Bad Boy of New Orleans

by Mallory Rush

  The sensation sent a trickle of chills from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet, and culminated in between.

  "I love your hair," he murmured huskily.

  She swallowed hard, thrilling to the words. It didn't matter whether they were true or not. "No you don't," she said. "You're just saying that to make me feel better. But... it's nice to hear you say it just the same."

  There was a rumbling sound that came from his throat—not a chuckle, not even a satisfied murmur.

  "I do love it. Because you care enough that it matters what I think."

  He pressed his lips against the soft curls, and then again next to her temple. She still wanted to cry. But this time from joy.

  He pulled away and looked at her then, holding her out just far enough to look her up and down.

  "Let's put this stuff up. I'll help."

  There was such a tender expression on his face.

  "But I'm not through yet."

  "Yes you are. We're taking the rest of the day off. From the looks of you, it's going to take at least an hour to get cleaned up and put your best clothes on. Enough of this scullery maid duty. You're the classiest number this side of the river. And tonight you're switching colors."

  "I'm what?" Baffled, but laughing anyway, she followed his lead and went to pick up the fallen paint roller.

  "Colors, I said." He swatted her unceremoniously on her white paint-stained rear end. Micah whirled around with a gasp just before he hoisted her over his shoulder and picked up the roller all in one swoop.

  "Tonight, ma cher, we're painting the town red."

  Chapter 10

  The opulence of the Louis XIV French restaurant blended marvelously with the evening's mood of romance. Romance, and some feeling of joy that was almost frightening in its anticipation.

  She was wearing her best perfume—the last precious few drops she'd saved for... this night. Micah let herself admit it. Deep down in her heart of hearts she'd known it would come to this. And when she'd reached for the bottle, she knew exactly how it would make her feel: Elegant, womanly, pampered... feelings she'd lost for a long time.

  It was the secret knowledge that she wanted to wear it for Chance, to stir him with the hint of sensual sweetness pressed behind her ears, in the hollow of her neck, her wrists. And other more intimate places.

  Beneath the elegantly set table, she extended one shapely, long leg, and innocently, deliberately, brushed the silk of her hose against the smooth fabric of his trousers. Chance's eyes were dark, probing, but held no mysteries.

  Across the linen cloth of the table, he reached for her hand. Micah's fingers curled into his strong ones. She hooked their tapered length, the deep polish of her nails covering the bits of paint she hadn't been able to completely wash away. She could feel the surge of anticipation mounting, trying to revel only in that, and push away the thoughts she knew would have to be spoken before they could consummate this night.

  The sound of a throat being cleared brought them out of their mutual, silent trance.

  "Wine, monsieur?"

  "A bottle of Perrier-Jouet. The '82 vintage, please. And make it well chilled."

  "Of course, monsieur."

  The waiter left, and Micah couldn't help but smile.

  "Sounds like you know your wine."

  "A bit. But I've been practicing."

  "Oh? I'm impressed."

  "Good. I meant for you to be." He laughed at his own self-depreciation. "In fact, I've been practicing things for years with that in mind. Just waiting for the opportunity to show off my acquired panache. I wasn't exactly the smoothest operator around when we were kids."

  "I thought you were smooth. And very worldly."

  "And I thought you were spun sugar wrapped in a package of dynamite. Sweet, but sexy enough to keep my teenage hormones running in overdrive. Only you were always just out of my reach."

  She shook her head. "You just thought I was."

  "No. Back then you really were. But not anymore."

  The waiter appeared and presented the bottle of champagne, serving it with proper finesse. She actually preferred Mimosas, but there would be something profane about mixing orange juice into this vintage.

  Chance tested it with skill and ease, then nodded for Micah to receive the first glass. The ritual done, he turned to her as the waiter settled the bottle into the champagne bucket of crushed ice.

  "Now watch closely while I order," he whispered confidentially. "I invested a lot of time and money going out to learn how to do this right."

  She laughed at that. The waiter looked puzzled as she chuckled again when Chance pulled out his reading glasses to order from the menu.

