Bad Boy of New Orleans

Bad Boy of New Orleans

by

Mallory Rush

Bestselling, Award-winning Author

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-421-9

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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