by Mallory Rush
She cried bitterly against his chest now, and he held her so tightly, she could hardly breathe. So wonderfully tight against the nightmares.
"He was. Chance. He was dead the next day... he killed himself, I know he did. And I was glad. I was so happy he was dead. My only fear was that the insurance company would find out, that they would take the money away. Little did I know there wasn't any."
She laughed and cried in a muted hysterical sob against his shoulder. "And then you came back. Only I needed my space, I needed to heal alone. But no matter what, I still felt dirtied. I'm glad you've kept your distance, Chance. I've needed that... so that I could start to feel clean again."
"Oh, Lord," he groaned. "Why didn't you tell me... why didn't—" he broke off and clenched her to him. "You're pure, baby. To me you're pure as driven snow. And you're not guilty."
Safe in the warm cocoon of his arms, she did feel pure once more. And the burden was lifted. Guilt, gone. At last she didn't have to carry the weight of secrets or shameful sorrows alone. Chance had given her that. She could tell him anything, everything, and no matter what, he would still be there. She was safe. And nothing, not even that last horrible night with Jonathon, could touch her. Not ever again.
"Driver," Chance suddenly called out above the heavy thud of the horse's hooves. "Turn us around."
And then next to her ear he whispered, "We're going home, ma cherie... home to bury the past."
Chapter 11
The Lamborghini raced along the now quiet streets of the Garden District. The lush, tropical foliage blended with the stately mansions. The manicured lawns of Saint Augustine grass were deep green and thick from the frequent drizzles of rain or intemperate storms. A breeze was blowing up with the smell of midnight showers on it.
"Micah?"
She turned her face from the fleeting flashes of light through the car window, and let her gaze meet his. Her eyes still felt swollen, red-rimmed. She doubted she made a very pretty sight, her nose was stopped up and was probably red and puffy too.
"I'm okay now. Chance."
He held his hand out between them, wanting to bridge the small distance she had tried to make. She hesitated, took his hand.
"You mean, we're okay. Anything that affects you, affects me. Don't pull away from me now, Micah. I... I need you. All of you. I can't stand it when you get that distant look on your face."
"I can't help it. Chance. I feel... too exposed. You've seen me at my worst. And I hate to cry. Especially in front of people."
A scowl darkened his features. "But I'm not 'people,' Micah. I'm... No, you tell me. Just what am I to you?"
She sighed in the darkened interior of the car, the closed space magnifying the sound. Her throat felt scratchy, raw. Her emotions felt the same way.
"I'm not sure, Chance. I get confused about my feelings toward you. You're not an easy man to understand. I never feel that I quite know you. I mean, I do know parts of you. But I never know what to expect. One side of you is wonderful, tender, honest, a part I can never get enough of. But just when I think that's who you really are, I catch a glimpse of another side. Something darker, something frightening. You're a very dangerous man inside. And it's dangerous to—" She broke off, unwilling to say more. She knew if she told him she loved him there would be no going back. She could love him in silence. But she wouldn't say the word.
Chance nodded. "I know. But you know me better than anyone else ever has, Micah. And I try, I really do try to be open with you. Only it's not easy to change."
"And will you ever change, Chance? Do you want to?"
"In ways. I've done a lot of things I'm not exactly proud of. But when you're poor... well, sometimes a man doesn't have much choice. He either plows his way there, stepping on people in the process, or he ends up staying just where he's at—on the bottom. Now that I'm where I want to be, I have the room to be a little more careful about where I step. I don't want you to have any false illusions about me though, Micah. I'd do it all over again if I had to. I want you to love me. But you need... I need for you to accept me as I am. I'm flawed, with scars that will never go away. But maybe..." he spread his fingers out over the steering wheel, tapping an uneasy tattoo. "Maybe you can find it in your heart to want me anyway."
"I do want you, Chance. You know I do."
Chance glanced at her, gave her a piercing look before turning back to the road.