  "Dull as dishwater," she whispered under her breath. He shot her a quelling glance, and missed a beat in his wonderfully impressive ordering technique. He opened his mouth to start over again, but instead started to chuckle too. When she laughed along with him, he gave up.

  Pointing to the specially of the house, he simply said, "Give us two of these."

  When they were alone again, Chance reached beneath the table and pinched her upper thigh.

  "That's for making me screw up. Laughing when you're ordering is like laughing during Communion. I'm sure the chef has been duly informed and is outraged. I'll get you for this, Micah Sinclair. So help me, I will."

  "Something tells me, you'd get me anyway."

  Chance clucked his tongue. "Whatever happened to that innocent little girl I used to know?"

  "She went away," Micah said, the playful tone suddenly gone. "She grew up."

  The meal came and was half-consumed when Chance nodded to her empty glass. "Another?" he offered. She nodded and he reached for the remaining champagne settled into the deep frost of the icy silver bucket.

  "Thank you." She picked up the glass and took a quick sip trying to block out the thoughts—the horrible, plaguing thoughts she had to share before the night could truly begin. She resented Jonathon intruding on them even in death. She finished the glass quickly and held it out for Chance to refill again.

  Micah studied her half-empty plate without really seeing it, then unconsciously began to put the glass to her lips. Chance caught her fingers at the stem before she could lift it.

  "We've got a long night ahead of us, Micah. One that's been too long in coming. Let's make it last."

  Chance was right, she was on the road to getting smashed. Actually, except for her troubling thoughts, she was feeling quite pleasant. Not quite inebriated. But definitely loose. She welcomed the liberation. It made the tongue a bit thick, but a lot less cautious.

  "Want to talk about it?"

  She smiled a little nervously. "You see right through me, don't you?"

  His hand was in his lap, but she could feel his movement, and then the comforting but exciting sensation of his palm over her knee. Pressing tight.

  Micah remained silent. Chance was watching her too intently, and she wondered if instinctively he knew.

  The sounds of muted laughter and clinking glasses surrounded them. The distinctive fragrance of delicate French cuisine filling the air.

  Micah finished her champagne as Chance watched her drink it.

  She wasn't sure, but she thought she heard him say quietly, almost to himself, "Was it that bad, cherie?"

  Once they left and were outside, her spirits lifted. The never-ending party that twilight only enhanced in the French Quarter seemed to dance around them. She almost forgot the earlier heaviness of her thoughts as she gave into the atmosphere. New Orleans at night always reminded her of a high-class call girl wrapped in mink.

  Her heels clicked on the pavement, absorbed by the garish, rich texture of coarse laughter, and jazz in the streets. Chance's hand felt wonderfully large and warm. Their tightly laced fingers swayed gently between them.

  Turning onto Bourbon Street, Chance stopped at the corner to shrug out of his suit coat, then slung it casually over one shoulder. Nearby, a one-eyed vendor with soiled clothes swayed a
bouquet of flowers temptingly toward the crowd.

  "Hey, monsieur," he called out when he saw Chance pause. "Flowers for your lady, out?"

  Chance fished into his pocket and peeled off a few bills from his money clip.

  "Keep the change." He reached for the flowers, then presented them to Micah.

  "For the most beautiful rose of them all," he said, sweeping down in a low and gallant bow.

  "Oh please, Chance," she groaned.

  "Yeah, I know. I never was very good at the sappy stuff." He laughed with her, and caught her around the back of the neck, trailing his fingers up into the short curls of her hair.

  "Want to take in a boat ride? The Natchez should be taking off around a quarter of ten. Saturdays usually mean a good band."

  "That would be perfect. It's been years since I've been on board."

  Half an hour later they were on the second deck of the Steamboat Natchez. Under the stars. The rhythmic swishing of the paddle wheels set the tempo for the band tuning up. Groups of people called out with jovial spirits; couples snuggled cozily as they looked out at the dark waters beneath. The night was sultry, and the sensual, throbbing sound of the blues began to serenade them from the near distance.

