He lowered his eyes to her lips, then lifted them back to hers. “So, did... ‘just Beth’ do a lot of bowling too?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. You ready to call it quits?”
“No way.” When she made a move to straighten, he tugged gently at her hair, inching her head more toward his. “‘Are you? Ready to quit, that is.”
“Why would I be?” she murmured. “I’m winning.”
“So you are.” He tugged again, until her mouth hovered a fraction above him. “Remember... Liza, the game’s not over until it’s over.” He brought her mouth to his.
Beth shuddered as Chance’s lips brushed over hers. She dropped her hands to his shoulders, the raucous sounds of the bowling alley fading until all she heard was the thunder of her heart. And the sound Chance made, deep in his throat, male and satisfied.
Wishing she could deepen the kiss, Beth dug her fingers into her palms until her nails bit into her flesh. She wanted to so desperately, she trembled with the need. But she couldn’t. She wasn’t Liza. She was Beth. And she was scared witless.
Chance broke the contact, moving a breath away, his fingers still wound in her hair. Their eyes met. His were smoky with passion, crinkled at the corners with amusement.
“I think I like pushy redheads,” he murmured.
It took Beth a moment to recover her poise—and to get back into character. When she did, she narrowed her eyes. “It seems to me, the redhead isn’t the pushy one around here.”
“Really?” Chance laughed and let her hair slip through his fingers. “How about a lesson, Red?”
She arched her eyebrows. “Dare I ask, a lesson in what?”
“Bowling. Of course.” He arched his eyebrows and stood. “What else could I have meant?”
Her lips still burned from the touch of his, and annoyed, she said boldly, “You tell me.”
“I think I’ll pass. For now. So, how about that lesson?”
Beth silently cursed his effect on her. “You don’t mind getting a lesson from a woman in the middle of a place crowded with men whose first names are Macho and whose main form of sustenance is beer?”
“My ego can take it.”
“Why aren’t I surprised by that?”
Chance laughed, not at all offended. “Birds of a feather.”
She wished. If she had a quarter of Chance Michael’s self-confidence, she wouldn’t be in this impossible situation. “Okay, then,” she said, dusting off her hands on the seat of her pencil-leg jeans and crossing to the ball return. “Like a lot of inexperienced bowlers, you throw a straight ball. That’s okay. Men can do pretty well that way, simply because of their strength.”
She picked up her ball and cradled it in the crook of her arm while she spoke. “The problem with a straight ball is, you don’t get the pin action you do throwing a hook. Consequently, you won’t throw as many strikes, and you’ll leave a lot of splits.”
She slipped her fingers into the ball, demonstrating how he should hold it. “Cup the ball. Like this. Then when you release it, flatten your hand back out. The shifting position of the hand during the follow-through causes the ball to hook into the pocket.”
Chance imitated her movements. “Sounds easy enough.” He set his ball back in the return and folded his arms across his chest. “How about a demonstration before I try it?”
The tone of his voice was bland, his expression a study in innocence. But his eyes danced with devilry. He looked like a ten-year-old waiting for his teacher to sit on a whoopie cushion. Beth shot him a skeptical glance. “What’s the gag?”
He lifted his dark eyebrows, all wounded honor. “I beg your pardon?”
“The gag. The catch. The gotcha.”
He held up his hands. “Are you feeling guilty about something? All I want is to see the technique in action before I try it myself.”
Her breath caught. His words were harmless enough, nothing in his tone or expression suggested he was suspicious of her, and yet she felt more and more like a cornered mouse.
Maybe it was the pluck of her own conscience, she rationalized. “What would I have to feel guilty about?”
Chance shrugged and folded his arms across his chest once more, his gaze never wavering from hers.
She swore. “All right, I’ll demonstrate.”
Crossing to the approach, she lined up her shot. Acutely aware of his gaze on her behind, she started, then stopped, then started again.
Shaking her head, she told herself to concentrate. She’d bowled hundreds of games while others looked on; he probably wasn’t even looking at her. She peeked over her shoulder at him. He was, indeed, staring at her behind.
“Stop that.”
“What?” he asked innocently, lifting his gaze to hers.
“Staring like that. I can’t concentrate.”
“Really?” When he smiled, there was nothing innocent about the curving of his lips. “But I was only studying your... form. Bowling form, of course.”
“Of course.” Determined not to let him throw her, she started her approach.
“Nice... follow-through,” Chance murmured as she bent to release the ball, the tone in his voice pure wolf.
The ball flew into the gutter. Beth whirled around, cheeks flaming.
Chance smiled. “Gotcha.”
“That was dirty pool.”
“Mixing your sport metaphors?” He raised his eyebrows and made a clucking sound with his tongue.
Beth glared at him and straightened her spine. She would not let him affect her game. She simply would not. Retrieving her ball from the return, she approached the markers once more.
This time, as she bent to release the ball, he whistled low and appreciatively. The ball slipped from her fingers and hit the wood lane with a loud—embarrassingly loud—thud. She swung back around, teeth gritted.
He smiled, slow and sexy. “I do so like those jeans... Liza.”
“This isn’t very sporting of you.”
