by Mallory Rush
She swallowed hard, trying to deal with the tumult of sensation, the difficulty of putting it into words. She'd always felt this way with Chance, but she had never spoken it aloud, never dared. What he wanted was difficult. And once said, she couldn't take it back. Oh yes, he knew what he was doing, the words he demanded. Only she couldn't seem to draw back, to cling to reason while he stood so close, withholding himself, denying her what she craved.
"Chance, I..." His hands tightened in her hair, around her waist. His mouth lowered until his breath mingled with hers. She instinctively pulled him closer.
"That's a start. You what, Micah? Need me?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"And what else?"
"I... I want you."
"Badly?"
She nodded.
"How bad, Micah? Enough to let go of what's holding you back from telling me what I want to hear?"
She took a shuddering breath. "It's hard for me, Chance. I've never talked about these things before."
"Then it's time you did. Just trust me for once, tell me what I make you feel... here, I'll even help you—" He passed his hand from her hair to press his fingertips against the vein pounding beside her neck. "Does your heart beat too fast?"
A tiny moan broke past her lips as he stroked his fingertips over the length of her throat. Too familiar. Too wonderfully seductive.
"Yes, you know it does. Just as you know I can't think—good Lord, I can hardly breathe. And it's torture. The kind I could die for. There. Are you happy? Is that what you want me to say, to admit?" Something held her back from saying more, though, a sense of self-preservation, the possible cost of saying too much.
"There," she said again, this time softly. "Is that enough for you, Chance? I hope so, because tonight that's as much as I can give. And it's a lot more than I intended at that."
"It's enough." His voice was gruff and deep with longing. "For now it's enough."
His mouth fell upon hers, swift and hot and wanting. Not the kiss of curiosity, of lips touching for the first time. It was a kiss of reunion, of knowing the hidden secrets that bound them, the parlay of tongues meeting in desire that had been kept in check too long.
Micah felt no hesitancy, only elation, ecstasy that his mouth moved over hers with such hungry abandon. The stroke of his tongue over hers before tracing the shape of her teeth, her lips. The command he demanded and she gave.
His mouth was open, skimming from her lips to her neck, her ear. Micah pressed eagerly against him and felt the wonderful proof of his maleness, the intoxicating rush of knowing she did this to him, that the power was mutual and equally as strong.
She wrapped her arm more tightly about his neck, treading her fingers through the resilient thickness of his hair, hungry for the feel of it. Her other arm she tightened around his waist, pulling him closer still, heedless of what she might be doing to him. Wanting to test the feeling. Delighting to those sounds again, harsh and guttural sounds of unrestrained longing. To know that in spite of the years, in spite of her self-doubts, she could still make his blood pound through his veins as he did hers.
The warm spring air hit the wetness on her neck, the delicious, smooth trail he forged until mindlessly she moaned against his tiny bites, her head dropping back to invite more. The feel of his teeth skimming her jaw while his hands tangled in her hair was everything that she remembered, everything and more.
"Chance... please. More..." She moved until her lips found his again. They felt full and a little raw. The ravaging was too delicious, too wonderful for words. And she needed it yet again. Enough to make up for all the lonely nights she had dreamed of this moment, this little portion of what she truly craved.
Chance's hands began to slide down her back, but stopped just short of her buttocks. And the disappointment—oh the heaviness of it—of his not touching her more intimately, the frustration of not being able to make herself say "Please, touch me there. Run your hands down my back until they can go no farther. Then trail them over my skin, beneath my dress. Touch me until I don't care anymore." Be brave, she told herself. Be brave, be foolish. Give in to what you would never dare before....
No.
She didn't dare. This time the price was too high.
"I'm waiting, Micah. If you want more than kisses... you have to ask for that too. Each... and every... thing."
She wanted him. She burned for his touch.
Quickly, before she lost what pitifully little control she'd gained, she loosened her hold around his waist and laid her hand full against his chest, not pushing him away, not wanting to, but keeping the slight distance. It was an inner battle not to clench the fabric tight and gather him to her instead.
"No, Chance," she said huskily, shakily. "I don't think so. We'd better stop here."
He drew back and straightened. "Like I said, Micah. I won't push." He touched her cheek gently, the gesture tender, familiar. His face softened in such a way she wanted to kiss him even more than before, to hold that rare show of vulnerability to her and never let go.
"I know what I am," he said, "and so do you. Maybe that tells you how much I care. Because in spite of every instinct screaming inside me to take what I want, knowing you wouldn't say no if I pressed just the right buttons, it would just be for now. Now's not enough. It never has been. I'm going to have you, Micah, and your body's just part of what I need. I'll do whatever it takes." He placed a soft, lingering kiss on her forehead and stepped back. "Whatever it takes," he repeated.
Micah could feel the melting in her, the way her heart shifted at the strength, the honest need he didn't try to hide. His openness disarmed her in a way force never would have.
Chance unlocked the door and pushed it open. He looked for a moment into the entry.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?" he said, almost to himself.
"Yes, it has. Chance."
"Remember when I knocked on the door that night, and your father answered?"
Micah shivered. How well she remembered indeed.
