Bad Boy of New Orleans

by Mallory Rush

  "Damn, damn, damn!" So much for impressing Chance. And worst of all she'd broken down and decided to turn on the air conditioner only to have the air go out the back—

  "What the hell.. where's the fire?"

  Micah whirled around, the wet towel she was flapping furiously, clutched in her hands.

  "What are you doing here? You're not due for"—she took a glance at the kitchen clock—"five minutes." She motioned toward the back door he'd come through. "And you're supposed to use the front door. Now go sit out there while I tend to this. There is no fire, just a little smoke."

  "A little smoke? You could pass out from the fumes in here." Chance strode over to the offending oven and closed its door, muttering something about grease and broilers not mixing. "And another thing," he threw over his shoulder, "if you want me to use the front door, you've got to answer it." He whirled back around and faced her.

  For a minute they shared a belligerent stare. Micah wasn't sure who cracked the first smile, but soon they were both chuckling. She pointed to the back door.

  "Now, would you please pretend you were never here and go back the way you came? You're due in one minute and I don't want to miss answering the door."

  "Yes, ma'am." He gave a smart salute before exiting with his coat. Just as she slumped against the kitchen sink, he poked his head around the door frame. "And by the way, blackened redfish is one of my favorite dishes. Never thought I'd get a chance to try out blackened hens. You must be a real whiz in the kitchen, Micah, thinking up things Paul Prudhomme and Julia Child put together couldn't come up with."

  He ducked quickly as the wet towel slapped beside the frame. Micah could still hear his laughter as he rounded the outside corner of the house. She wished she could be mad at him—he really was a beast.

  She glanced morosely at the hens, sighed, and headed through the swinging doors. She had a terrible suspicion that she smelled vaguely of smoke.

  Micah stood in the entryway, just as Chance rapped twice on the front door. The leaded glass on either side distorted his figure, and she imagined him standing there years before, a wildcat with a leather jacket. Taking a deep breath, she twisted the heavy gold knob.

  "Evening, Micah."

  "Good evening, Chance."

  He propped his arm on the entry frame, stopping short of entering. No leather jacket this time, he was darkly handsome in his finely tailored clothes.

  "You look good to me."

  "Thank you. You're not so bad yourself."

  "May I come in?"

  "Please, do."

  She moved aside and he stepped over the threshold, stopping for a moment, as though savoring a victory. She followed his gaze as he looked up toward the banister, where she'd stood that night. When his gaze met hers again, it was hooded, serious.

  "I could get used to this," he said.

  "Could you?" She could, too, she realized. And all too easily, at that.

  Suddenly he looked perplexed and he cocked his head, sniffing.

  "Mmmm. Smells like someone's been cooking. Can't wait to see what's for dinner."

  "It's a new recipe. Blackened Cornish game hens. I hope you like it."

  Micah didn't bother to hide her mischievous smile or the glitter of amusement in her eyes. He'd be crying for McDonald's long before she was through.

  Chance laughed and extended his arm.

  "Why don't you show me to the parlor? I prefer to eat my crow in there."

  Chapter 8

  Chance studied Micah as she poured the coffee out of the silver service. He thought the demitasse set ridiculous, but had to admire the practiced grace of her movements. Micah looked every inch the proud Southern lady as she sat beside him on the Victorian couch daintily sipping at the hot liquid; he, however, felt like Goliath cradling a midget's teacup in his palm. Two gulps and he set it down.

  "More?" she inquired.

  "No thanks. That topped the dinner off just fine."

  "Why, you... you rat!" She chuckled and set hers down, then took a playful punch at his arm. "You're a worse tease now than when we were kids, Chance Renault."

  "Like the song says, 'I was so much older then,' and believe me I am younger than that now." Chance stretched his arms out over his head, then nonchalantly draped one around the back of her neck. He smiled as she shifted closer to him while pretending she wasn't. It reminded him of the old days, back when nice girls gave the "okay" signal without taking the initiative.

