Chances Are (8 page)

Brandon blinked. It couldn't be, but... He shook his head, then blinked again. It wasn't a mirage—Veronique was next to him in bed, warm, naked, utterly relaxed. Desire hit him with the subtlety of a tidal wave hitting shore.

Heart thudding in his chest, he fell back against the mattress. Damnation. He might have just had the most exciting night of his life, and he couldn't remember it. Sometimes life just wasn't fair.

Brandon lay there a moment, then unable to help himself, sneaked a peek at her. From his position all he could see was the curve of her shoulder, her lovely profile, the suggestion of a body under the blankets. Feeling like a voyeur, Brandon propped himself on an elbow so he could gaze down at her sleeping face. There were the lightest of smudges under her eyes, giving her a sultry, shadowed look. Her unpainted lips were the color of an almost ripe strawberry; her hair fanned across the pillow like a tangled web of silk. Curious, he reached down to capture several strands; her hair felt the way it looked—soft and silky.

Brandon cocked his head. She was impish even in sleep, he thought. Her mobile mouth tilted at the corners, and she looked as if she could laugh at any moment. He liked that. His eyes lingered. That mouth was entirely too kissable. He wanted to take it while she still slept, wanted her to awaken with her lips still warm from his and his taste on her tongue.

As he leaned down to do so, she made a sound that was a cross between a whimper and a moan, then flopped onto her side. The blanket fell away from her shoulder revealing not the soft white flesh he'd expected, but soft white cotton. He let out a long, disappointed breath. Veronique was wearing a T-shirt. It was one of those skimpy white ones with spaghetti straps. Sexy, but compared to what he'd thought the blanket was hiding...

Brandon frowned thoughtfully. Maybe he couldn't remember making love because they hadn't. He sucked in a deep breath, then peeked under the covers. "Underwear," he muttered, sighing. He lay back against the pillow and threw an arm over his eyes. Nothing had happened. They hadn't made love; he hadn't missed the most exciting night of his life. It was for the best, really. He hadn't planned to... it'd been the furthest thing from... He lifted his arm and slanted her a glance from the corner of his eyes. He sighed again. If she hadn't planned to seduce him, why had she brought him here?

He sounded petulant even to himself, and he grinned. It was for the best. She was kooky and irresponsible; she had no place in his traditional world. Besides, he suspected Veronique Delacroix could prove to be addicting. One taste could lead to an all consuming need.

He couldn't afford such a distracting habit. One night of chance taking and walking on the wild side was enough to last a lifetime. And it
had
been wild, he realized, bits and snatches coming back to him. The bacchanal had been their first stop. The party had taken place at a decaying mansion on Esplanade Avenue. Pedestals with life-size papier-mache replicas of all the Roman gods had been set up around the pool.

Bacchus himself had been portrayed by a short, balding man with a huge potbelly. He'd worn a wreath of grape leaves on his head and almost nothing else. A dozen people had been costumed as satyrs. Togas, feathers and wine had been supplied in abundance. Brandon winced as he remembered sticking his head into the red-wine fountain; his tux would never be the same.

At least he'd drawn the line at wearing a toga. He frowned. Good thing. If he'd been wearing a sheet, that Greek sailor he'd challenged to a game of pool, the one who'd been a very poor loser, might have beaten him to a pulp instead of only threatening to do so.

Their next stop had been The Dungeon. Open only from midnight until dawn, it had been populated with characters straight out of a Franz Kafka novel. After that, there'd been Bourbon Street and dancing in the street; they all ran together in a confusing mix of images, scents and flavors.

Brandon listened to Veronique's deep, rhythmic breathing. His expression softened. At the heart of it all had been Veronique—her energy, her enthusiasm, her humor. Yes, indeed, she could become a most distracting habit. Take today for example... Today! Brandon's eyes few to his watch. It was already 11:40. He had a meeting with Sebastian in two hours and twenty minutes. He had better get going.

