Bad Boy of New Orleans Read online

  Bad Boy of New Orleans

  by

  Mallory Rush

  Bestselling, Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-421-9

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  The flowers hadn't arrived yet. Micah checked the clock again—9:00 a.m.—where were they? Maybe she should call the florist to make sure they hadn't forgotten...

  Don't be ridiculous, she chided herself. After all, she didn't even order the flowers, they just came, like clockwork every day for the past month.

  Micah plucked at the white blouse that clung with humid tenacity to her skin and stole another glance out the leaded glass window. Still no flowers—except for the azalea bushes and magnolia trees, and they didn't count. Everyone in New Orleans owned some of those. Early May transformed even the plainest homes into perfume paradises of fuchsia and white blooms.

  She sighed and forced herself away from the window and back to the dog-eared section of the want ads.

  Today was grimmer than usual.

  She scratched out a receptionist position she'd circled earlier. Typing was required. She was pretty sure twenty words per minute probably wouldn't cut it. She continued down the column until she reached the W's.

  "Waitress," she muttered. She poised the pen, then read on: "Must have background in serving etiquette for prestigious establishment."

  She had etiquette, but not serving etiquette. She sighed and pitched the paper into the ornate fireplace. Nothing today. Again.

  From outside she heard the sound of an engine's sustained rumble. Micah jumped off the worn Victorian sofa and dashed to the window.

  The flowers! They were here! She hadn't realized how much she looked forward to them until she thought the mysterious sender had forgotten her.

  Long ingrained rules dictated she wait patiently until the delivery man knocked on the door.

  "Hi, Theo!" she called from the veranda as the teenager alighted from the, driver's seat. "I was almost getting worried that you weren't coming today. Need some help getting that out?"

  "'Afternoon, Ms. Sinclair. Thanks for the offer, but I can handle it. Got you a big one today. 'Fraid that's why I was running so late. Those little posies were one thing, but this. Why, you're not gonna believe it." He opened the side door and leaned in. "Someone must really think a lot of you. Why, they even sent this fancy crystal container over to put them in. Good thing. We didn't have anything big enough to hold it all."

  He turned around and Micah gasped. She was at the gate, and held onto the black iron grille work to support herself.

  "Oh, my word," she breathed. "Who in the world—"

  "Reckon you might be about to find out. This one has a card attached."

  "A card? You mean I finally get a card?" Micah fought the urge to scramble through the arrangement to snatch it.

  "The messenger who brought the big vase said to be sure to enclose the note. It was sealed nice and tight."

  She led him into the house and over to the entry table before quickly gathering up the plumed quill and guest book to make space. Theo carefully set down his burden, gave a once-over to the surroundings, and sniffed.

  "Not that we mind the business, Ms. Sinclair, but this place is starting to look more like a wedding hall or a funeral parlor—" His face turned beet-red before he rushed on, "I'm sorry... I didn't mean to—"

  "Don't feel bad, Theo. You didn't upset me."

  "Well... it's only been a month. I know you're still mourning... and..." He ducked his head. "Well, you know what I mean."

  She felt like a fraud. Keeping up the pretense of mourning was tough, and poor Theo had been her daily dupe. Ever since he'd delivered several of the funeral sprays then followed those up the next day with a single red rose minus a card. She remembered how he'd mumbled his personal condolences even though they were strangers. The memory made her feel doubly guilty now.

  "Of course I know what you mean. Now take this for my thanks and go see a movie with your girl." She took out a ten hidden in the back of the guest book and pressed it into his hand. Micah tried not to think about how low her gas tank was. "After all, you deserve it for hauling that botanical garden over here."

  When he tried to refuse, she shooed him out the door.

  At last! She turned her attention to the fragrance tantalizing her nostrils. It was the scent of curiosity more than the exotic bouquet drawing her near.

  Micah stretched her anticipation to the limit. So little to look forward to these days, she relished the small intrigue. As she touched gardenias, bird of paradise, and several varieties of orchids, she eyed the tempting envelope beneath the petal of an orange tiger lily.

  Once opened, she had to go back to the dismal prospects awaiting her attention in the fireplace.

  All the better to make this last; play a game with no rules beyond her imagination. A game she'd been playing from the single red rose to the potted philodendron to the daisies and baby's breath to... this. A celebration bouquet.

  Now... who could it be? They had to come from the same person. After all, how many people would send thirty arrangements without so much as a note? It had to be someone who realized she loved flowers more than chocolate. Someone who knew her well enough not to send a note since she would have called with her thanks but refused such extravagance after a few bouquets. A person who might know she was going crazy by mid-morning without even the comfort of work to lose herself in, and who made sure they came before noon each day.

