Chances Are (12 page)

The corners of her mouth lifted in wry amusement. She'd made her move with subtlety and innuendo—she'd tried for a little class. She could have brought up mud wrestling or pool-hall brawls, but she hadn't. Brandon, on the other hand, had been direct and as subtle as a Sherman tank. Really, kissing her in the middle of the store?

Her cheeks warmed, and she scowled as they did. Dammit, she'd liked it. The whole thing—possessively slipping her arm through his, his lips on hers, the husky timbre of his voice. And she didn't want to—couldn't afford to. If she grew to like it she could be... hurt.

Veronique went to work on the last brush, viciously working the soap into a lather. That wouldn't happen. She could remain objective, impartial. All she was dealing with were a few raging hormones. She'd handled them before, and this time would be no different. She was in control.

Veronique rinsed the brush and set it next to the others on the rack to dry. The metal double doors scraped open behind her, and she called out, "Chip, why don't we stop for a beer at the River Bottom on the way home."

"Isn't it going to be tough to be in two places at once, Veronique?"

At the sound of Brandon's voice, Veronique spun around. She acknowledged irritation that he'd surprised her again. With deliberate impudence, her gaze roamed over him. He'd exchanged the suit he'd been wearing earlier for a pair of well-worn blue jeans and a long-sleeve pullover. The pullover was black, made of a soft looking fabric, and open at the throat. He looked casual, comfortable and sexy as hell, she admitted with a frown. It was going to be difficult to remain objective if she kept noticing the way the soft fabric clung to and outlined his pecs. She raised her eyebrows. "What are you doing down here? Slumming?"

His eyes met and held hers as he crossed the room. "That was nasty, Veronique. You're usually better than that." He stopped in front of her, smiling. She looked annoyed. He was getting to her. "Great stunt this morning. Unexpected and effective."

"Thank you." She turned and dried her hands, taking a moment longer than necessary to do so. She tossed the paper towel into the trash and turned back around. Her eyes were cool as they met his again. "You've surprised me, Brandon. Twice now. And I don't like surprises."

"Oh?" He shoved his hands into his pockets. "What do you plan to do about it?"

The amusement in his voice made her blood boil. She didn't even blink. "Make sure it doesn't happen again."

He laughed and gave in to the urge to reach out and touch her flushed cheek. The flesh was soft and hot under his fingers. "I called you cocky once; you haven't done anything to change my mind."

She stepped away from his hand. His touch was much too distracting. "Really, Brandon, compliments are so embarrassing." Turning, she grabbed up her purse, and slung it over her shoulder. "You never did say what you were doing down here."

"I would have thought it was obvious." He took her arm. "Ready?"

Veronique slanted him an amused glance from the corners of her eyes; she couldn't help herself. "May I ask for what?"

"We don't want to keep Mimi waiting, do we?"

Veronique laughed and shook her head, certain he was bluffing but willing to play along. They walked toward the door. "You know, by now the fact that you're down here is all over the store. And this morning's encounter, well I wouldn't doubt that Sissy's drooling over it right now." He opened the door, and she stepped through it. Laughter bubbled to her lips. "I can see it now—the scandal continues... illegitimate, notorious Veronique Delacroix corrupts Mr. New Orleans, Brandon Rhodes. I'll be tarred and feathered."

"You say that as if you'd enjoy it. This way." Brandon touched her elbow to steer her toward the elevator that led to the parking garage. What was he up to? She followed his lead and stepped into the elevator. He punched five, then folded his arms across his chest and looked at her.

Veronique resisted the urge to stare up at the floor numbers as they were illuminated; instead, she held his gaze. "So, are you ready to tell me where we're going?"

"I already did."

Veronique's eyes crinkled at the corners. "Mimi at Uptown Finery, right?" Brandon just smiled, and Veronique laughed. "Whatever you say."

The doors slid open; they stepped out of the climate-controlled elevator and into the muggy garage. It reeked of exhaust and mildew. She followed Brandon's lead, stopping with him next to a shiny black Porsche. The top was off, the windows down. The interior was a natural-colored leather and smelled like it. "Magnificent," she murmured, running her hand lightly along the front quarter panel.

