No? Then what's this?"

He glanced at the basket, puzzled.

"For you," she said, smiling. "Happy anniversary, darling."

"Happy anniversary," he returned, reaching for her instead of the card.

Micah stepped just out of his reach, and nodded to the envelope. "Go ahead," she urged.
"Open it."

Chance grumbled something about her depriving him of his husbandly rights but complied.

While he worked the envelope open, Micah reached for the stuffed bunny and wound the
key attached. A music box version of Brahms' Lullaby began to filter through the room
as Chance scanned the card.

"Congratulations," he read aloud. "The rabbit died."

His hand suddenly seemed unsteady, and he stared at Micah as the card sailed awkwardly
to the floor.

"Congratulations," she whispered, draping her arms around his neck, "Daddy."

"Micah," he murmured. "Oh, Micah." Chance swept her into his arms, and headed for
the stairs, his voice lodged somewhere between his heart and his throat. Another knock
sounded at the front door but he ignored it as he moved purposefully toward the bedroom.

"Aren't we going to get that?"

"What for?" His voice sounded a little choked, and he brought her closer to his chest.
"It's only some flowers. Flowers with the most important part missing."

"A card?" She smiled, and cuddled closer.

"More than a card. A message. One that says how lucky we are." He laid her down on
their bed. "Besides, I think you know how it ends."

"Tell me anyway," she whispered.

"Enough talk," he said, pulling her into his arms. "Just kiss me now,
ma cherie.
Kiss the man who loves you."

The End

Want more from Mallory Rush?

Page forward for an excerpt from

HURTS SO GOOD

Excerpt from

Hurts So Good

by

Mallory Rush

Bestselling, Award-winning Author

"You don't think I can hurt, do you?"

"Can you?"

Neil frowned and uncapped the flask. There had been a sudden eagerness in her question
that smacked of a newshound sniffing his tracks. Those story-mongers couldn't get
it through their shifty heads that Neil Grey was old news. Tilting the flask to his
lips, he paused. As many times as he'd been burned by the press, he wasn't taking
chances. He'd make nice with Andrea, maybe tantalize her a tad, and find out in his
own way whether she was up to no good.

"Make you a deal, I'll tell you. For a price."

She suspiciously eyed the flask that he'd extended.

"Name your price, and I'll decide if knowing's worth it."

"Best deal you ever cut,
chere
. I want four things from you. One: Join me for a drink. Two: Quit calling me Mr.
Grey. Three: Tell me what brought you to the Big Easy when that accent of yours pegs
you as a damn Yankee. And four: I could go for a good-morning kiss. Then, after that
kiss, I'll answer your question. Deal?"

"The first three are fine, but that last one..."

"Aw, c'mon, be a good sport." He leaned in close and considered ditching the promised
preliminaries if she was actually naïve enough to believe, "It's just a kiss."