  Apparently Micah needed a reminder about their little bargain. After all, he had promised to let her call the shots. Then again, he wasn't exactly above manipulating her into asking for it either.

  His finger teased at the nape of her neck, toying with the fine hairs there. She shivered. He moved his hand away, resting it on the back of the couch. She looked up at him, questioningly.

  "Something wrong, ma cherie?"

  She hesitated. "No... I just... well, I liked what you were doing."

  Her cheeks turned pink, as he knew they would. Her voice was higher, softer than usual too. His body responded to the vulnerability in her.

  "Oh? Then you don't want me to stop?" His fingers found their way back, continuing their playful taunt.

  The silence lengthened. He was content... almost. A sigh escaped from Micah, and he began to slowly rub her tendons that were tensed beneath his palm.

  "Nice?" he asked quietly. She nodded. "If you like the way it feels, you have to say so... it's part of the rules."

  "Yes," she said. The word came out in one languorous, sensual syllable. And then as if she had given away too much, the muscles he had coaxed to relax flexed tight again.

  "Do you remember the first time we met?" she said suddenly, turning just enough to peer up at him.

  Chance squelched the urge to scowl at her. Patience, he told himself, patience. The heightened color of her skin, the evasive but hazy cast to her eyes, and most of all the sight of her nipples jutting beneath the silk of her blouse... combined to give him the momentary patience he needed.

  Chance raised his eyes from her chest to her face again. Her breathing quickened, and he smiled slowly, satisfied that he could so easily rattle her.

  "Remember?" he finally said. "How could I ever forget? You were the cutest kid in pigtails I'd ever seen, sobbing your heart out in the backyard because your kitten was stuck in the tree. It just happened to be the one tree your parents forbade you to climb."

  "You weren't supposed to climb it either," she pointed out.

  "Which only made it that much more tempting."

  He leaned his head back against the faded brocade fabric and stared up at the lofty crystal chandelier. It felt strange being in this room. Time seemed to stand still here. He could remember peeking from the kitchen where his mother was working, and her scolding him to get back where he belonged. Some things still hurt to think about.

  "I'll never forget your mother running out there, fussing at you for ripping your jeans. I thought you were a hero, the way you saved my kitten... the way you took the blame on yourself instead of putting it off on me. That image stuck for a long time."

  He looked away from the ceiling, putting the unhappy memories behind him. Better to think of Micah, she was here now. "Yeah, I guess it did, for both of us. It did wonders for my ego when everyone else said I wouldn't amount to anything but trouble, and you thought I'd hung the moon."

  "That's exactly what I thought," she said. "I felt special that someone older than me would take the time to play with me. Of course, as you grew up there were times you had to act tough and not pay much attention to me in front of your friends. Once, I went home and cried. I wrote a page about it in my diary."

  Chance shook his head. He relished the feel of her beneath his fingertips, the way she began to lean into the massage he was giving her shoulders. He tried to concentrate on that instead of the feelings of futility and confusion the memory could evoke even now.

  "That wasn't an easy choice for me. Even when you were barely in you
r teens I knew I had it bad. But you weren't only off-limits because of your family, you were too young."

  Micah lowered her lashes. "But I didn't stay off-limits." She looked back up.

  He nodded slowly. His mouth settled in a half-smile.

  "My conscience told me what I was doing was wrong—but somehow I was never able to make myself feel remorse for one of the most wonderful experiences of my life."

  Chance leaned over and switched off the antique lamp to Micah's left. Only the entry light gave a faint glow to the darkness.

  But the dark couldn't mask the rapid rasp of her breath—or maybe it was the dark magnifying the silence around their breathing.

  "I want to lie down beside you," he whispered. "And I want to hold you... that's all." Like hell, that's all, screamed every instinct he possessed as she bent back, resting against the feathered cushions. She hadn't hesitated at all. She trusted him, he realized. It was the same trust she had given him so long ago. The movement was too familiar, a nostalgia that was too acute, too painfully sweet.