"I'll never forget him telling me you weren't there, and I could see you looking down from the top of the stairs. I could even see the anger on your face, fighting with the tears. But still you didn't come down."
She swallowed on the sense of impotence she felt then, the disappointment in herself for not being brave enough to face down her father.
"I was afraid to. I knew my father would make a scene if I did."
Chance nodded. "Yeah, that's exactly what would have happened. Looking back now though, I probably would have done the same thing if it had been my daughter. Only I didn't see it that way then, especially when he reminded me about my reputation and how he screened your dates. The way he blocked my way with his arm propped against the frame, I got the message just fine. He wasn't about to let me through that front door for all the tea in China. When I left for good, that was the image I took with me—because when I came back, I was determined to have enough clout that he wouldn't dare block my way again. My mother might have used the back door, but I was damned if I was going to."
It came back at her. Her frustration at her parents. Chance's bitterness about the way her parents treated him, about his mother's role as housekeeper in their household...
"I hurt for you, Chance. If only I could have been with you when it happened. If I could have helped or—"
"You helped. You came to her funeral. It helped... seeing you there."
"She was a good person, Chance. My parents... I... well, we appreciated all her..."
"That's okay, Micah. You can say it," he had said sadly. "'All her help.' Let's face it, she was your maid. As much as I hate what her life was, denying it won't change a damn thing. Besides, when I start to feel the anger I always remind myself that at least it brought me to you."
"Micah? Are you still with me?"
She started. For a moment it had seemed so real, she could still feel the rage within him, the anguish of his mother's loss he had shared with no one but her.
>
She smiled, relieved to be standing in the present.
"I'm with you. I was just thinking that, maybe—"
"Maybe?" he prompted.
She let him see the hope, the warmth he had brought to the surface. If he could trust enough to open up, maybe it was time she found the courage to do the same.
"Maybe I could fix dinner one night... but you'd have to come through the front door."
He smiled broadly, and it gave him an almost boyish appearance.
"Dinner one night? Why. Miss Micah, I'd be delighted." He touched the earring once and then let it fall. "And you know, I've always preferred the front door to the back."
They laughed quietly together in the faded glow of the entry light spilling out and over them. And then they fell silent with the small distance between them, the mutual desire still humming.
"Good night. Chance," she said, reluctantly stepping over the threshold and into the light.
"Yeah, you too... ma cherie." Chance leaned forward as though he meant to kiss her again, but almost instantly he pulled away and took a single step back.
"Tomorrow, then?"
Micah nodded and smiled tentatively, not quite able to reorient herself to the sudden change. Not really wanting to.
"Ten o'clock. I'll be there."
Chapter 6
At ten minutes of ten Micah stood in the outer waiting area to Chance's office, her hair down and the emerald earrings dangling beside the dark tresses. She nervously glanced into a mirror hanging over a plush couch across from the secretary's empty desk.
She had agonized over what to wear, wondered if Chance would notice the earrings or the hair, and hoped he'd had as much trouble sleeping as she had. The mirror told her the concealer had done a decent job of hiding the circles beneath her eyes.
Her stomach churned with the knowledge Chance was on the other side of the door. The lobby she was waiting in was starkly beautiful, obviously professionally decorated. She'd always known where Chance had his offices, she'd even driven past several times on the pretext of going somewhere else; but she'd never been inside until now.
The secretary had apparently stepped out for a few minutes, and rather than fidget alone, she decided to go ahead and confront Chance.
Tapping lightly on the heavy door, she waited for Chance to open it, or at least to say "Come in."
No sound. Maybe if she just cracked it ajar to call out to let him know she was here...
"—I don't give a damn what it takes! Just hang him. No, I don't want him fired! I want him worse than fired—demoted until he's back where he started—"
There was a small silence while Chance stood with his back to her, facing the wall of windows which magnificently displayed the dark sheen of the Mississippi River.
She knew she should move away, go back to the outer office, but the vindictive chill of his voice seemed to pin her where she stood. Cold fingers of warning wrapped themselves around her heart, telling her to stay away from this Chance, the one who was heartless and cruel. The one that made her want to cry because he defamed a part of himself, the part that made her weak with longing.
He cursed into the receiver again. "Then what's taking so long? You've had a month—"
Micah swallowed hard as he swung around abruptly. His eyes were flat, biting hard for that split second before he saw her. And then they changed: Sudden delight, then realization that she had heard—wariness now as she stood with her eyes wide, a stricken look on her face she couldn't hide away before he saw it.
"I'll get back to you on this."
He hung up without saying "good-bye," and for a moment they stood watching each other.
Chance raked a hand through his thick, dark hair, mussing it so that he looked even more inviting. Micah tried to disregard it. Just as she tried to disregard the way his sleeves were rolled up, revealing the masculine appeal of hair covering his forearms, the tops of his hands. A man's hands that were large, well formed, and looked as though they had done years of hard labor despite the careful way they were kept. She wrenched her gaze away as it began to descend to his hips, and encountered the tie he'd already loosened around his neck.