So as not to awaken Veronique, he cautiously pushed the blanket away and began to slip out of bed. Just as his torso cleared the sheets, Veronique moaned and rolled over. He cursed under his breath and settled back onto the bed. Her cheek rested against his shoulder, her arm lay across his chest and one of her impossibly long legs was cradled against his. He could either wake her or wait it out. Yawning, Brandon decided a few more minutes wouldn't hurt.

* * *

Veronique smiled into Brandon's shoulder. In the past ten minutes he'd tossed and turned, groaned, sighed, moaned and muttered. She suspected he was uncomfortable and eager to leave. That's why she'd rolled over.

Well, he'd gotten what she promised. She knew for a fact that his wallet was empty—she'd had to pay their cab fare home—he'd drunk enough that if he didn't have a killer headache he wasn't human, and judging by the noises he was making he had lots of regrets.

Veronique bit back a laugh. She couldn't blame him. Last night had been almost too weird, even for her. The hosts of the bacchanal had been friends of friends, and she hadn't known just what to expect. Brandon had blanched when he saw where the party was being held; he'd almost called it quits when he caught sight of Bacchus himself, flitting around in nothing but a loincloth fashioned to look like a fig leaf.

But then he'd surprised her. She didn't know if he'd had too much to drink or if he'd just decided to let go, but he'd become a wild man. She still couldn't believe he'd stuck his head in the wine fountain or picked a fight with a two-hundred-pound Greek or paid a street musician to play "The Yellow Rose of Texas" so they could dance. At four in the morning she'd poured him into a cab and brought him home with her.

Her lips curved. Undressing him had been a delight. He had a beautiful body; even now she longed to pull the covers away so she could gaze at him—not touch him, just a long, leisurely gawk. Last night, for one insane moment, she'd considered taking advantage of him. But she'd been a good girl and had crawled under the covers and gone to sleep.

She took a deep breath. He smelled like a man should—not flowery and artificial like men's colognes, but like sweat and musk and that indefinable something that every woman recognized and responded to. She breathed in again; her blood stirred even as she acknowledged it was time to let her captive go.

Veronique propped herself on an elbow and gazed down at him. Her lips twitched. Despicable, she thought. She deserved every nasty rumor that had been spread about her; she deserved to be flogged. His eyes opened slowly; they were red-rimmed and wary as they met hers. "Good morning, darling," she murmured huskily.

Darling?
"Morning," he muttered.

Veronique walked her fingers up his chest. "How do you feel?"

Brandon frowned. Was there a hidden meaning to that question? She'd practically purred it. He decided to play it safe. "How am I supposed to feel?"

"Why—" her voice lowered even further "—wonderful, of course." An unexpected thrill ran down her spine as his eyes darkened.

Brandon swallowed past the lump in his throat. Maybe something had happened. Maybe they'd put clothing back on after... no, nobody did that. But still—

Veronique trailed a finger along his jaw. "Poor Brandon, you look positively haggard."

But she didn't. His gaze swept over her. In fact, she looked as fresh as a spring morning. Another bad sign. "Why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?" she murmured suggestively, barely swallowing a laugh.

Brandon squirmed. She was too sexy for her own good. "Look haggard," he said, sounding grouchy.

"Because, my darling, I didn't overindulge. If you'll remember, after we left the Sovereigns' Ball, I stuck to either juice or Perrier for refreshment. Besides—" her smile was the most intimate and wicked she could muster "—I have every reason to look wonderful."

Brandon scowled. His head was killing him, and he was tired of being the mouse to her cat. And the plain truth was he didn't want to know if they'd made love. Because if they had, he would want to again. And he didn't think that was a good idea. "I have to go. I have an appointment."

Veronique sat up, feigning petulance. "We haven't had a chance to talk." She plucked at the blanket. "And we haven't had breakfast."

Breakfast—another sure sign. His determination wavered, and he cleared his throat. "I'd love to have breakfast another time. But I'm meeting with George Sebastian, the store's attorney, in an hour..." He tossed back the covers and got out of bed.