“On the contrary, I think it’s quite sporting.”
He threw next. She whistled, cat-called, and murmured her approval, but to no avail. Not only did his concentration not waver, but he threw a perfect right-hander’s hook. The ball struck in the pocket, all tens pins tumbled. He turned toward her, his smile impossibly smug.
“Save it, Michaels.” She stood and started to brush by him; he stopped her by catching her hand. Looking deeply into her eyes, he brought her hand to his mouth and slowly, lingeringly kissed each one of her fingertips. “Good luck.”
Her pulse went wild; her concentration took a permanent leave of absence. She threw two more gutter balls.
Beth whirled back around, fists on hips. “You’ve found a way to cheat.”
“Me?” He pointed to his chest. “Cheat?”
“Yes.” She advanced on him slowly, menacingly. “And you’ll be sorry. I have my ways.”
“I’ll just bet you do.”
She stopped before him. “You’re not taking me seriously, Mr. Michaels. That’s a mistake.”
“But I am.” He moved toward her, not stopping until their bodies brushed. He lowered his voice. “You can’t imagine how seriously I’m taking this.” She started to move away from him, but he caught her hands so she couldn’t. “And you can’t imagine how much I want to kiss you.”
Chance wasn’t lying; he wished he were. He wanted her so much, he ached with it. Even though he was all but certain he was being had. Even though every time she spoke she proved herself more of a liar, he still wanted her.
“Stop it,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
“Why?” He brought her hands to his chest and held them there. He searched her expression, acknowledging that she pulled at him in ways no other woman had ever been able to, acknowledging that if he wasn’t careful, he would be caught in his own trap. “Why should I stop?”
“I don’t know. I can’t...” She shook her head and let her words trail off.
He lowered his lips to hers, stopping a fraction before touching th
em. Her trembling breath whispered against his mouth; his gut tightened. “Can’t what?” he pressed. “Talk to me... Liza.”
And tell him what? she wondered dizzily. That she wanted to be with him, to make love with him. Or that she was a liar?
Beth jerked away from him. He let her go without a fight. “What’s going on?” he asked softly. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No. And nothing’s going on. I’m ready to get out of here, that’s all. I’m hungry.”
Chance gazed at her for a moment, then smiled. “So am I. Shall we?”
They went to a hole-in-the-wall joint named, appropriately, Just Great Pizza. What the dimly lit restaurant lacked in decor and service it made up for in taste, but as Chance studied Beth across their table, he wished he’d chosen one of the brightly lit chains.
“Penny for your thoughts,” he murmured, watching as she fidgeted with her flatware.
She looked up at him, blushing guiltily. “Never heard of inflation?”
He smiled. “And I thought you were going to be a cheap date.”
She attempted a grin and failed. “It really smells great in here.”
“You’re in for a treat.” Leaning across the table, he caught her fluttering fingers. They were cold and he rubbed them between his. “You’re on edge. Is something wrong?”
She held his gaze for a moment, the look in hers soft and sad. “Nothing I can talk about.”
He frowned. “You don’t trust me.”
“It’s not that,” she said quickly.
“No?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I just can’t. Not yet anyway. Okay?”
Her eyes pleaded for understanding, and he silently swore. She was vulnerable; now was the time to push. Instead he nodded. “Okay.”
Their pizza came then, and they ate in almost total silence. When they’d finished and the waitress had brought the bill, Beth looked at him in question. “Do you still want to see my art?”
“Of course.”
“How about now?”
Her voice shook, and Chance drew his eyebrows together. He’d never before dealt with an artist who was so shy about showing her work. In fact, artists usually begged him to take a look at their work. They sought him out. He got the feeling this was the last thing in the world she wanted to do, that, like a dentist appointment, she just wanted to get it over with.
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
Thirty minutes later Beth unlocked her apartment door. Chance stepped into the apartment, taking in the two beanbag chairs, the single ancient floor lamp and makeshift coffee table. He looked at Liza. “I didn’t know you and Beth lived together.”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “We... share this apartment.”
“I see. Is she home?”
Beth shook her head. “No, she’s not.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. She was... going out tonight.”
“Too bad,” he said easily. “I would have liked to say hello.”
“Yes, well...” Beth took a step backward. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Sure.”
She hesitated. “I... we haven’t restocked our kitchen. Would you prefer a paper cup or a coffee mug?”
“Surprise me.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then turned and started for the kitchen. When she’d disappeared through its swinging door, Chance wandered around the living room. The walls were bare save for a few family photos, which he glanced at, and a handful of art posters he recognized. And nothing else.
Why hadn’t she displayed any of her art?
“I’d forgotten about a couple of tumblers that escaped the thieves. They’re big, but at least they’re glass.”
Chance swung away from a grouping of photos. Beth handed him a tumbler, and he noticed her fingers trembled. He took a sip of the wine, gazing at her over the top of the glass. “You’re not pictured,” he said after a moment.
“What?” She cupped her hands around her glass.
He took another sip of the wine and motioned to the photographs, watching her closely. “All these family photos, and you ‘re not in one of them.”
She looked blankly at him for a moment, then shifted her gaze to the wall and row of framed pictures. “I hate being photographed.”
