by Mallory Rush
Micah scanned the page, looking over Chance's distinctive scrawl. Her brow furrowed, and she read it again.
Looking back up, she shook her head. "I told you, Chance. I've only got around three thousand dollars. From reading this I get the distinct impression that not only is the down payment more than I've got, the property needs repair."
"Lots of it. New paint, carpeting. A little plumbing. A lot of carpentry work. And the appliances need replacing, but we could get by with some good used ones."
"Then why are you showing me this? I don't know how to fix a pipe, much less how to hang paneling."
"Not yet, you don't." Chance leaned forward and fixed her with a steady, almost challenging, gaze. "Here are the facts, Micah. You're not going to find anything for a few thousand bucks' investment. The best you can do is get something that needs work and haggle for a lower down. This property is basically sound, in an okay neighborhood, but the cosmetics are shot. I've been considering it for the past month or so; so far no one else seems to be interested. The owner wants out. I think it could be a good move for both of us if I cut you in on the deal."
Micah realized she was gripping the paper tightly, and she was fighting the buzzing noise in her head. This seemed like more work than she'd bargained for. But what had she expected? A miracle? That Chance had some kind of magic solution that with a little money, a little work, all her problems would be ended? Grow up, she told herself. Listen to the man, he knows what he's talking about. And she was in no position to argue.
"Go ahead. Chance," she said, feeling uneasier by the minute.
"Here's the plan. You put up what you've got for your portion of the down payment. I'll put up the rest."
"I don't think—"
Chance held up his hand. "Hear me out. Micah, before you say no."
She nodded reluctantly. "All right, I'm listening."
"Good, because I think you'll like the idea once you get used to it. What I want to do is furnish the materials, have some of my men come in for the electrical and plumbing problems. The rest is up to you."
"The rest, meaning...?"
"Hanging the wallpaper. Doing the running, like finding the best buy on carpeting. Painting the interior. Sweat equity, Micah. I furnish the supplies, you furnish part of the labor, and your ideas on color schemes. All that stuff I'd have to pay a decorator for if you didn't do it. When it's done, we resell and find another project, or rent and split the immediate profits."
"But, Chance. I don't know how to hang wallpaper, or... or—"
"I do. And I don't mind teaching you how. Something tells me you'd be really good at it."
"But if you're teaching me, I'm not doing my part, and then it's no different from a handout."
His scowl was enough to make her shrink back. But she wouldn't. She didn't care if it was foolish, she had her pride, and she wouldn't allow Chance to supply the charity.
"Get this, Micah. If anyone knows what a handout is, it's me. My mother had to take enough while I was growing up and I'm not about to insult you by offering you one. It's a business deal, pure and simple. In fact, if you'll ditch your pride and come to your senses long enough to see, this could be a good move for both of us, I'll have my lawyer draw up the papers. That way you'll know it's a legal transaction, not some kind of trumped up excuse for me to give you money you don't want. Believe it or not, I'm still careful with my money. I don't treat any investment lightly. Not even one with you."
He swiped his glasses off his nose and tossed them down on the desk. His jaw was set, and Micah could feel her stomach twist as she came toe-to-toe with the infamous shark from the waterfront.
"Now," he continued tersely. "You said you wanted to work at something you could make a go at. Here's your chance. Take it or leave it."
She carefully laid the paper on his desk in front of her and made the pretense of studying it once more so she could avoid meeting his probing, dark gaze. She could hear him slowly but steadily tapping the pen on the desk, and clasped her hands together, trying to still them from covering the hollow of her throat, just as she forced her feet not to slap the sandal back and forth against her heel.
What was she to do? Did she have a choice? Sure she did. She could turn her back on this opportunity Chance was offering her, just to salvage her pride since he'd been so... so businesslike. Abrasively so. The way he'd put it to her, she couldn't help but believe he was really looking at it as just that—business. And wasn't that what she'd asked for? No special treatment? She looked up from the paper to see Chance studying her too closely for comfort.
Micah cleared her throat and asked as cooly as possible, "Shall we go look at the property?"
His brooding expression faded as he smiled.
"Thought you'd never ask." He reached for his jacket, turning so she wouldn't see his expression of victory. Or hear the weighty sigh that betrayed his unadulterated relief.
Chapter 7
Micah swiped her fingertip down the molding of the kitchen doorway. Not only was the place dirty, the ghastly purple paint was chipped, revealing a mottled olive-green beneath. It was enough to turn her stomach. And the thin sheen of kitchen grease covering everything did.
She shuddered, and could hear Chance's chuckle close behind her.
"This is what you call a handyman's special. But believe it or not, by the time we finish, this place will sparkle. Buy cheap, rent high. Or sell—but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."
Micah turned and faced him, unable to keep her distaste, or dubious belief in his claim, to herself.
"But, Chance, it's so... so..."
"Gross?"
"Yes. Very." She wrinkled her nose, sniffing for anything foul, and was relieved to smell only the sweet scent of honeysuckle and gardenias wafting from the open window above the sink.
"Just look at it this way, Micah. Think of all the satisfaction you'll get when you look at the final product. It makes a person feel good to take a lost cause and turn it around. I'd think that was right up your alley."
