Since he couldn’t tell her the truth, he shrugged and gave what he hoped was a close enough substitute. “Give me an old engine, and I can not only make it run, I can make it purr for you. But these engines today…hell, you need a computer just to find out what’s wrong with them. They’re not nearly as much fun as the old ones.”
“So you tended bar, and now you work security. What else did you do?”
Once he’d been yanked off the auto-theft assignment that had put him undercover at the Oxford garage, he’d worked a number of cases, some as mundane as health-care fraud, some as dangerous as racketeering and organized crime. Obviously, he couldn’t tell her about any of those. What he could tell her was the standard cover story meant to satisfy anyone who asked, but that would be lying, and he didn’t want to lie to her any more than necessary.
So he told her another version of the truth. “I missed you.”
His reply had the expected response—a brief softening of her chocolate-brown eyes, followed by a scowl and the assuming of a defensive posture. “Sure, you did.”
“I did. Every day.”
“If you missed me so much, you knew where to find me.”
“I knew where to find you and Mr. Right. How could I come looking for you when I thought you were married to him?”
His question made her bristle with an energy that exceeded the storm blowing around them. “How could you think I would marry him after what happened between us? Did it matter so little to you?”
“It was damn important to me!”
“So important that you ran away when it was done.”
“I told you last night, I had no choice!”
“And I told you, you had at least one choice. You could have taken me with you.”
“I didn’t know that,” he protested.
“You made love to me. You told me you loved me more than anything. And you honestly didn’t know I would go away with you?” She studied him for a long time, then gave a disgusted shake of her head. “You didn’t know me at all, did you?”
“I knew you,” he disagreed. “I knew you deserved better than me. I knew I wasn’t worth giving up your education, your perfect fiancé, your perfect future, your perfect family. I knew—I thought—you’d be happier in the long run with Mr. Right and your parents’ approval.”
“Did you know that I went to see Jonathan first thing that morning? That I told him all about you and me and I ended our engagement?” she challenged. “Did you know that next I told my parents I couldn’t marry the man they’d had their hearts set on because my heart was set on you?” Her voice grew thick with unshed tears, and her eyes glistened with them. “I gave up everything for you, Chance, and you left without even telling me goodbye.”
Before he could speak, think, react, she opened the door, then paused. “No need to break old habits. Wait out the storm, finish your tea, whatever, and then go. And don’t bother telling me when you do.” Then she went inside, locked the door and disappeared from sight.
Chance stood where he was a long time, feeling numb and more than a little sick. When he finally moved, he didn’t head for the gate, but braced one hand on the porch rail and leaped to the ground below. By the time he reached the car, he was soaked. By the time he pulled out of the parking space, he was steaming.
Why isn’t Jonathan married to you? he’d asked her on her first night on the Queen, and she had refused to answer. Now he knew. He should have known all along. Her fiancé had been a moral barrier to their relationship from the day they’d met—one of the few things that had helped them to stay apart as long as they’d managed. He should have known that once desire had overcome honor, the first thing she would do was confess her sins and call off the engagement.
He should have known. And if he had…?
He for damn sure wouldn’t have stayed away from her these past eight years.
And now that he did know…
“I’ll make it up to you, angel,” he murmured. Somehow. Some way.
Even though the odds were damnably against him.
Chapter 4
Sunday was Mary Katherine’s first day off, and it arrived not one moment too soon. She slept until noon, took a leisurely bubble bath, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and gathered her laundry. Balancing the basket on one hip, she locked up her apartment, then pushed open the screen door…and came to a sudden stop.
Chance was kicked back in one of the rockers, feet planted far apart, the Sunday paper scattered around him. She hadn’t seen much of him the past couple of days. Friday and Saturday were, by far, the Queen’s busiest times. Both nights her dinner break had been cut from an hour to half that, and the customers had kept her jumping—literally, with those whose hands had a tendency to roam. She’d barely even noticed the other waitresses and had caught only a couple of glimpses of Chance as he accompanied Mr. Ianucci from one place to the next. She’d gone home both nights exhausted—and with enough in tips to make it worthwhile.
Though she hadn’t let herself think about it before, now that he was here, she could admit that she’d missed him. Missed his grins and his arrogance. Missed the way he looked at her and the way those looks made her feel.
She missed that kiss.
Not certain whether he was aware of her, she let the screen door close with a bang. He was aware. He didn’t react to the noise, other than to take his sweet time closing the newspaper and gathering the sections back into some order. “It’s about time you got up,” he remarked lazily as he got to his feet, slid a rubber band around the paper, then returned it to 1-B’s box.
“It’s my day off. I’m entitled to sleep in.” She set the basket down and leaned against one of the four brick pillars that supported the roof.
“It’s everyone’s day off. Mr. Ianucci believes any employee of the Queen who wants to attend church or spend the day with his or her family should have that option, so the Queen never sails on Sunday.”
“Why, he’s just a paragon of virtue and generosity, isn’t he?”
“More so than most.”
“He’s certainly—bought? earned? otherwise acquired?—your loyalty.”
