Bad Boy of New Orleans

by Mallory Rush

  Chance hesitated, wanting her, needing her. He couldn't back off, especially not now.

  "I care for you," he murmured in an even tone. "Enough that I want to help. Give me a chance to prove it, Micah. Don't I deserve that much?" He waited for an answer, but she stayed quiet. "Or am I so vile you're not even willing to give me that? Still the bad boy of New Orleans trying to corrupt the most innocent little rich girl in the parish?"

  "No," she said quickly.

  "No?" he repeated with obvious disbelief.

  "It was always you, Chance. You made sure I didn't forget the differences between us when we were growing up. And maybe the differences are even greater now that you've established yourself. I'm still unfashionably 'wholesome' as you once put it. But I've never treated you as though you weren't good enough. So don't try to push that off on me."

  "You're right," he said reluctantly. "I admit that wasn't fair."

  "Then can you admit you still resent me? I still feel it sometimes, Chance. Not as much as when you first came back, but I sense it's still there."

  He nodded. "Let's talk about it, Micah. About us. Where we went wrong, what's keeping us apart. Talk to me. Don't be afraid of me anymore... Please."

  He must have gotten through to her somehow, because Micah swayed toward him and he drew her closer, almost against his chest, but not quite. She didn't try to move away and he gave a silent shout of joy. It had been too long in coming. He wanted to see her face, to feel her breasts barely touching him through the open dinner jacket. The lightness of the contact was more exciting than crushing her body to his. He moved so that there was a slight friction, and he could feel her response, the tightening of her nipples as they thrust against his tailored white shirt.

  With all the will he possessed he made himself stop. He wasn't a randy kid anymore. He wasn't about to blow what little ground they had gained by acting like one.

  "Do I matter to you, Chance?" she asked quietly. "Sometimes I could almost believe that. Lord knows I've wanted to often enough. But it's not that easy with us. We have a past. One that's laced with resentment from you."

  "You have none?"

  "No. I've escaped that, but not the guilt."

  Slowly he nodded. Wordlessly he led her to the porch steps, and wordlessly she followed. They sat down in the dark in silence while a distant car sped in the background, overridden by the concert of crickets.

  Chance reached for her hand.

  "Ill try not to resent you," he said quietly. She shifted, and he could feel her looking at him now. Into the gathering darkness he stared, struggling to pry open the wall of indifference he'd kept firmly in place too long to easily put aside.

  "I know it wasn't your fault," he went on. "You were too young. I asked too much. I know all that, and I've told myself those very words in silence, and just as often aloud. But it doesn't seem to make any difference. I find that I do resent you every now and then. But Micah," he turned to look at her, his gaze intense, "It's not that you didn't wait for me, I didn't blame you for that. Maybe at first, but that soon faded. It's not even that you had all the advantages I didn't growing up. I admit there's anger there. But it's never been aimed at you."

  "Then what is it, Chance? What do you hold against me if not that?"

  He shook his head, amazed that she could overlook something so obvious. He loosened her hand in a gesture of contrasting gentleness and held it palm up, tracing the crevices, the soft inner pads beneath his fingertips. He thrilled to the way she shivered against him in spite of the warm air surrounding them.

  "Don't you know? It's that you kept the distance when you had no right to. I left you alone as long as you were happy. I figured the fault was mine for not coming back sooner, not keeping some kind of contact over the years. But when I could see your marriage crumbling, the misery you were living in, while I was just as miserable—in another way—" He stopped and for a moment remembered... the empty nights, the ever-present longing she had created only to leave him with it alone, with no hope, no surcease.

  "Chance," she said, breaking into his thoughts, "That was the point. I was married."

  "You called that a marriage?"

  Micah winced, and her eyes appeared unnaturally bright.