He looked at her keenly. Micah looked away, ignoring his not so subtle message.
"You're impossible," she laughed. "And you always manage to get your way with me. How you do it, I don't know, you... you scallywag."
Chance clucked his tongue in mock dismay. "Micah, such language. And all heaped on a man who's crazy about you."
The smile faded on her lips, and Chance raised a brow in question.
"Was it something I said?"
"You believe in bringing out the heavy artillery, don't you?"
"Only when the occasion warrants. And believe me, Micah, you ain't seen nothing yet."
He turned away abruptly, directing his attention to the sink. He tried the faucets while she stood there absorbing the last of what she knew she should take as a warning. This was a mistake, getting into a business with Chance. He was going to ensure this "business" alliance was far from just business. Then why wasn't she as upset as she should be? Why was she standing there with such a silly, dreamy look she could even feel on her face?
Get rid of it! She had to do this on her own, without his help. Tell him. Tell him now before it's too late—
"Chance, we need to talk about this. About—"
"Sure, Micah. But come over here first. I want to show you something."
She'd been ready to say it and get it over with no matter where that left her, only now he was leaning over the faucet, fiddling with the spout.
"Anyone ever show you how to change a washer?"
"A what?"
"A washer. Look. See how this faucet leaks? Here, first I'll turn off the water supply. Okay, here, take this."
Micah reached out and accepted the thin rubber circle Chance held in his palm.
"This is a washer?" She examined it curiously. "Hard to imagine how a dinky little piece of rubber like this could stop a leak."
"That's right. Now, watch how I unscrew this piece of the faucet here... and you put the washer in there... t
hat's good, very good... okay, now we screw the cap on the faucet back in place." He handed her the cap. "You do it."
Micah followed his directions, intrigued with the simple job as he talked her through.
She finished and turned the water supply on and Chance turned the faucet.
"Look, Chance! It doesn't leak!"
"Well fancy that. And just think, Micah. You did it all by yourself."
"I did, didn't I?" She grinned ear-to-ear with her unexpected accomplishment, then turned to Chance and impulsively squeezed his hand. "But you helped. You told me what to do."
He squeezed back. "Just investing my time wisely. You can go through later and do the rest by yourself. See how simple this is? I show you how, then you do the rest. Do you still have a problem with that?"
Micah remembered what she'd said about the handout, and could feel herself flush from the misplaced pride.
"No. No, I have no problems with that."
"Good. Now what were you about to say before I called you over here?"
She'd totally forgotten her resolve to call the deal off while they'd worked side by side. But she'd fixed a leaky faucet! It was just a little thing, she knew. But it represented so much. She could learn. So what if Chance had to show her a few tricks of the trade? She'd make it up to him. She'd work so hard there would be no doubt she was doing her part.
No. It was a ridiculous notion to call the deal off when she had this opportunity. And it wasn't charity. As for Chance and what this might mean to their relationship... well, that was just the risk she'd have to take.
"Micah?" He broke into her silence.
"Oh, it was nothing. I just wanted to see the rest of the house. Try to get some ideas going on, what we need to do to make our money back."
Chance nodded in approval. "Now you're talking. I'll make an offer today and have my lawyers expedite the papers. Right this way... cherie."
He extended his hand. She hesitated only a moment before lacing her fingers with his, and tried to ignore the bubble of delight from her accomplishment that lapped into an even greater ripple of pleasure at hearing the name he used to call her so long ago.
* * *
"And that, my dear woman, is how you hang wallpaper." Chance laid the wooden roller down and motioned Micah closer. "Your turn."
Micah shook her head as she reached for the pasted sheet of heavy paper. "I don't believe it. Last week it was paneling, this week it's wallpaper. Where in the world did you learn all these things?"
Chance's laugh was a little jagged. "Where in the world is about right. I managed to work my way across Europe doing odd jobs like this." He caught the end that was trying to curl up on itself. "Careful, or you'll have paste on the wrong side. Here, let me get that started for you. I'm taller, which happens to come in handy at the moment."
He took the sheet from her sticky grasp, and Micah couldn't help but notice the way his arm muscles rippled in the sleeveless old football jersey as he strained to reach the upper edge of the wall. The jersey rode up, giving more than a glimpse of the taut dark skin of his waist, the even darker hair tapering from his chest and plunging beneath his jeans. It left her with little doubt that Chance had managed to only get better with age.
"You're not watching... at least not where you should be."
Micah's gaze swung upward, encountering an amused, if not possibly smug expression on his face. Her own face colored immediately.
"I... I—" She felt foolish, caught like that.
"Yes?"
He raised a brow, throwing her balance off even more as he reached for the roller lying beside her. He leaned down close so that his arm brushed against her bare legs. Despite the shorts she wore, Micah felt next to naked from the contact.
"I was just wondering about Europe."
"What do you want to know?"
Oh, nothing, she wanted to say. Just things like, who were you sleeping with there, what kind of life were you leading while I waited for you to come back?
He stood upright again, brushing her leg once more as he did. He handed Micah the roller and motioned for her to do the honors. She tried to ignore the prickle of gooseflesh, and stepped onto the stool that put them at eye level, then began to roll the air bubbles out.