“My loyalty’s not for sale,” he said stiffly.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“Yes, it was.” But he blew it off as if it didn’t matter. “I came to see if I could tempt you into spending the day with me.”
“What did you have in mind?” And if it involved bed, getting naked or making love, she was going to smack him and go take a cold shower and pray for the strength that had failed her eight years ago.
“Well, knowing you’re such a good girl that you can’t have fun until the chores are finished, I thought we’d start with doing laundry, then we could get groceries. After that, maybe we could have lunch somewhere—or dinner—and see a movie or talk or something.”
She didn’t allow herself to dwell on the “something.” It well might lead to thoughts she couldn’t handle. “Start with laundry and groceries, huh?” She glanced at her basket, where her shopping list was clearly visible, anchored under a bottle of fabric softener. “You are so full of it. Do you really expect me to believe you came here to ask me to do laundry and buy groceries with you?”
With a grin, he reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She accepted it, unfolded it and scanned the list. Water, beer, chips, cereal, shampoo, shaving cream, detergent. When she looked back at him, the grin had broadened to almost unbearably smug. “And my laundry’s in the car. So…now that you’ve misjudged me—again—what do you say?”
She returned the shopping list to him, then bent to pick up her basket. He took it from her and carried it easily braced against one hip, putting it in the trunk of the Cuda, where, indeed, another basket filled with his own clothes waited. “Hmm…Chance Reynard doing laundry. That’s something I’ve never quite imagined.”
“My clothes get dirty, too, darlin’.”
“I guess I figured they magically
cleaned themselves…or some starry-eyed, lovesick angel scrubbed them over rocks in the river in a vain effort to win your approval.”
He gave her a chastising look across the roof of the car before she got in. “You’re the only angel I’ve ever met,” he remarked as he slid in beside her.
“Uh-huh. So all the other women you call that…they’re not really angels.”
He gave her another steady look. “You’re the only one I’ve ever called that. Sweetheart, sugar, darlin’—I use those words a lot. Hell, most women expect them from me. But you’re my only angel.”
Careful, Mary Katherine. Don’t go tumbling yet. She gave him an innocent look. “Funny. And you’re the only man I’ve ever called bastard.”
“You’re not alone in that, sugar,” he said in an easy careless manner, but underneath it Mary Katherine saw—or thought she saw—a twinge of hurt that passed through his green eyes. It made her ashamed, made her reach out and lightly touch his arm.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured.
He shrugged off both her apology and her hand.
The Laundromat he chose was ancient, tiny, and had apparently stood in the middle of its neighborhood for decades. Miniature mountains of gray lint had built up on the ground where each dryer vented, and every window—the old-fashioned crank type—was open, along with each door. There were six washers, six dryers, two wheeled baskets and one folding table, and this hot afternoon, they were the only customers.
Mary Katherine had only enough clothes for three small loads. She eyed them, then Chance’s sorting piles, then cleared her throat and asked, “Why don’t we combine our clothes? It seems silly to use six machines for what can surely fit in three or four.”
Leaning across, he hooked one of her bras with his index finger and let it dangle in the air. It wasn’t particularly large, anyway, because she wasn’t particularly large there, but hanging by one narrow strap from his big, powerful hand, it looked even more delicate than it was. “You want to wash your unmentionables with mine? Let them get all up close and personal while you’re still keeping me at arm’s length?”
He hadn’t been at arm’s length when he’d kissed her on the Queen Wednesday night. Not even so much as a breath could have fit between them, and still she’d strained to get closer. She’d wanted to curl around him, to crawl inside him, and stay forever.
He hadn’t been at arm’s length Thursday morning on her porch, either, when they’d talked about kisses. She’d wanted him to kiss her again, had wanted to pray that he never kissed her again. When he’d moved away without even touching her, she’d told herself she should be relieved, but inside all she’d really been was disappointed. Bereft.
She reached for the bra, but he pulled it back and dropped it onto a pile of his clothes. “Pretty little thing,” he commented as he picked up the next one, then the next. “Nothing but lace and ribbons and this see-through gauzy stuff. Sexy as hell. But, darlin’, if you’re sleeping alone, why do you bother?” His gaze drifted down to her bust, and grew so intense that she swore she could feel it. Her body was pretty darn sure it could feel it, too, because her nipples began to swell. “Even if you aren’t sleeping alone,” he asked in a hoarse voice, “why do you bother?”
It was all too apparent that, this afternoon, she hadn’t bothered. Resisting the urge to fold both arms across her chest, she forced her attention to the washer in front of her, plopping in quarters, measuring detergent, changing settings. She reached for the pile of clothes, but he had hold of the same garments and didn’t let them go.
“Do you remember undressing for me that night?” His voice was low, dark, fierce. “I wanted to strip you naked like that—” the snap of his fingers was a small explosion in the room “—but you wanted to undress at your own pace. I was so damn hard, and I wanted you so damn desperately, and you…” He inhaled a ragged breath. “You took off your shoes and lined them up neatly side by side. Then you unbuttoned that jacket you were wearing and you slid it off one arm, then the other, and you laid it off to the side, too. Your skirt had a zipper in back, and you undid it and slid it over your hips and there was nothing but skin until finally, a pair of those lacy little panties. I’d never realized how long your legs were until I watched you slide that skirt all the way off and you were standing there in those panties and that little top with a million buttons and I thought I was going to die before you were finished.”