The panic in her eyes pulled at him, and he called himself a fool. Why should he feel sorry for her? Why should he feel guilty? He wasn’t the one who was lying. He narrowed his eyes. “Odd, even so. Most parents force their kids to be photographed.”
“My studio’s this way. Are you ready to... take a look?”
He said he was, and she led him to her studio, opened the door and flipped on the lights. He stopped in the doorway; his breath catching, his mind emptying of everything but the view before him.
Her studio was filled, stuffed even, with her work. Paintings hung on every available inch of available space, and canvases were stacked against the rest. Bathed in color and energy and light, the room seemed to glow with a life of its own.
His heart beat heavy and fast. Chance stepped into the room. Her artwork was everything he’d hoped it would be. His instincts hadn’t let him down—Beth had “it,” that indefinable something, that magic—the ability to move or excite or stir with nothing more than the stroke of color on canvas.
Chance stepped farther into the room, aware of Beth beside him, her fear an almost palpable thing. He didn’t turn to her, didn’t speak. His thoughts, his concentration, were for the images before him.
He circled the room, inspecting, studying, taking his time. He flipped through the stacks of canvases. Delicate oranges trailed across the surfaces of the paintings like tails of comets, bold reds zigzagged, pinks glowed, whites decorated with the quality of fine old lace. Her shapes were just as delicate, just as evocative. Soft and round—like a woman or fresh, ripe fruit. Open shapes whose edges rippled, images that called to the heart of sensitivity and vulnerability.
The images touched him. They moved him.
Chance frowned. But where and how to market? These pieces were too gentle to just drop into the current New York scene, with its love of bold, at times even disturbing, expressionism, too whimsical for L.A., too straightforward for Chicago. Great was always a step beyond fashionable, and because of that, difficult to sell.
His mind whirling with questions and possibilities, he swung toward Beth and scowled. “Do you have a disk?”
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Are the images good quality?”
“I... I think so.”
“I’ll need them,” he said brusquely. “Everything that’s current—within the last two years or so.” When she didn’t move, he raised his eyebrows. “Is there a problem?”
“I... no...” Beth swallowed and folded her arms around herself. “Say something about them,” she whispered. “Anything.”
Chance saw then how she shook, how ashen her face, how large her eyes.
“Don’t take the disk,” she continued, “just because... you know. It’s not necessary. I’ll understand if—”
Chance closed the distance between them and cupped her face in his palms. “I think your work is wonderful.”
“Are you sure?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“But you didn’t say anything.” She searched his expression. “You looked and sounded so... angry. So impatient.”
Chance smiled, feeling like both Grinch and Santa Claus. “When confronted with art that excites me, I get lost in it. I forget about being sensitive or thoughtful. I become a bit of a brute. It’s the way I am.”
“What exactly are you saying?”
He laughed and brushed his thumb across her bottom lip. It trembled under his caress, and his pulse stirred. “That I think your paintings are special. I don’t know if anyone else will. My instincts are usually on the money, but there’s always a chance they won’t be. And I’m not sure how to market your work. It’s different.”
Beth smiled, softly and with wonder. She tipped her head back, her breath coming fast, her heart beating faster. “It doesn’t matter. You like them, that’s enough.”
He moved his fingers over her face, exploring, savoring. He smiled. “That makes no sense.”
“It does. To me.” She wound her arms around his neck and laughed, feeling free and bold and self-confident. “Kiss me, Chance. Kiss me hard.”
He did.
Not bothering with preliminaries. Chance settled his mouth on hers with an almost bruising force. Parting her lips, he twined his tongue with hers, exploring the secrets of her mouth.
Just as it had the last time, his arousal was instantaneous and overwhelming. Kissing her wasn’t enough. He wanted her closer and deeper. He wanted to bury himself inside her.
Beth whimpered and tightened her fingers in his hair, returning the pressure of his kiss, reveling in him, in the moment, and in the way he made her feel—alive and aching and totally female.
He liked her art, she thought dizzily. He thought it wonderful. Wholly her, her art had nothing to do with Liza, with the character she’d created, with pretense. She had spilled everything she was into and onto those canvases—her heart and soul, the marrow of her being.
Just as she spilled all she was into their kiss.
Feeling liberated, she pressed herself against him, telling him without words how she felt and what she wanted. For the first time in her life she felt free to express her needs—to be a woman with strengths and fears, to respond fully.
Chance muttered something low and fervent against her mouth and backed her up to her worktable. She wound her fingers in his hair. Ironic that in pretending to be someone else, she had found a piece of herself.
Lifting her. Chance sat her on the table. He buried his face against the skin of her neck, breathing in her soft, female scent. A scent at once sweet and secretive and strong. It went straight to his head until all of his senses were filled with her. At that moment he couldn’t imagine a time when he hadn’t touched her.
Moving aside the neck of her blouse, he trailed his mouth over the curve of her shoulder, the delicate ridge of her collarbone, then lower. Her skin was silky smooth and as white as milk.
Save for the freckles—they dotted her flesh like a sprinkling of brown sugar. Smiling, he kissed each, thinking them small but perfect miracles.
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