"You want to drive?" Brandon grinned and held out the keys. Without a moment's hesitation, she plucked them from his fingers and slid behind the wheel. "Ever drive one of these before?" he asked, watching as she checked the wipers and turn signals, as she adjusted the seat and mirrors. She was all business.

"Not this model. Buckle up." She pushed in the clutch and turned the key. The car roared to life. She took a moment to test the shift pattern, then shifted into reverse and backed out of the parking space. Moments later they were heading down the winding concrete tunnel.

Brandon tightened his fingers on the armrest as she took the final curve doing thirty. "Why do I have the feeling this is the biggest mistake of my life?"

Veronique laughed. "It's too late to start worrying now. Besides, I promise you'll live to regret it. Mimi?" When he nodded, she crossed Canal Street and headed uptown. They were silent as she maneuvered through the late-afternoon traffic. She slipped in and out of lanes, ran the yellow lights whenever possible and shouted at pedestrians who crossed against the light. When they'd cleared the worst of it, she tossed him a quick teasing glance. "See? Safe and sound."

"The trip's not over yet," Brandon returned dryly.

Veronique just laughed. Although she could have taken St. Charles or Carondelet, she chose Tchoupitoulas Street. It was a winding, sometimes rutted road that ran along the Mississippi River. It was lined with warehouses, some decrepit, some renovated into restaurants and clubs, others into condos. Farther uptown on Tchoupitoulas renovations gave way to rows of dilapidated shotgun houses and businesses that depended on the river for support. More than one resident lolled on his front porch or steps, enjoying the afternoon sun and watching traffic; a group of teenage boys stood in front of a corner restaurant, drinking Coke and clowning around. It was an old street, a street, Veronique thought, with character. Even though it was out of the way, she traveled it whenever possible.

She flashed Brandon a smile as she took a curve with a speed designed to leave him breathless. "I cut my teeth on high-performance cars and have never lost my taste for them. It's like gambling, it gets in the blood." The wind whipped her hair around her head. She pushed it away from her face and laughed. "I borrowed Grandfather's Jag once. I'd just gotten my license; Jerome had stopped by to see mother. The keys were in the ignition. I couldn't resist."

Brandon turned toward her. His gaze softened. She looked completely content, utterly relaxed. He'd been teasing when he'd said he worried about her driving. She handled the car skillfully and with absolute control. And her fondness for speed hadn't surprised him. She was a woman who embraced experience, who enjoyed living on the edge. It seemed right that she should be behind the wheel of a fast car, laughing and breaking the law with the wind flying through her hair. Brandon smiled to himself; he was getting sentimental. "What happened?"

"Grandfather reported the car stolen. They picked me up as I was cruising Lakeshore Drive." She swerved to avoid a pothole. "He was furious, but when I explained that he should be grateful that I took the car instead of a real thief and that he should be more careful in the future, he went wild." Her laughter mixed with the sounds of the street, the hum of the engine and the rush of the wind. It was a sound filled with life. "He didn't press charges, but only because Maman begged. Although, he did try to convince her to send me away to a girls' school. From that time on, when he came to visit he made sure his keys were in his pocket."

"I'll bet he did," Brandon murmured, chuckling. "Jerome Delacroix isn't the most magnanimous man I've ever met."

"Especially about his possessions," Veronique inserted. "You should have heard him the time he found me playing in the Rolls—"

"That's it!" Brandon snapped his fingers. "I thought all this sounded familiar; years ago I heard a story about you and Jerome's Rolls—"

"Fabricated," Veronique said with a wave of her hand. "The gossip mill changed the Jag to a Rolls, added boys, liquor and a crumpled fender to the story." She turned onto Magazine Street, then almost immediately onto St. Charles Avenue. "It was the first time I had an exclusive in Sissy's column."

"From humble beginnings..."