  Micah glided a fingertip over the envelope, then plucked it from the mauve satin bow. Could it be an aunt or cousin, some other relation? Not likely. She was almost shunned as a black sheep after losing most of her inheritance.

  Perhaps a business associate? She owed most of them money.

  Maybe one of the charities to which she belonged? They were usually after her for more donations, and lately she hadn't had any to contribute.

  Then, it had to be one of the good-hearted matrons whom she'd known all her life in the social arena. Only they had stopped calling and bringing covered dishes over two weeks ago.

  A last possibility emerged. One she tried to shut out each time she played this little game. She usually managed to ignore the way he constantly hovered on the fringes of her every waking moment. But as always he didn't fight fair. He came to her at night, penetrating her dreams.

  Suddenly the
game was no longer fun. Her hands felt damper than the shirt clinging to her skin, and she fumbled awkwardly getting the message out.

  Her mouth went dry. Her unsteady hand lost its grip of the card, and she watched in paralytic fascination as the familiar handwriting sailed awkwardly to the polished oak floor. Micah hesitated, wondering if she was wise to even touch the note again.

  She couldn't just leave it there. "Pick it up," she ordered herself. "Pick it up. Throw it away. Along with the flowers."

  She bent down, her movements jerky as a marionette on a string. When her fingers brushed over the paper, a rush of forbidden excitement swept through to heat each cell of her body. Her eyes were drawn uncontrollably to the words she'd memorized at first glance:

  Flowers are for the living, not the dead.

  You know where to find me.

  Chance

  She began to rip the card in half, as though she could banish the man as easily. The paper sighed as she tore at it, but before it was half-done, she stopped.

  She touched the flare of his signature. She pressed her lips against the boldness of his message.

  Chance Renault. Some people said he'd traded his soul for his fortune, and knowing Chance, she wouldn't be surprised. Chance was too ambitious, too single-minded. Word was, he didn't possess a single scruple.

  She could almost believe it of him. Once, he'd made her almost believe it of herself. For her, Chance was as addictive as an illegal drug—dangerous, forbidden, a poison her system craved.

  She knew she wouldn't throw the card away.

  She would take it and hide it in her drawer where she couldn't see the temptation it represented.

  She turned toward the stairs leading to the bedroom, but caught sight of herself in the entry mirror. Her cheeks were flushed with color, and there was a glow that was almost radiance in her face. Disgusted with herself, she turned abruptly away, determined not to smell the flowers again. She proved her strength by not even looking at them.

  Halfway up the landing, Micah stopped. She tried, she really did. But as though her body had a will all its own, she did a quarter turn.

  Just far enough to thrill once more to the ominous beauty of the celebration bouquet.

  * * *

  Chance sat in the driver's seat of his sleek black Lamborghini. The engine idled in a companionable silence while he stared out the darkly tinted window toward the front veranda of Micah's century-old house. He noticed it needed some fresh paint.

  "The grieving widow," Chance muttered to himself.

  The door opened and Micah stood there, poised for a moment, as though she sensed his presence. Chance knew he should leave before she spotted him, especially since he'd sworn to wait her out. Except he'd been waiting over a month, and the daily flowers didn't seem to be luring her closer, the way they were meant to. Besides, she looked too good in the gauzy tropical sundress to tear his eyes away from the creamy skin which, even from a distance, made his fingers itch to touch.

  He turned off the ignition, and let the car go dead. Leaving would be smart. But when he thought of Micah, his smarts—street and otherwise—didn't seem to exist.

  She'd been doing that to him for a very long time. Long before she'd hooked up with Jonathon, that gutless wonder of a husband who had finally had the decency to kick off and save Micah the pain of a nasty divorce. Unfortunately he'd left a mess behind for her to clean up anyway.

  Micah was rummaging in her purse now, probably looking for her car keys, Chance guessed. Her silky black hair was coming loose from the clasp he knew she usually wore. He wished she would just let it fall loose—over her shoulders, around her sweet, open face. The one that now seemed so strained, so anxious. Even from a distance he could see a pinched look around her eyes. Usually a sparkling jade, they seemed tired, not hers at all.

  Chance's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and his jaw clenched with anger. The bastard. How he hated that man. Not only for taking what should have been his, but for not having had the decency to at least take care of her once he did have her; for gambling her security away.

  Chance knew he was no angel himself; he had his own share of favorite vices. With money to burn, he had discovered poker was a pleasant enough way to play with it. Carefully, of course—he'd done without too long to risk losing much. But he was good, and certainly didn't mind lightening someone else's pockets.

  Anyone's, really. Except for Jonathon's. Because Jonathon had gambled and lost the last of both his and Micah's inherited money, Chance had always felt distaste when he took Jonathon on in a card game. He wouldn't have stooped to playing with him, except the only way to pick up bits and pieces of information on Micah was when Jonathon's tongue loosened from too much booze.