"You want me," he said. "Physically, yes. And you thought you loved me when you were a girl. But we're grown-ups now, Micah. With pasts, and traits that are too entrenched to make monumental changes. What I want from you at this stage of life is a lot more than soothing each other's sexual urges. I want your love. Unconditionally. And I want it forever."
Micah could feel the internal quiver. If he only knew he'd had it all along. If he only knew of her fleeting images of their progression in life from now until... always. Having children together, building a life, a family, loving each other in old age. She could tell him this now. She could cross the bridge to a permanent commitment. Chance wanted one, he was telling her that in no uncertain terms.
Too much, too soon.
She smiled at him and squeezed his hand.
"Not yet, Chance. But be patient with me. I have no desire for anyone but you."
"Desire," he said quietly. "Well, it's a start. I can build on that." The car came to a sudden stop, and Micah realized they were in front of his house, the engine idling restlessly beneath them. Chance put it in park and turned to her: There was hunger—and more—that she read there. The thrill of the forbidden was suddenly as strong now as it had been when she was a teenager.
In the spare light of the car's illumined dash, she saw the darkening shift of his features, the way they went from the softness of yearning to the purposeful set of stalking, sexual prowess.
Very deliberately, with no pretense of tender embraces melting into some kind of accidental joining, he caught her around the back of the neck and began to rub up and down over the muscles that were stiffening in anticipation. In apprehension.
"Where do we take our 'desires', Micah?" he said silkily. "Here? The backseat's a little small."
Was there such a thing as getting cold feet and almost shivering with anticipation all at the same time? She wanted to escape this descending cloak of longing; she wanted to cling to it.
She swallowed hard, feeling the difference between them—his comfort of command, her own awkwardness.
"I... uh... Chance, I'm not very good at this."
He chuckled low in his throat. "Good, I like it that way." He was treading his fingers up into her hair now, playing with it. "You are a very sexy woman, ma cherie. Your only problem is, you don't know it."
Was she sexy? She'd never thought of herself that way, certainly not in recent years when she'd felt more like a nursemaid, than a sensual feminine being. She wasn't at all sure she was comfortable with this. Her lips twitched uncertainly, nervousness translating itself into humor.
"Do you find that amusing?"
"No, not really. It's just that... I mean," she chuckled softly and met his bemused gaze, "I never exactly thought of myself as a sex kitten before."
"A sex kitten?" Now he chuckled too. "No, I'd never call you that. You're finer, more sophisticated in the sensuality you exude.
"Don't look so surprised, Micah. You think you don't really know me. Sometimes I think there's still a lot of things you don't know about yourself. As a woman, anyway. Would it shock you to know every time you walk into a room I'm affected? It's not something I can control. Believe me, it's happened at the most inopportune times. Like standing in the lobby at the opera."
Micah could feel the heat flush her face—and elsewhere. It was a wonderful boost to know she could do such things to Chance, so effortlessly. And what if she did try to deliberately tempt him? He was looking at her now, watching for a reaction. A shiver went through her.
"I... I never noticed." Don't get flustered, she told herself. Stay c
alm. She should act as if she talked this way every day.
"No? You never look?"
"Of course not!"
"And I suppose you never fantasize when you're alone... about us. About what it would feel like if I touched you here"—he glazed his fingertips over her breast—"or here." Then trailing lower, he drew a slow, intricate pattern over her dress covering the vee of her thighs. "You never think about me making love to you and get hot?"
Micah drew in her breath sharply at the boldness of the action, his directness. It was exciting. Intimidating.
"Why are you talking to me like this?" Her voice was breathy.
"Why?" He lowered his hand to stroke an upward path over the silk of her hose. "Because those are things I've wanted to know for a long time but could never ask. Until now. And besides, I'm giving you your first real lesson in—" his hand stopped, and she could feel the fine tremble between her thighs, and knew that he felt it too. "Why, what have we here? A garter belt? Micah, I'm surprised at you. Pleasantly surprised. Garters can be exciting... maybe we'll leave it on tonight." He flipped the catch easily, and she could feel the silk slither downward as her eyes grew wide in the dark. "But then again, maybe we won't."
