Chances Are (14 page)

Veronique was awakened by a loud rapping. Groaning, she rolled onto her side and pulled the pillow over her head. The sound came again. Damn neighbors, she fumed, realizing she wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep. Didn't they know it was Saturday morning? She sat up in bed, pushed the hair out of her eyes and squinted at the clock. Eight-twelve—the middle of the night as far as she was concerned.

The rapping came again, and Veronique jumped. It wasn't her neighbors; there was someone at her front door! Whoever it was she would have their head. "I'm coming, I'm coming," she called, pushing away the covers and getting out of bed. She stomped toward the door, cursing under her breath the whole way.

She swung the door open; the indignant tirade died on her lips. It was Brandon. He looked wide awake, freshly pressed and way too appealing. The jerk. "What," she asked, making a great show of irritation, "do you want?"

Brandon's lips curved into a self-satisfied smile. He could spend a lifetime surprising her. "I like your pj's," he said, eyeing the oversize garments. "Cowboys, aren't they?"

"Dale Evans and Roy Rogers commemorative pajamas," she muttered, folding her arms across her chest. "You never answered my question."

"I brought breakfast." Her voice was still froggy with sleep; her hair was a tangle of whiskey-colored silk. Brandon decided she'd never looked more desirable. "Sausage-and-ham biscuits from Popeyes."

"Yeah?" She caught a whiff of the biscuits, and her mouth began to water. Popeyes, known for its spicy Cajun chicken, had the best biscuits in the South. "Got any coffee in there?" she asked grudgingly.

"I was depending on you to supply the coffee."

"You're pushing it, Rhodes." Veronique scowled, but stepped aside. "Instant's going to have to do."

He followed her to the kitchen. "Are you always surly in the morning, or did you have a bad night?"

She filled the teakettle with water, took the jar of coffee from the shelf and got out two cups. That done, she turned back toward him. "I like to sleep." She absently scratched her arm. "What's
your
story? Are you always this chipper in the morning, or are you only doing this just to bug me?" His smile was her answer, and she sagged against the counter, resting her chin on her fist. "I'm too sleepy to fight back."

He smiled. "That's like handing a killer a loaded gun."

The curving of his lips was slow and sexy. Veronique's toes curled. The man packed quite a punch. "A gentleman would have let that pass."

"True," Brandon murmured, his eyes lowering. In her bent position, her huge pajama top opened slightly, revealing the creamy swell of one breast. Desire was swift and stunning; his abdomen tightened with it. He wanted to peel away those silly garments and discover the woman beneath—discover her with his hands and mouth and tongue. His eyes returned to hers. "But a gentleman wouldn't be standing here thinking about taking advantage of a semiconscious woman."

A thrill raced up her spine. "And are you?" Veronique asked, her voice sounding impossibly husky even to her own ears.

"Yes." He leaned toward her.

Her lips parted as she angled her head for his kiss. "I'm glad."

They both jumped as the kettle started to whistle. Brandon groaned and motioned for Veronique to stay where she was; he needed to do something with his hands.

Veronique smiled sleepily and watched him through half-lowered eyelids. The last thing on her mind should be making love to Brandon Rhodes. But that was
all
that was on her mind. When she closed her eyes images of them together—his hands on her body, hot and urgent, his weight pressing her into the mattress, his lips covering hers—played on the back of her eyelids.

It really was a shame, she told herself, yawning. She would have liked to make love to Brandon Rhodes, but even now, before the last of sleep's cobwebs had cleared from her brain, she knew it was impossible. They weren't meant for each other, and she had to protect herself.

Brandon turned, catching the dreamy expression. What was she thinking about? "Plates and napkins?" he asked.

Veronique straightened, stretched and yawned again. The smell of coffee was working its magic. "First shelf to the right of the sink and drawer to the left of the stove."

She helped him carry everything out onto her balcony. It overlooked St. Peter Street and was only big enough for an ice-cream-parlor-size table and two chairs.

"You're the only person I know who lives in the Quarter." He watched as she added three tablespoons of sugar and a more than generous amount of cream to her coffee.

"No wonder you don't care if you drink instant—that's a kiddie coffee."

"I don't doubt it," she murmured, referring to his comment about her choice of living arrangement and ignoring the one about her taste in coffee. She unwrapped a biscuit; her eyes met his. "As you very well know, you never answered my question. Why are you here?"

Brandon laughed. Direct and to the point. She never pulled any punches. If he were playing fair, he would afford her the same courtesy. He wasn't. "I thought we should get an early start."

"Oh? And where did you think we were going?"

With exaggerated nonchalance he took a sip of his coffee, then unwrapped a biscuit and took a huge bite. "I love these things," he said blandly. When she let out her breath in a long huff, he wiped his mouth with a bright yellow paper napkin, took another sip of coffee then said, "To find a photographer."

Veronique carefully set down her biscuit. Her gaze swept over him, and she thought for a second time that morning that he was too appealing. "Why are you doing this? Why yesterday—" she gestured at their breakfast "—why now?"

His gaze shifted to a point over her left shoulder for a moment before returning to hers. "Why does it matter?"

It matters because I'm starting to care for you, Veronique thought quickly. It matters because I can't allow you the opportunity to hurt me. But she didn't say any of those things. "Answering questions with questions?" she murmured, feigning coolness. "Tacky, Brandon."

"You started this game, Veronique," he said softly. "I'm just playing it out."

She pushed away the now-unappetizing breakfast and stood. Self-preservation, she reminded herself as her eyes met his. "You're right, I started the game, now I'm ending it. More coffee?" Without waiting for an answer, she collected the two still half-full cups and headed toward the kitchen.