  More than once he'd used every shred of willpower he possessed not to jump across the table to get at the drunken slob for making some offhanded comment about her. Only one thing was worse. The sick feeling he got every time Jonathon left for the night. Home to Micah. Home, where he had the legal right to touch her and make love to her, to be all the things that Chance longed to be.

  Now he was dead. Chance grinned mirthlessly as he mused that by plunging off a narrow bridge and drowning in the car, Jonathon had died with more style than he'd lived. That should mean Micah had double indemnity coming her way with the insurance, and Lord knew she probably deserved—and needed—every penny.

  She was halfway to the carriage house where she kept her car, bypassing the fuchsia blooms of azalea bushes without bending to smell them as she usually did when he was watching. He studied her as she walked, the hurried way she passed through the black grille work of the iron gate surrounding the house. As Micah got into her car, an older model BMW, Chance idly wondered how many more miles she had left in the thing.

  Before he gave himself time to think about it, he turned on the ignition. With perfect timing he backed up until he blocked the driveway just as she pulled out of the carriage house to navigate her way down the narrow strip of asphalt.

  Chance climbed out of his car, knowing she'd seen him. He saw her hesitate and wondered if she would simply head back to the carriage house. He felt sure Micah was a little afraid of being alone with him. Smart lady, he thought.

  He leaned back against the car, casually crossing his arms. He fixed her with a steady, mocking stare and waited to see if she would rise to the silent challenge.

  * * *

  Micah held her breath until her lungs felt as if they might burst from the pressure. Her skin prickled as Chance continued to watch her with a cool, predatory stance that belonged solely to him. Even in his tailored suit he looked like a man who would be more at home in a leather jacket. A black one—to match his dark, brooding features, his cutting edge presence.

  She felt a sudden impulse to gun the car forward, fast enough to burn rubber. Instead, she reached for the handle to let herself out, hating the way her hands were suddenly damp, the way they trembled. Her legs weren't doing much better as she approached him. She held her back erect though, and fixed what she hoped was a stern expression on her face.

  "Chance." She greeted him warily.

  "Glad you decided to stay, Micah."

  Damn him anyway, she felt like screaming.

  Couldn't he have the decency to stay away from new widows? And couldn't he look just a little less cocky, a little less blatantly sure of his masculine prowess?

  "It is my driveway. Chance." She managed to sound in control, and was proud of herself for that. "Were you ready to leave?"

  Chance didn't flinch or raise an eyebrow. "Nice try, Micah. But I don't buy it. Why don't we get the preliminaries over with? Say you'll see me Saturday night, then we can talk."

  "You seem to forget that I'm in mourning. Jonathon's only been gone six weeks, Chance. Can't you show a little respect?"

  Chance pushed away from his car and came closer. Micah could feel her heart begin to race even faster, and for a horrifying moment she thought she was going to hyperventilate in
front of him. Micah took a self-protective step back, and then another, and another until she backed herself against the BMW. She reached for the handle behind her, not quite sure what she meant to do.

  He quickly closed the small distance and propped his arm beside her on the roof of the car. "Respect?" Chance's voice was smooth. "You know I respect you."

  "That's not what I meant and you know it," she retorted, flustered now.

  "Come on, Micah," Chance said, his voice holding a trace of bitterness. "He was a sorry excuse for a man and you know it." He cocked his head as though expecting a reaction, but when she looked away, he went on relentlessly.

  "In fact, I'm curious. Tell me what kind of legacy he left you now that his gambling buddies have had a chance to come collect their debts."

  Micah drew her breath in sharply. "That's none of your business," she snapped. "And I am none of your business. Leave me alone, Chance. Go toy with someone who wants to play your games."

  Micah tried to fling the car door open, to make him step away. Chance caught the door and slammed it shut. His hand was braced against it, and Micah couldn't seem to tear her gaze away from the leashed strength of his arm, the near mahogany color of his sun-glazed skin, the rough, dark hair covering his wrist. Chance caught her chin with his free hand and made her look at him. She tried to flinch away from his touch. A touch she couldn't wipe out, no matter how hard she tried to forget she had succumbed to it years ago. She thrilled to it even now.

  "Toy? Games?" he repeated in a low voice. "I'm disappointed in you, Micah. Because if one of us is guilty of playing games, it's you. Now face the truth and admit it. You want to see me, you need to see me, as much as I—" He stopped suddenly, his fist striking a soft blow against the top of her car. "Damn. If you'd only waited when I asked, we would have happened a long time ago. We've lost too many years already. I'm not willing to lose any more."