What in heaven's name was she doing here? All hot and cold and scared to death all of a sudden. He was too worldly. She was too... unprepared for this kind of finesse.
"Chance, you're—"
"I'm what? Naughty? You mean you didn't know? Bad boys only get worse with age. Or maybe they just have a natural aptitude for developing their baser instincts. I know how I like it. Don't you want to find out? Aren't you just aching to know?"
"Please, don't," she said, barely managing to get the words out.
"Please, don't what? Talk about it? Be honest with you? If you want pretty words and a pretense of sweetness to lure you into bed, that's not me. I want you, Micah. And I love you. But don't expect me to be a gentleman. In' public, yes. In bed? Forget it. You're nearly thirty, and I doubt you know any more about sex than you did when we were kids. Now it's time you learned what grown-ups do in the dark... or the light. If you're not ready for this, tell me now. But I thought you wanted it as much as I did. If I thought wrong, I'll take you home this minute. This has to be right for both of us, or it won't be right at all."
His hand slid back down her thigh, raising the flesh with it. He reached for her chin then, turning her to him.
He loves me. He cares. She was thrilled to hear those words. She'd known all along, but hearing him say it. He loved her. Words he had never said before. And she was sure, never to another woman. Words that made her melt.
"Would you be angry with me?"
"Angry? Not exactly that. Just frustrated. Very frustrated."
"And... what do you do when you're frustrated? I... I know I have no right to ask, Chance. But do you... go to..." She couldn't say it. She really had no right, not if she was turning him away.
"No. I don't. The fast girls are gone. I haven't slept with another woman since the day you were widowed. I might have... uncivilized tendencies, but that doesn't mean I don't have principles. Or emotional commitments that are more important to me than slaking an appetite."
When she didn't answer him, he put the car into gear and began to press his foot to the accelerator. She wasn't sure if what she was doing was right or wrong. But instinctively she reached out and turned off the ignition.
Silence. No running motor in the background. No nearby traffic. And no words. Only the sound of their breathing: His deep and expectant, hers shallow and quickened. The decision had been made. There was no taking it back.
"You're sure?" He peered at her through the dark.
She nodded.
"Say it."
"I'm sure." Her voice was shaking. "I want you to make love to me... just as you are."
The hardness behind his eyes was gone, given way to a glimmer... of delight, of warmth.
"Stay there." He got out and came around to her door, causing her to gasp in surprise as he caught her up under the legs and swung her into his arms.
She laughed with a sudden and unexplainable abandon as he dramatically kicked the door shut with his foot.
"You're a crazy man, Chance Renault."
"And you're crazy about me, aren't you?"
She gave into the impulse to nuzzle the side of his neck with her nose, Inhaling his deliciously masculine scent. "Mmmm."
Chance stopped in midstride. He made a motion as though he meant to drop her.
"Chance!" she yelped, hanging tight to keep her balance.
. "Say you're crazy about me," he insisted, nipping the lobe of her ear.
"Yes!" She laughed helplessly as he goosed her ribs.
"Yes, what?" He goosed her again.
"Yes! Oh... oh, Uncle!... Yes, I'm crazy about you!"
He picked up his pace and headed for the house. "I've never been your uncle, and I've got no intentions of starting now. In fact, we're about to enact one of those fantasies I was telling you about. It's the one where I sweep you off your feet and carry you up to my bedroom for the first time. By the way, you're supposed to gasp in awe at your surroundings."
By now he had opened the door to the house she had driven by so many times wondering how it would look inside and what kind of creature comforts a man like Chance would surround himself with.
He was still holding her, looking at her expectantly, while she took in the surroundings he was obviously so proud of.