  "I'm doing it again. Dammit, I don't mean to, Micah. I was never a gentle man, it's just not in me. But when I see you, when I touch you—" He laid his fingertips lightly against her cheek and was amazed to see that she shook. Chance exhaled a long stream of breath. "I'm a hard man if ever there was one... but lady, you turn me inside out. And when you get right down to it, that's why I resent you. I resent you for not leaving him when I asked you to, but more than that, I resent the hell out of you for jerking my emotions around like a puppet on a string."

  Her heart was racing. "I never meant to," she whispered. "You know I never did."

  "Yeah, I do. And that's the point. You do it without even meaning to. You think I'm dangerous, Micah? Think again, because it works both ways."

  Chance could see her swallow hard, the tapered length of her neck straining so that he wanted to trail his lips against the purity of her skin until he felt her murmurs of arousal vibrate beneath his mouth. He forced his eyes back to hers and knew she believed him. He was ceding power by betraying his emotions. But he was gambling that she would feel safer with that knowledge, safe enough to take a step closer, to begin bridging the gap.

  "It wouldn't have been right," she said, her voice low. "He was a sick man, Chance. When you brought him home that night two years ago, I wanted to. More than anything I wanted to leave with you and never..." Her voice caught for a moment. "It took everything I had in me to stay, to do what was right."

  "Turning your back on us wasn't right. Staying because of a sense of duty wasn't right. You didn't love him, Micah. Admit it."

  "No." There, she'd said it, but she knew it wouldn't satisfy him. "Chance, I have to look at this face in the mirror every morning. If I had left him for you, I couldn't have lived with it. My self-respect, everything I'd ever been taught about loyalty, marriage—"

  Chance placed a finger over her lips, halting the flow of words. The physical contact sent a rush through him and he forgot about everything except the smooth, full texture of her lips, the feel of her ripe plum-colored lipstick rubbing against his thumb.

  "I kissed you that night. Do you remember?" he whispered.

  Micah nodded, her eyes deep, unfathomable pools of remembrance. As she spoke he traced the movement of her lips.

  "I remember. While he slept, passed out, you came to me. You held me. Kissed me."

  "You kissed me back as hard and deep as that night when we were just kids. I wanted you, Micah. Right then, in the same room with him. Nothing would have made me happier than for that sorry bastard to have woken up and found you in my arms. He would have let you go then. As a matter of honor, if nothing else. He had that much gumption—little more, but that much."

  "I was married," she whispered again. "Leaving like that... Chance, it wouldn't have been right."

  "No," he agreed. "Not for you. Not for my Micah. You made me leave, and even then you clung to your guilt, didn't you? You pushed me further away than ever."

  "I had to. I still have to." She suddenly buried her face in her hands and drew a shuddering breath. "Oh, Chance. So much has happened, so much I wish I could undo. I'm a different person now and I have to live with that fact. We can't pick up where we left off. That isn't how life works."

  Chance's brow furrowed. "Why?" he said between gritted teeth. "You keep harboring your secrets like they're sacred sins. Why, Micah? Do you think it's some kind of saintly accomplishment that you can cling to, or is it some kind of ridiculous loyalty to a dead man who didn't even deserve it while he was alive?"

  "No," she said fiercely. "This time it's for me. Can't you understand, Chance? You're too strong, too overpowering. For the first time I have the chance to have a life of my own. I have to prove to myself I can be somebody, all on my own. You s
aid as much to me so long ago. Well, maybe I didn't understand then. But I understand now. Can't you do the same?"

  She suddenly leaned forward and dug her fingers into his shoulders, her face set in fervent lines, as though the truth were even now just emerging for her.

  "Please, Chance. You say you care. If you do, then let me go. Then maybe I'll find what I'm looking for. Can't you just be my friend?"

  It was the last question that truly touched him. Micah was right. He couldn't force her, but maybe there was a way to win the new Micah. There had to be a way.

  "Okay, Micah," he said. "Unfortunately, I understand. Only tell me one thing. What's your plan?"

  "My plan?"

  "Of course. How do you propose to go about this 'evolvement' of yours?"

  Micah seemed puzzled, as though she had been trying to find the path and was stumbling blindly in search of it. Then her brow smoothed and her eyes lit up.