  Micah leaned against the railing. Chance moved to brace his hands on either side of her hips, the rail smooth beneath his palms.

  He kissed her then. It was a slow, leisurely kiss. And he moved discreetly, so no one would see more than two lovers sharing mouths, and lightly, ever so lightly, cupped her breast within his palm.

  The feel of satin slid against her skin and connected with his. She could feel her breast growing fuller, warmer, the tautening of the nipple as he rubbed his thumb in a lazy, slow circle.

  The whimper of heightened senses, the aching arousal he was pitching higher, too fast, with nowhere to take them, made her move away.

  "Not here," she said. Her voice sounded the way she felt inside—shaky, throaty with desire, a gathering frustration that made her nails bite into her own palms.

  "Where?" he said, drawing her closer again. "My house? Yours? We can even stay in the Quarter tonight if you want." He tilted her chin, seeking her eyes in the muted glow of the ship's light. "All I know is... I need you. For too long it's been that way with nowhere to take it, except to a substitute. Which is a pretty poor way to spend your life. Wasting it like that."

  Now. Tell him now.

  "I want to do things to you, Micah... all sorts of delicious, wonderful things. I've had a long time to think about tonight, about us. By morning I'm sure you'll rather stay with me than away from me... tomorrow, the next day, and the one after that."

  "Chance..."

  "Hmmm?"

  He nibbled her fingers with tiny, exciting bites. Skimming her palm with his tongue.

  She swallowed hard. "Could we dance?"

  * * *

  The clip-clop of the horse echoed through the side streets. The hat with the ears cut out of it bobbed unsteadily on the mare's head, while the driver looked straight ahead, guiding the reins through the familiar route. He paid no heed to the couple nestled in the back. Oblivious to them and caught in his own thoughts, he opened a flask and touched it to his lips.

  She leaned back against the warm, cracked leather of the buggy seat. Chance's arm crooked around her shoulders as he pulled her more tightly into his embrace. Moonlight spilled between the gnarled branches of the trees, flitting patterns over the distant worry etching her face.

  "I've waited all night, Micah. You've had any number of chances to tell me what's holding you back. I know there's something. And it probably has to do with Jonathon. Let's get it done and over with, because he's not going to come between us when we go to bed. And the night's getting late already."

  She couldn't help but stiffen beside him, despite the delicate, soothing motion he made, gliding his fingers through the short, silken bob of her hair.

  "Is it so bad, you can't tell even me? Do you really think, knowing where I've been, who I am, that you could say anything that would shock me, or disappoint me?"

  She peered into the gathering gloom. Darkness helped. She would talk to the night.

  "I'm going to tell you everything, Chance. Don't stop me once I start because I may never find the courage to start again."

  He answered her in silence with the reassuring squeeze of her shoulders, while the past waited for her like a gaping abyss.

  "You've wondered why I stayed with Jonathon. You've never understood my guilt. But it's all so simple... you see, I was part of his sickness. I perpetuated it."

  "Micah—"

  "No, just let me get on with it." She looked up at the branches reaching toward the sky, trying not to think as she talked. "You weren't the only one who used substitutes. I pretended too. Only the difference was, I was married. To a man who actually loved me. I know what you saw... the drinking, the gambling, the other women. But none of that started until... I called him by your name in bed."

  The branches of midnight darkness passed overhead as she concentrated on their sway, trying to block out the guilt, the black pitch of cloying emotions tainting this night.

  "For a long time we tried to pretend it didn't happen. But it did. You were a ghost between us, even from the beginning. I thought you'd never come back when I talked myself into being in love with Jonathon. As for Jonathon, I think he made himself believe that he would eventually be able to make me care for him instead." She shrunk down farther into the seat. "That never happened, of course. Things went from bad to worse."

  "But you stayed anyway."

  His voice rumbled beneath her ear, a soothing strength she could feel him will to her, helping her to go on.

  "Crazy, wasn't it? We saw marriage counselors on several occasions, and for months at a time everything would even seem to be getting better. I would think to myself 'We can make this work.' Stubborn pride. I didn't want to admit defeat. And I felt guilty, of course."