"Chance, it's beautiful."
And it was. The rooms had high ceilings, huge spaces, leather and chintz, antiques and contemporary. From the kitchen to the library, from the drawing room to the game room, the house was exquisite.
"I'm proud of my house. When I bought the place, I thought it looked like home. Except it was too empty. Still is.... It means a lot to me that you like it here."
They were on the top landing of the stairs, and there was no doubt in her mind where he was taking her next. Four doors faced the balustrade. Chance strode to one, shifting her weight in his arms as he reached for the handle. The door opened, and she mentally readied herself to confront the bedroom.
Blues and greens and yellows and pinks splashed gaily around the room. From the wallpaper to the platform rocker. From the chest of drawers to the big stuffed giraffe. From the teddy bear mobile to the baby bed.
A nursery!
"No one comes in here. Just me. Sometimes I sit in the rocker and I dream. About the way I wished life had turned out. About the children we never had. The children we were. It's a little strange, I know. But the nursery was here when I bought the house, and the house always seemed so big, and this room seemed especially empty. I don't know what possessed me to do it, but one day I just decided I wanted to fill the nursery up. There weren't any kids. Hell, there was no one but me. But it was a whim. One I gave in to. And—why are you looking at me like that?"
Micah could only shake her head in disbelief. "You, Chance... you never stop amazing me."
"Oh? You never thought I might have paternal instincts? That maybe I've felt I was missing something in life, or that I wanted more than money and power?"
"Well... something like that. I just never really thought about you wanting children. That's all." The way he was looking at her, she knew he had wanted more and was disappointed. "At least, not until recently," she confessed at last.
"I've thought of you being a mother," he said hastily. "What a good one you'd make. I always wondered why you didn't have any. Lord knows, if you had, it wouldn't make any difference in my feelings for you now, and I'd love your children just because they were yours. But I'm selfish. I wanted you to have mine... if you can have them."
Children. Chance wanted to talk about having children, implying a long future, when she'd been expecting a simple seduction. He was swinging into all the nooks and crannies of her hopes and fears with the quick ease of a trapeze artist. It left her a little breathless. More vulnerable to him than ever before.
; "I can have them. He couldn't."
Chance nodded slowly. "I'm glad it wasn't you. Do you know how many times I've pictured you in that rocker, nursing a baby at your breast? I think about it, I remember what your breasts looked like when we were young."
"You remember?"
"I remember everything. I remember the way you tasted. Your shape, the way your breasts fit in my hands. Only you're fuller now." As he spoke his hand found her breasts. Over the silk of her dress he caressed her, making the mound even fuller. She could feel the quickening inside: In her bosom and the aching core between her thighs. She sought his mouth, wanting him, his taste, to urge him suddenly on.
When they pulled away to catch their breath, Micah whispered next to his ear, "I think it's time you showed me the rest of the house."
In his room, he turned on music. The blues. The heavy thud of sensuality pulsed to the beat of their intimate rhythm, while the low rumble of thunder shook the night. He undressed her to the music, to the thunder, stripping the last threads of civilization away. She savored the feel of his hands, the way they moved confidently, yet almost reverently against her skin.
The dress was shed, slowly, deliberately. She wore only the silk chemise, her lacy slip, stockings held up by the garter belt, minus one catch. Chance stepped away from her then, the wispy glow of scented candles illumining them, making this space more intimate than just darkness.
"Don't cross your arms," he whispered gruffly.
She made herself stand still, pliant, letting him look at her, trying to get his fill. She could feel the remnants of self-consciousness, but his eyes were warm and appreciative. And intoxicating. Far more heady than the wine he'd just poured. He handed her the glass as she stood there feeling more naked than dressed.
Chance tilted the glass toward her lips. She drank as he urged her to, not too much, enough to dull what little fear was left. Fear of this heavy sensuality, this unknown entry to a place she had only glimpsed before.