  "You said you were always there if I needed you. I need your advice, Chance. You're the only one I can turn to for this. Will you help me?"

  "What d'you mean asking me a question like that? Of course I'll help you. Anything, Micah. Is it money? I heard Elliot, and I can take care of him. Anyone else who's giving you a hard time?"

  "Absolutely not!"

  He was stunned by the vehemence in her voice. "I don't want your money, Chance. I only want what I can earn for myself. As for Elliot, and anyone like him, they can wait until I've got it to give. Whatever you do, don't offer me money again. Ever."

  Chance shrugged. He didn't understand; nothing would make him happier than lightening her financial load. But if that's the way she wanted it... well, he'd let her call the shots. For now.

  "Okay, well leave the money out of it. So tell me what you need."

  Micah smiled then, realty smiled for the first time since he could remember. She was always beautiful, but when she smiled she was something else.

  "Oh, you have it, all right. I've got a little over three thousand dollars to my name, Chance. It's my money, some I tucked away. I can't get a job so I thought I might start a business. Something of my own that I can take pride in, make enough at to support myself. You had to start somewhere, learn all the ropes. I can't afford to make many mistakes. You can help me steer clear of the more fatal ones. You could tell me where to invest what I've got." He started to comment, but she rushed on to finish.

  "Now, don't suggest the antique business—I might have the knowledge, but after going bankrupt, my reputation is shot. Even if it wasn't my fault. Besides, my family was interested in hunting down old pieces and selling them. I'm not."

  Chance thought about it for a few minutes. It wasn't a question of helping her, that didn't even enter his mind. The real question was, how to help her and implicate her into his life at the same time?

  "A little over three thousand dollars, huh?"

  Micah leaned forward, anxious. "I know it's not much, but—"

  "No," he said quickly. "It's enough. I already have a working idea. I want to sleep on it, though." He looked at Micah's eager face. There was a youthful zest there he hadn't seen in a very, very long while. "Can you meet me at my office tomorrow? Say ten o'clock?"

  Micah nodded with barely leashed excitement, and Chance could feel his own delight. Although he made all the usual charitable donations, he hadn't really helped many people before. The rush of pleasure he received from helping her felt good. But then again, he wasn't doing this totally out of the goodness of his hard heart. It was all part of his plan to make her his. All his.

  "I'll be there," she promised. "Ten o'clock sharp. But you have to promise me. Chance, no dirty dealings, and no preferential treatment. I want you to treat me like you would any other person looking for advice about an investment."

  Chance held back a laugh. "You know me better than that, Micah. I wouldn't give most people the time of day if they came to me with the same question. Don't give me too much credit—underneath it all, I'm still a street-tough kid. I'll get my money's worth even if I do still have it bad for a sweet young girl." He was trying to tease her, but he saw her draw back. Quickly he added, "Don't worry. No special treatment. Well keep it strictly business."

  He forced himself to rise before he sealed the lie with a kiss. He knew she would trust him more if he ended the night now, and he wasn't going to test his luck. He was pleased that she seemed to hesitate, disappointed that he was leaving so quickly.

  He reached for her hand, helping her up then walking her to the door.

  Chance skimmed his fingertips across the delicate ridge of her jaw until he touched the emerald dangling at one of her lobes. He raised it up, ever so slightly, until it glittered in the moonlight. Her breathing quickened, and the way she looked at him... he suddenly ached with the familiar swelling of his groin, the tightening around his heart.

  "What I did at the opera, Micah. It was... unkind. I was jealous about seeing you with Elliot, and... I'm sorry." He knew he'd hurt her, but she accepted his apology easily, gracing him with a smile.