  "But you shouldn't have."

  She shook her head against his shoulder. "Oh no? A wife whose husband loves her is in love with another man, even calls her husband by his name in bed, shouldn't feel guilty?"

  "You can't take that all on yourself, Micah. I was to blame too. Jonathon didn't have to stick around knowing what had happened. We all choose our own courses. We all have to live with our own decisions."

  "Jonathon was weak. He couldn't break away. He didn't have the strength. And I lacked the good sense or the guts to make the break for him."

  Lord, this hurt, laying the bones bare. And yet, already, she could feel the burden lifting... getting lighter as Chance listened to what she had dared tell no one else.

  "I'm curious, Micah. Tell me what kind of blackmail he used to keep you with him."

  Her head snapped up and her eyes met evenly with his.

  "How did you know?"

  Chance snorted in disgust. "How? I know you, Micah. You might be loyal to a fault, maybe even have a touch of the martyr bred into you. But you're no masochist. Besides, don't forget I knew Jonathon too. He might have been weak, but he was also manipulative. I can't help but believe he held something over you to keep you there. Especially after he started going down."

  She looked away from him. "You're right, Chance, he did manipulate me. But I let him do it. I think subconsciously it was my self-punishment for wronging him to begin with. He... he said he would kill himself if I ever left him. That in spite of everything... he couldn't live without me. I know that sounds too farfetched, too dramatic to believe... but I believed him. He was too unstable. I felt I had contributed to his instability. So I stayed."

  Chance's voice was rough, angry. "He wouldn't have done it, Micah. If he had, it wouldn't have been your fault. Only his own."

  She drew in her breath, then quickly rushed on before she lost her nerve.

  "He did, Chance. I'm sure of it." Her voice suddenly caught. She let Chance move her around until she sat on his lap, not even wanting to resist as he tucked her hea
d beneath his chin.

  "It's all right, cherie. Get it out of your system. You've been poisoning yourself, keeping it all bottled up."

  "Oh, Chance," she sobbed out suddenly. "It was a nightmare. He came home with cheap perfume on his clothes, and liquor on his breath. I even remember seeing lipstick stains smeared on his throat. I think he did it to make me jealous, to get back at me for what I had put him through, for 'castrating his ego' as he used to say. But I was never jealous, in fact I was glad. I thought maybe someone else could have him, take the child off my hands so I wouldn't be responsible for him anymore. By then I was so tired of it all. I didn't care anymore. I didn't pity him. I didn't love him. And I knew that no matter how many counselors we saw, no matter how many times he cleaned up his act only to fall again, it would never work. Too many years wasted. I was losing my self-respect for staying with it. And for such stupid reasons... guilt, pride, fear."

  She could feel the gentle sway as he rocked her, and the silence seemed to beg her to go on. The words came now, more easily, spilling freely from their prison.

  "When he came staggering into the bedroom that night, I had his clothes packed. I told him he had to leave, that I wanted out. I wanted a divorce. He came at me, yelling that it was all your fault, and my fault, that we were both trash that deserved each other. I hated him then. I hit him... the first person I'd ever slapped in my life. He slapped me back. He threw me on the bed—"

  The sobs came then, heedless, a torrent as she buried her face against his chest. Chance shushed her, loving her as she cried it out. She was safe, safe at last.

  "He tried to rape me, Chance. If I'd had a gun, I would have shot him dead. I fought him, it was all I could do. I scratched his face, I bit him until I drew blood. And, oh, Lord, he wouldn't stop. I thought I was in hell, that I would stay there forever with this madman. He had me down ready to... to... and then I drew my knee up. Sharp. Hard. And I kicked and kicked until he fell over. Then finally it was over. He was crawling to me and I was backing away, just looking for something to hit him with if he came at me again. He didn't. He just reached into his pocket and threw his money into my face, and told me I could whore for you the next time. That he was checking out. That I could save myself the divorce fees because... because he'd be dead before I could file them."