Veronique's eyes met his, and they laughed in unison. The next few minutes passed in silence. From the corners of her eyes, Veronique watched Brandon. He fiddled with the radio, then leaned back in his seat, eyes closed, totally relaxed. He was an unusual man, she decided. A man not what he seemed, a man of contradictions. She shook her head slightly. She'd thought he would be society stiff and big-business tough, but he was warm and funny and likable. It was too bad she was just along for the ride, she thought with more than a twinge of regret.

Veronique pushed the unwanted sentiment away as she turned into Uptown Finery's parking lot. Located on St. Charles Avenue in an old Victorian mansion, the shop boasted a client list as old-line and blue-blooded as Uptown itself. In fact, this store had become such a New Orleans tradition with the wealthy that Rhodes had been forced to discontinue its bridal department.

Veronique parked the car and turned toward Brandon. She didn't conceal the humor lurking in her eyes. The ball was in his court. "What do you propose we do now?"

He knew what she was doing, and he wasn't about to fold. "Go in," he answered simply.

Veronique lifted her brows in surprise. "You know, it's going to look pretty silly if we go in there and don't buy something. Uptown Finery is not an 'I've just come to browse' sort of place."

"So we'll buy something."

Veronique shook her head. Follow the leader had not been one of her favorite childhood games, but if he insisted on digging his own grave, what could she do? Laughter bubbled to her lips. "I'm not going to make it easy for you."

"I'd be disappointed if you did."

"All right. It's your money and your reputation. Just let me brush my hair," she said, not bothering to look in the mirror but knowing it was wild from the wind.

Brandon leaned over and tangled his fingers in the silky mass. He rubbed the strands between his fingers; his eyes searched her face as he did. With her wild hair and flushed cheeks, she looked as if they'd just made love. His lips curved into a satisfied smile. "Leave it," he murmured, dropping his hand.

For a moment she'd thought he was going to kiss her. Her fingers flexed on the wheel as she swallowed her disappointment. Dammit, she'd wanted him to. She still did. She wasn't comfortable with the want and was unsettled by the disappointment. He opened the car door for her, and she stepped out. Taking a deep breath, she smiled convincingly and took his hand. Together they crossed the shell lot toward the building.

There was a wreath made of dried wildflowers and ribbon on the flawlessly finished cypress door. Brandon rang the bell. The door was opened by a woman in a crisp white apron and cap. "Good afternoon." Brandon handed the woman his card. "Mimi is expecting us."

The woman nodded and ushered them into the front parlor. While she got them settled and asked if they would like some refreshment, Veronique looked around. The room was large, with glistening wood floors and fourteen foot ceilings. It was furnished with pieces from the same era as the house, carrying through the atmosphere of faded grandeur.

Veronique had been in this room only once before. Her mother had been determined she have a sweet sixteen party and a gown to go with it. Veronique had been determined there would be neither. The afternoon had ended with her mother angry and embarrassed and Veronique in tears. Her expression clouded. She'd won the battle—there'd been no party. But she'd never forgiven herself for humiliating her mother in front of her peers, and she'd never again crossed the line between independence and willfulness.

"What's wrong?" Brandon asked softly. She suddenly looked so sad. He reached out and cupped her cheek. Her skin was as soft as a Georgia peach, as flawless as silk.

Veronique unconsciously tipped her head into the caress. "I made a scene here once...." Her voice trailed off, and she willed away the unhappy memory. There was nothing to be gained by reliving the past. "I was just thinking how bratty sixteen-year-old girls can be," she finished, her lips curving into a wistful smile.

Brandon was glad to see the shadows disappear from her eyes. He dropped his hand. "When I was sixteen I thought they were pretty great."

"I'll bet you did," Veronique murmured as Mimi swept into the room. She was a tall, striking woman, with the dramatic coloring and aristocratic features of her Creole ancestors.

"Mr. Rhodes, I'm Mimi Latour." The woman held out an elegant hand. "Welcome to Uptown Finery."

"It's a pleasure." Brandon grasped her hand. "My mother has spoken very highly of you."