Veronique fell back against the pillows. Her shoulders shook with contained laughter as she watched him fumble with his clothes. She had him on the run. Her expression changed from amused to admiring. He really did look good in his shorts. She folded her arms behind her head. A woman could get sidetracked from the game at hand by those legs.

"But I'll call," he continued, trying to sound reassuring but coming across as nervous. "We'll go out. Really, I... where's my shirt?"

"Don't know." Her eyes crinkled at the corners. "My guess is somewhere between Esplanade Avenue and Bourbon Street."

Brandon's head jerked up. "Excuse me?"

"You took it off after it was soaked with red wine," she explained patiently. "Don't you remember?"

"No." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Then what did I wear?"

She lifted a shoulder. "Your tie and jacket, your slacks and... that."

He looked down a the colorful object laying on the chair. It was a plastic headband with long loose springs attached. On top of the springs were glitter-covered balls. He picked it up. Now he remembered—no shirt on his back and dealie-bobs on his head. A regular freak show.

"You looked sexy, take it from me." She rolled onto her side. "I use one of my grandfather's old shirts for a painting smock. If you don't mind the odor of turpentine... it's in the kitchen closet."

"Thanks." He put on his socks, then stuck a leg into his pants. "Did anyone I know see—damn." One of his trouser legs was inside out, and he cursed again under his breath, dropped his pants and started over.

Veronique caught her bottom lip, breathing deeply through her nose to steady herself. He would be furious if she laughed. When she trusted herself to speak, she said, "You know, I think photographers are the first thing we should decide on. A good photographer can make or break—"

Brandon's head snapped up. He'd just maneuvered the first leg into the now right-side-out trousers. "What?"

"Photographers," she said slowly, as if explaining something to a child. "Of course, our trip to Uptown Finery shouldn't wait too long. And a jeweler—"

Brandon stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Veronique stood and walked toward the bathroom. When she reached the door, she looked back at him. "Why, darling, I'm talking about our wedding plans." His jaw dropped. She laughed and blew him a kiss. "I think I'll take a shower."

Veronique shut the door behind her, then leaned against it, overcome with laughter. She'd played dirty, taking advantage of his hangover and nonexistent memory of the night before. The poor guy didn't know what had hit him.

Wiping her eyes, she crossed to the shower and turned on the water. She was just giving him what he'd wanted: a night of irresponsibility and a morning of regrets. Okay, maybe she'd taken it too far, but anyone who put their night in her hands had better expect her best shot. Humming under her breath, she turned on the shower, then slipped out of her T-shirt and panties. Besides, she'd call him later and—

Her head snapped up as the bathroom door flew open. She gasped and grabbed a towel. Brandon stood there, her painting smock half-buttoned, his expression thunderous. "Brandon! I'm not dressed."

"What do you mean, 'wedding plans'?"

Veronique held back a grin. She was a terrible tease; she just couldn't help it. "Which word didn't you understand?"

One look at the devilry in her eyes and he knew the truth. There had been no proposal; indeed, nothing at all had happened last night. She'd been having a little fun at his expense. Well, what was good for the goose.... He took two steps into the room. In a honeyed voice, he murmured, "I thought we might clarify our relationship."

Veronique held the bath sheet in front of her with both hands. Her chin tilted. "I hardly think now is the time to discuss—"

"Who said anything about a discussion?" He unbuttoned one of the shirt's buttons and took another step closer.

He was bluffing. She was sure of it. Her brows arched. "Then what are you saying, darling?"

He didn't answer. Instead he finished unbuttoning the paint-splattered shirt and shrugged out of it. His eyes met hers. "What I'm saying... darling... is I don't want to talk at all."

Veronique's smile faltered. He couldn't be serious. Surely he didn't mean... This time when he took another step, she backed up.

"In fact, I'd like a reminder of last night." He took another step. "I'm a little fuzzy about the details."

The ceramic tile was cold against her naked back. She cleared her throat. "I could fill you in another time. The shower is... you see..."