It was almost ten o'clock in the morning and Chance looked as though he'd been working since the crack of dawn. He probably had. He was the hardest worker she'd ever known, always had been. Micah gave herself a mental shake. She couldn't excuse his behavior just because he applied his energy to it.
Chance smiled at her hesitantly. He came forward, his hands outstretched.
"Micah, you're early! Come in, I wasn't expecting you just yet."
He closed the distance quickly, but didn't reach for her.
"I... gathered that," she said hesitantly. "I didn't mean to intrude, Chance. But the sec—"
"You, intrude? Never. But I'm sorry you had to catch the lion in his den. It's just"—he shrugged his shoulders indifferently—"business."
She couldn't think of an appropriate response that didn't sound judgmental. She remained still as they silently measured each other. Last night had been glorious beyond words. Now they were stilted. Too carefully polite.
Chance was the first to speak. "You look lovely, Micah. I like your hair down." He smiled disarmingly and touched the emerald dangling from her lobe. "And you wore the earrings. For me... I hope?"
The war waged within. Part of her still abhorring what she'd walked in on; the other half thrilling to the words he spoke so gently, moving her with the lightness of his touch, his notice of such little things.
She started to lie, to say no. But he wouldn't have believed her anyway.
"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, Chance. I did wear them for you."
He reached for her hands, and this time she didn't draw back. Not even when he bent swiftly to brush his lips over her cheek. The skin prickled on the nape of her neck.
"You just made my day," he said.
She coughed and glanced away, trying to cover up the intimacy that was pulling at her, trying to remind herself why she was here.
"Remember? No special treatment," she teased, trying to ease the building tension. "I just hope the lion doesn't decide to sharpen his claws on me too."
Chance threw his head back and laughed. His laugh was rough, a little alien sounding, and she realized it was a sound she hadn't heard often.
He led her to a sleekly styled chair in front of his desk, then went around and sat down, forming a steeple with his fingertips.
"So you want to start a business."
"That's right. Something I can call my own."
"It's a jungle out there. Think you can handle it?"
"I don't see that I have much choice. It's either that or starve." She smoothed her hand over her skirt self-consciously and noticed Chance's gaze followed the movement, lingering at her legs. "Besides," she went on, hoping he'd look back up, "I seem to have this driving urge to prove something to myself. I want to accomplish something with my life. It doesn't have to be grand, especially not at first. But I have to start somewhere." As she fidgeted with the hem of her skirt, Chance looked back up and smiled. He was obviously enjoying himself.
"Then I'm glad you came to me. You're right if you think I'm tough. Mean, too, if you ask the right people. But I won't steer you wrong, Micah. And believe it or not, I usually try to be fair. Even where others are concerned."
He reached to the side of his desk and pulled a thick manila folder off a pile of papers that were neatly arranged. Opening the folder, he flipped through several pages before picking up a gold pen that matched half a dozen gold accessories on the heavy mahogany desk. He seemed to be squinting as he went through the papers, then with a scowl, he opened the top drawer and withdrew—glasses?
"Reading glasses," he said, before gliding his finger along the bridge of his nose. He perused the papers while she watched him, feeling for some strange, inexplicable reason that he looked appealingly vulnerable. Especially the way he seemed to disdain them, keeping them hidden as long as possible as
though it hurt his pride to be less than perfect.
"I like the glasses, Chance. They make you look—" she tilted her head, considering, "distinguished."
He glanced up from the papers and seemed to be expecting something insincere or teasing in the remark. Finding none, he nodded and grinned.
"Thanks. I hate the damn things. I think they make me look... dull as dishwater." He shrugged.
"Dull?" Micah couldn't keep back the hoot of laughter. "You, Chance? Dull? As dishwater? The bad boy of New Orleans is going to hurt his reputation if he keeps talking like that."
He grinned then began to laugh too. "I love to hear you laugh, Micah. If wearing these is what it takes, I'll resign myself to the duration. I'm totally unscrupulous in my methods when it comes to you, you know."
Micah didn't doubt that for one minute, and the laughter died as the truth of that single statement sunk in. Chance seemed to realize his mistake, and covered up the ensuing silence as he poured over the papers once more.
"So," he said. "You're interested in rental property, right?"
One... two... three... the seconds ticked past as Micah absorbed what he'd just said. When had she told Chance about her plans? She couldn't remember... because she hadn't. She was sure of it.
"How did you know I was interested in rental property?" she asked slowly, not sure she wanted to hear the answer.
He seemed slightly off balance; just for an instant, before he shrugged nonchalantly.
"Oh," he said easily. "Word gets around in this business. I've got my fingers in a lot of pies. Real estate is the biggest slice. I heard about your deal that fell through. I'm sorry about that, Micah. You know I would have helped if you'd just asked."
Something didn't feel quite right. Even if word did get around, this was a big city. Awfully big for Chance to have known of her business dealings. She had been discreet. She pushed the niggling thought away.
"I appreciate the thought. Chance. But you know how I feel about taking your money."
He held up his hand. "I wasn't offering. Just making a statement." He pulled out the piece of paper he'd been studying and handed it to her. "Take a look at this and tell me what you think."