Mary Katherine’s hands were shaking with the memory. She’d folded her skirt and set it with her cardigan, then knelt in front of him on the quilt. Her top had been a fitted cotton camisole, nipped and pleated, sleeveless with lace and pale pink ribbons and an even dozen small buttons.
“You started at the top,” Chance murmured, his words barely audible for the rushing that filled her ears and tightened her chest. “You undid the first button, then the second, and the third, and you looked so serious, and so sweet, and so innocent. And finally you finished, and you just sat there, with your hands on your thighs, and I pushed the material back and you weren’t wearing anything under it. It was the most erotic sight I’d ever seen. Ever since then, watching a woman undress, knowing she’s not wearing a bra, knowing I can slide my hands under her shirt and touch her breasts…”
His words ended in a choked groan. She was about to groan, too—to beg, plead, offer him anything he wanted if just once she could have him again.
And could she trust him this time? Would he break her heart again? Would she survive?
Desperately she breathed. Darn near frantically she tugged the clothes away from him and concentrated on sorting them into appropriate piles with her own. It wasn’t easy when her brain was addled, when her body was about to spontaneously combust, when her hands were trembling too badly to overlook.
Finally, when the clothes were in the washers, when the temperature had dropped to bearable, she dared a look at him and forced an uneasy smile. “Has anyone ever told you you have a way with words?”
It took him a minute to summon his own brash smile. Nice to know he was as affected as she. “My mama once told me I could sweet-talk a gator into a frying pan.”
“Your mama,” she repeated. Just as she’d never imagined him doing something as mundane as laundry, she’d never imagined him with a family, either. Except for the one she’d fantasized about having with him in those few sweet hours before she’d learned of his betrayal.
“I do have a mother,” he said dryly. “And a father and three brothers and a sister.”
“Where are they?”
“At home, mostly. Little town down in south Mississippi that makes Jubilee look like a bustling city. Except my youngest brother. He’s living over in Jackson.”
“A family. Do you see them often?”
“Not as much as I’d like.”
“Do they know what you’re doing?”
For an instant his expression went blank, then he grinned again. “If you’re asking whether they’d approve of my working security in a casino and carrying a gun, sorry to disappoint you, darlin’, but they would. My daddy’s a gambler from way back, and out where they live, everyone’s got guns. Besides, they figure an honest job is a good job.” Taking her arm in a surprisingly un-intense way, he pulled her outside the door, where an awning overhead provided shade and a slight breeze added its own cooling. “Do your parents know what you’re doing?”
“They know,” she admitted cautiously.
“They know you’re wearing feathers and sequins and not much more than your birthday suit and parading around in front of strange men, smiling at them and flirting with them and sometimes letting them touch you, all for a paycheck and tips?”
Her face flushed crimson. “They know I’m a waitress on a riverboat casino.” And they knew she was trying to prove Granddad’s innocence, and they most certainly didn’t approve. As did everyone else in the family, her folks loved Paddy dearly, but, like everyone else, they knew he was a scoundrel. Beyond that, they had no clue what she was doing to g
et that proof.
“A waitress,” Chance repeated, managing to sound as prim as she did at times. “And maybe they think this waitress job is in an upscale restaurant, with a uniform of…oh, black pants, white shirt and brocade vest, or maybe even an old-time covered-from-neck-to-toe Southern belle gown.”
Her flush heated a few degrees. “Okay. My parents aren’t aware of exactly where I’m working, what I’m doing or what I’m wearing, and no, they wouldn’t approve. But I’m a grown woman, Chance, and I’ve proven before that I don’t always need their approval.”
Such as with him.
He looked her over head to toe and, like that, the temperature began rising again. “You won’t get any argument from me about the grown woman part, angel.” Before she could enjoy her reaction—or worry over it—too much, he gestured toward the wood bench that stood along one wall. She sat at one end, and he sat at the other. The uneven legs wobbled, then settled in the dirt. “Now that you’ve survived your first week on the job and the embarrassment and the shoes haven’t killed you, what do you think?”
“It beats the library reading program job by a country mile,” she said with a smile. “I like teaching—really, I do. But when you spend your entire life surrounded by kids…”
“Surely there are men in your life.”
She glanced at him. He was leaning forward on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, his attention riveted on an ant making its way across sandy dirt to the cover of a tuft of grass. He looked ill at ease, and he sounded almost jealous. The combination was sweet enough to make her smile. If she were a wicked woman, she’d let him stew in that jealousy for a while, but being wicked was outside her abilities. About all she could manage to be was honest. “I date occasionally,” she admitted. “There are some nice guys in Jubilee. But…that’s all they are. Nice. They don’t—” She broke off with a shrug.
Who Do You Love? Page 16