"When were you there?" So much for the questions she really wanted to ask.
"About two years after I left New Orleans."
"For how long?"
"Long enough." He pried up an edge of the paper and smoothed it out. "Go over that again."
"How long is long enough?"
"You don't give up easy, do you?"
"Not when I want to weasel some information out of you, I don't." She laughed and went over the place he'd indicated. "Besides, you're so mysterious about it, you made me curious."
"Did it ever occur to you maybe there's a reason for that?"
"What, did you end up on the wrong side of a gun when a peasant farmer caught you with his daughter?"
She meant for her words to come out lightly, a joke. But instead the words hung suspended and heavy. She looked straight ahead at the wall.
Chance caught the hand she had clutched tight about the roller. Her movements had stilled, and slowly, steadily he began the up-and-down motions again. His chest was so close to her back, she could hear his breathing, feel the heat of their bodies mingling, though nothing touched but his hand at her wrist.
"Is that what you think?" he said quietly, close to her ear.
She shivered at the wisp of his breath fanning her neck. Her eyes shut, letting him lead her strokes, reveling in their closeness, the deep rumble of his voice.
"There were others, I'm sure."
"Naturally," he said.
Don't think about it. Don't wonder if they were blond or dark or what secrets he'd shared with them.
"So.. Europe must have been a cornucopia of pleasures."
"Not exactly." He chuckled. "More like a three-year stint in the fine art of working my butt off. In France I tended grapes. Rome found me waiting tables. When I got tired of that, I laid bricks for a living in Germany. And when I got to Switzerland, well..."
"Switzerland?" she prompted.
"Switzerland," he sighed, '"is where I landed a job transporting cargo for a wealthy investor. He was going to teach me the ropes, how to get a business going, that kind of stuff. Hell, I thought I'd landed in a gold mine—found the ticket to success that had escaped me everywhere else I'd looked."
Chance stopped working the roller, but he still kept hold of her wrist. Stroking the pulse beating faster now.
"He taught me some things all right. Such as how to launder dirty money coming in from the States, how to set up scams and cover yourself so the authorities couldn't track you down. Wonderfully ethical business ventures like that."
Micah swallowed hard. Chance's nearness was doing a number on her senses, even as his revelation was managing to unsettle her stomach.
"Were you a quick study?" she asked hesitantly.
"Oh, yeah. Real quick. I caught on fast enough to know that I was being set up to take a fall for the boss. Seems someone had caught whiff of stolen paintings being transported over the border. Funny how he trusted me, his newest employee, more than anyone else to take the next shipment. He assumed, of course, I hadn't figured out the truth."
Micah turned quickly, nearly upsetting her balance, and Chance caught her to him. Their faces were close, and their breasts pressed evenly against each other. Hearts beat quickly, heavily in countertime.
"What happened?"
"I took a powder."
"You mean you left?"
"Caught a flight to the Middle East and dropped out of sight. But not before I took an advance on the job and put an anonymous call through to the authorities on the case. The man was a jerk, and an unethical jerk at that. Made me look like a choirboy. In fact, he probably had a lot to do with reforming that streak of hellion in me. By the time I was drilling oil with the Saudis, I'd had my fill of illegal ventures.
Knowing how close I'd come to spending time behind bars managed to knock some sense into me. Not only that, but I learned it gave me a sick feeling to steal from other people—no matter how white the paper was that handled the nasty transaction."
Micah laid her free hand over his shoulder, feeling the solidness of him. People had said so many evil things about Chance through the years that his story wasn't what she'd expected.
"And what about the Saudis? What was your life like there?" Although she'd learned a lot about him over the past minutes, she didn't really find out what she wanted to know. He had revealed nothing about his personal life.
"The Saudis, young lady, are yet another chapter in the Mysterious Adventures of Chance Renault." He smiled suddenly and tweaked her nose. "Save your breath, Micah. You're only allotted one chapter per interrogation."
She took a deep breath. "But I still have a question about Switzerland."
Chance's smile faded. He ran his knuckles against the ridge of her jaw.
"No, Micah. There wasn't anyone special there, if that's what you're asking." His gaze flicked over her, lingering on her hair. He tucked a curl behind her ear. "Besides, there weren't many around with dark hair and green eyes."
A flush of pleasure swept through her at the implied compliment, but Chance suddenly moved away. Picking up the next sheet of wallpaper, he handed it to her.
"Let's get crackin'. At this rate we'll be hanging paper next month. And my stomach's already growling for that dinner you promised me tomorrow night."
"But, Chance, what did you—"
"I'll make some more paste in the kitchen. Try not to let it overlap while I'm gone."
"But, Chance—"
"Be careful to match the pattern. And don't forget to enjoy this—"
"But—"
"Because next week you learn to cut tile."
* * *
Micah opened the door leading out back, cursing profusely at the fumes invading the kitchen. Cooking was never her specialty and in her excitement she had managed to do even worse than usual—namely, forgetting to take the stuffed Cornish hens out of the oven. Even now billows of smoke rose to the high ceiling while the charred hens lay in state beside the sink.