  Chance felt the swell of emotion in his throat; the even thicker swell of his groin. He moved until her head rested on his chest, his arm secure about her shoulders. She sighed in contentment, and he tried not to groan as she shifted and brushed against his hardness. Micah stiffened at the contact, and for a horrible, frozen moment he thought she might jerk free of his hold. He had a good idea she was fighting her own similar responses.

  "Chance, I'm sorry. Maybe we shouldn't—"

  "Shhh. It's okay... it's okay." He brought her head back to his chest, fighting the urge to roll her beneath him, to seduce her right there. Instead, he began to stroke through her hair, forcing his voice to soothe, yet unable to hide the hoarseness of desire.

  "Sometimes it's hard for me to believe we've come this far. Holding you here... in this room. Your parents, did they ever find out—"

  "About us?"

  "About us sleeping together. They weren't dumb, Micah. They were bound to know something was going on."

  He felt her shake her head. "No. It would have destroyed them to know what I'd done. And not because it was you, Chance. It just went against everything they'd taught me."

  "I know that. I used to worry about... whether you had regrets."

  "If that's how you felt, then why didn't you write? Or call? That was the worst part of it—wondering if you'd forgotten me. If I'd mistaken something real and deep between us for what you'd decided was no more than a one-night stand."

  He heard the distant accusation. Chance knew he deserved it, and more. He cringed inside every time he let himself think of how he must have hurt her.

  "I had my reasons, Micah. Ones I thought were good at the time. Writing was out of the question, it would've only stirred up suspicions with your parents. And then you would have suffered even more. And I knew there was no chance of pregnancy. What would have been foolish was if I'd stayed. Trying to keep my hands off you, to keep away from you, at that stage was beyond my ability to control—and at least I had enough sense to realize it... to stay away until we could have some kind of future together. Back then, I knew I had nothing to offer."

  Her head had snapped up and even in the near dark he could see the angry challenge glinting from her eyes. "Well, I didn't see it that way. There was yourself to offer. I thought that was plenty at the time."

  "Sure you thought that was plenty at the time—you were young with a lot of naive ideas. I can even paint the picture for you.. you envisioned me sticking around until you were twenty-one, then we could quit sneaking behind your parents' backs, get married, and live happily ever after. Right?"

  "You're just as cynical now as you were then, aren't you?"

  "Oh, come on, Micah. You should be old enough to realize it wouldn't have worked. Not like that. Surely you know that by now."

  She tensed, her old anger close to the surface.

  Damn, he thought, why did she have to dredge this up tonight? Some other time, when they could spend their anger in passion; or scream it out, the frustration, the rage of it all, and then fall together in a mutual forgiveness for acts they couldn't undo. Please not tonight, not while they could simply lie together in the dark, and pretend it all away.

  "I wish it could have been that simple, Micah. Everywhere I went, I missed you... terribly."

  He could feel her relax against him. She felt good. So good. Maybe the night wasn't lost after all.

  "Even in Saudi?"

  "Especially in Saudi."

  She crossed her arms over his chest, close enough now that he could feel the wisp of her breath as she spoke. Sweet, warm breath that still managed to take his away.

  "Tell me about it... about Saudi."

  "Saudi was... quite an adventure."

  He was glad it was dark. She wouldn't be able to see the tautening of his features as he spoke. Hopefully she wouldn't sense it either.

  "Was it glamorous there? Exciting? Did you see sheikhs and camels?"

  "Oh yeah, it was glamorous all right. Like something most people only dream about. A page right out of The Arabian Nights."

  Did she believe that? A dream? It had been a nightmare. Hot. Dirty. Sweating as if he were a faucet, doing fourteen-hour days. "Just paradise, Micah," he said.

  The shortness of his tone echoed between them. Neither said anything for a few strained moments.

  "You're lying. Tell me the truth, Chance."

  Could he? No one knew about those lonely, dark years. Especially not Micah.

  "You really get to me, lady, you know that?"

  She hesitated, then, "You get to me, too, Chance."

  What those words did to him. Warm, sweet. Good. Like her. Lord, what he wouldn't give to bury himself inside her, to take the healing warmth her body offered...