  "You looked so beautiful tonight," he said in a thick, slumberous voice. "I saw you weaving your way over to us, before you knew I was there. I could see these earrings swaying as you walked, the way they matched your eyes. More than anything I wanted to go to you, to kiss you right there, to touch these stones that were as close as I wanted to be. Do you ever want me half as much, Micah? Do you ever remember our kisses, our lovemaking, and relive it all over again? I do. I've replayed them in my mind until they're as much a part of me as breathing. I only wish I knew that you felt the same way. That's all I ask for now, nothing more. Tell me if you still want me, and I promise to leave it at that."

  She was yielding to his words. She turned her cheek until her lips were nestled in his palm. She kissed his hand.

  "I do. Chance," she said fervently. "I want you more than I've ever wanted any other man. I've cried at night from wanting you so much."

  He took the gamble and laid it on the line.

  "Then want me more. If I so much as kiss you again, it'll be only when you ask for it. Not before. You've cut your space and, heaven help me, I'm going to give it. When you're ready, Micah, I'll be waiting."

  Chance covered her hand with his own, shutting his eyes against the intensity of what he was feeling.

  He drew her into his embrace, and for the space of a few moments—moments that passed too damnably fast—he trusted himself to hold her. She laid her head against his chest and he cradled her there, stroking through her hair until he encountered the clasp that burrowed at the nape of her neck. He touched the clasp, wanting fiercely to release it, to plunge his hands into the silken strands which were as black as the night surrounding them. But he didn't dare. He made himself take a step back, releasing her, letting her go.

  "Good night," he murmured. Quickly he turned and took two steps. For a moment he thought he must have imagined her next words, but he paused and waited for her to speak again.

  "Chance," she whispered, "kiss me?"

  Chapter 5

  Micah heard her own words echo between her ears. What was she thinking, giving into the gathering tide of emotion, of physical awareness that was too acute, almost painful—asking for pain of a different kind?

  But she had said it, those words she had been fighting against all night, and now even with her eyes closed, she could hear him retracing his steps, slowly coming closer. Over the heavy rushing beat of her heart, she knew he was pacing himself, deliberately slow, increasing her anticipation with the thud of his weight upon the groaning wood of the porch.

  And then he stopped. Chance didn't touch her, but she could hear the slight husk of his breath, feel the heat emanate in waves off his body and lap at hers. Her nostrils dilated at the familiar, masculine musk scent that brought the years crashing back. Her palms were damp, her legs were trembling. She didn't dare to open her eyes and meet his. Because even in the muted darkness enveloping them, she could feel the pull and weight of their hol
d.

  "Not like this, Micah." He touched her cheek so tenderly she felt the impulse to cry.

  She opened her eyes and met his. They were the color of coal and just as indecipherable.

  "Then, like what. Chance? Tell me." It was all she could do to force the words past the constriction of desire too heavy in her throat. Silently she added, anything, just tell me. Just kiss me.

  "Like... this." His lips were open, parted, closing the distance to hers. But he didn't join their mouths. Rather, he caught her hand, dangling limply by her side, and kissed the center of her palm before draping it about his neck. She could feel the corded, dark strength beneath her fingertips, the texture of thick hair, and the stiff white collar of his shirt intruding over the skin she longed to touch.

  "Your hands are shaking, Micah," he murmured. "And they're damp. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? Knowing I can still do that to you after all these years?"

  She shook her head, and stroked her fingers tentatively through the ebony thickness, then with a surer touch.

  Chance's breath came out in a single, heavy stream as she continued to seek her fill of his scent and texture and nearness.

  "It makes me feel... incredible. Invincible. Like every minute I've waited was worth it. Look, Micah—" he held his hand up close to her face. "See what you do to me? You're the only woman who's ever made me tremble. And inside it's the same. I hate it. I love it. And nothing, not time, not distance, nothing's been able to dull the memories. It's been the same for you. I know it has. But I want to hear you say it. Tell me what it does to you when I touch your hair like this—"

  He reached around and suddenly she could feel the weight of her hair loosened, falling around her shoulders, spilling between his fingers. "Or when I hold you to me like this—" the same fingers speared through to the roots and tightened as his other arm came around and soothed a trail over her spine before locking around her waist. "Tell me."