  He rolled her beneath him. Micah's breath caught.

  He pressed himself hard against the vee of her thighs, lying there still, atop her, making her feel him, the length and breadth of his need. No, he couldn't begin the movements. If he did, there would be no stopping. For this one thing, she must ask. His reasons were selfish—but then again, he was selfish.

  "Ask me to kiss you," he whispered urgently, and cupped her face in his hands with a gentle pressure.

  She ignored his plea. "What was it like there?" she said, then rushed on as though compelled to know some horrible secret he kept. "How many women did you ask to kiss you there? You left me alone too many nights, too damn many years wondering just that, Chance. How many miserable hours did I spend wondering where you were, who you were with, while I was waiting—" her voice broke, he could feel the warm trek of tears streaming between his palms. "Waiting for you to come back to me."

  He felt the tears run down her face, rubbing the moisture against his skin, loving it. Rejoicing that she could still feel so deeply about him.

  "Where was I?" he murmured. "Chasing a dream. It was you, Micah. You were the dream that kept me going when I wanted to quit. And yes, there were other women. Ones with long black hair and cat-green eyes. Ones that didn't mind me calling them by someone else's name—"

  She gasped, and he took a perverse pleasure in showing her the uglier side of his world; let her see him as he really was. Let her love him despite it. Nothing less would do.

  "Only that changed when I came back," he said. "When I was finally able to offer you some kind of life. But you were married and I didn't care who I slept with. I used other women to punish you for being unfaithful to me. But I always pretended the others were you." Now he did move into her. His body stretched possessively, hungrily over hers.

  "I needed you." Her voice shook. She shook. In fury? In passion? He didn't know. "And you never came back. Not until it was too late. Why, Chance? Why?"

  "Why? Because I knew if I had even a taste, I wouldn't be able to tear myself away, to go back and do what I had to."

  "I would have gone away with you. In a minute, Chance. You shouldn't have made my decision for me. It wasn't your right
. Not after I was old enough to leave."

  "No? What was I going to do? Bring you along for a joyride on the rigs? Or maybe just swathe you in soiled linens at the flophouses. That would have really impressed you. I might not have had two cents to my name, but I had pride, Micah. I would have stayed away for good before letting you see me like that. Or worse, offered you that kind of life. That decision was my right. I had the right to leave you where you belonged—in college, with your family. Leading a normal existence. Not shacking up with a loser."

  "You were never a loser, Chance," she said fiercely. "A card, a call, any kind of sign, and I would have come to you. None of it would have mattered, not as long as we were together."

  The tears had stopped. Her voice was quiet, but firm. He needed this—this equality of her subtle strength answering the hardness of his.

  "That's right. You would have come to me. And it would have mattered. Feel this?" He thrust into her, the clothes doing nothing to mute the degree of his arousal. Her breath caught, but she said nothing. "I said, Micah, 'do you feel... this?'"

  "Yes," she whispered sharply.

  "And you like the way it feels, don't you?"

  "Yes," she hissed.

  He tried not to gloat when she instinctively rose to meet the next thrust. He took a deep breath and stopped. With all his will he forced himself to stop, not to rip their clothes away.

  "Well, let me tell you something. It feels mighty good on this comfortable couch, in this nice cool room. But I can guarantee you, it would only have been a matter of time before you started to hate it... To hate me. To dread the feel of my body on yours in a flea-bitten shack, while I got more bitter by the day for not achieving the kind of life I craved. You can't climb the ladder from the bottom up when it's hand-to-mouth, and you have more than one mouth to feed."

  "It wouldn't have been like that. How can you even say such things, Chance?"

  "How?" he snorted. "Don't you kid yourself. You can't see it, because you didn't grow up in poverty. On the other side of the tracks kids turn tricks, dropouts do drugs, and most of us never know who our old man was. And the ones who do stick around blow the welfare check on pure grain then beat up their wives. That's the reality of it, Micah. That was the neighborhood I grew up in."