Brandon jumped up and followed her. By the time he reached the kitchen, she was standing at the stove, her back to him as she stared at the teakettle. "What do you mean you're ending it?"

She looked over her shoulder at him. "I should think it's obvious. I fold, Brandon."

"I don't believe it," he drawled, leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms across his chest. "Veronique, the woman who calls herself a chance-taker and a gambler, is backing down from a challenge." He shook his head and made a clucking sound with his tongue.

Veronique whirled around. "If you were any kind of gambler, you'd know that folding is a strategy. The skilled player, the smart player knows when it's advantageous to fold."

Brandon laughed. "It seems to me that it doesn't take a lot of brains to know how to quit."

Her cheeks warmed with anger. "This is ridiculous. I refuse to—"

"You're quitting," Brandon interrupted, "because you know you can't win."

He was right—she knew this was a no-win situation. But she would never admit that to him. She lifted one shoulder in a casual, bored gesture. "The game's not fun anymore, Brandon. It's as simple as that."

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He pushed away from the door and crossed to her. "Sounds to me like you're running away," he murmured, stopping in front of her. He trailed a finger down her flushed cheek.

The casual gesture raised a flood of warm feelings and tingling sensations, and Veronique forced herself not to jerk her head away. The action would reveal more than she wanted to. Her gaze held his as she said, "I never run. You'd be wise to remember that." Only then did she step away from his touch. "I'll be ready in twenty minutes." The smile that snaked across his face made her blood boil. She whirled around and headed toward the bedroom.

True to her word, twenty minutes later she walked out onto the balcony. She was dressed as eccentrically as ever in tight black capris and a crop top, a black felt gaucho hat trimmed with pink ball tassels and, at her waist, a huge pink patent-leather belt.

Away from Brandon's disturbing presence, she'd had time to think and had come to the conclusion that if he wanted to continue this silly game, she might as well have some fun. After all, she specialized in silly games, and if she made a practice of anything, it was having fun. She would just be careful. Very careful, she thought as Brandon looked up at her and smiled.

"Interesting outfit," Brandon said. The bizarre getup was a foil for her tall, slim build and striking features, and he thought her the most exotically beautiful woman he'd ever known. His eyes swept over her, lingering on the sliver of smooth pale flesh at her midriff. His eyes, smoky with awareness, met hers. "But then, you have lots of interesting outfits."

Veronique's stomach flip-flopped. Damn those eyes of his. It ought to be illegal to have eyes as seductive as gray velvet, as inviting as a spring-fed pool. How was she supposed to be careful when his every glance sent her pulse racing and her mind wandering? "I'm flattered you noticed," she said after taking a deep steadying breath and leading him back into the living room. She closed the balcony door behind her, then fastened the dead bolt. "Do you have any photographers in mind?" she asked, turning back toward him. "Or are we just going to randomly waste someone's time?"

"Why don't you wait and see."

She shot him an amused look. "Not showing your hand. You're getting smart, Rhodes."

They laughed together and headed outside.

There wasn't much on-street parking available in the French Quarter, so they had to walk several blocks. Veronique didn't mind. It was a clear, brilliant day, and the exercise got her blood moving. As they walked, she lifted her face to the early morning sun, enjoying its warmth against her cheeks. She breathed deeply. The breeze carried the scents of baking bread, boiling seafood and spring flowers. Veronique smiled. She'd lived in the Quarter for six years; every morning was the same as the one before. It was the one area of her life in which she enjoyed predictability.

Although it wasn't even ten yet, the street was already bustling with activity. Vendors chatted with one another as they prepared for the Saturday crowds; a street musician, hat already at his feet, warmed up on guitar while his partner tap-danced to the tentative melody; delivery men hurried through their rounds, shouting orders or laughing over some bawdy joke. Veronique waved and called greetings to people as they passed—a woman sweeping the doorway of a shop, a portrait artist setting up for the day, a young man on roller skates.

"Do you know everyone?" Brandon asked as she stopped to pet a small dog she called Pepper.

"Almost." She straightened. "That's why I like living in the Quarter. There's a sense of family and of neighborhood here. We all look out for each other; we all care. Uptown—" she paused to shout a hello to the Lucky Dog hot-dog vendor "—you all live behind alarm systems and security gates. You nod cool greetings to one another only when courtesy demands it and gloat over each other's misfortunes."

Scars from living with Jerome, Brandon thought, glancing at her set expression. And from being on the receiving end of too much of the Lily St. Germaine brand of cruelty. "We're not all that way," he murmured.

"No," she said with a small toss of her head. "It grows in direct proportion with the uptowner's assets. The better the balance sheet, the bigger the bigot."

And with the scars came bitterness. What lengths would she go for revenge? The thought flitted through his head, and he pushed it away. "What about me, Veronique? My balance sheet looks pretty good."

Veronique sent him a long, thoughtful glance. After a moment she said, "You've surprised me, Rhodes. But I'm not committing."

She was a straight shooter, at times even brutally frank. Would a woman like that look for revenge? He suspected not, but he had to know. And to know he had to gain her trust. Ignoring the gnawing guilt, he laughed and draped an arm across her shoulders. "You're a hard woman, Veronique Delacroix."

"Yeah." Veronique's mood lightened, and she laughed with him. "Hard and nasty." They'd reached the Porsche. Brandon opened the passenger door for her, then went around to the other side. "Had enough of my driving for this century, have you?" she teased as he slid in beside her.

Brandon smiled and started the car. "Not at all. I just know where we're going."

"Right," Veronique muttered, leaning her head back against the headrest and closing her eyes. "Nudge me when we get there."

"Can I nudge you anywhere I want?"

Veronique shot him an amused glance. "You like to live dangerously."

Brandon reached across the seat and tapped the end of her nose. "That's your department, lady. I'm just an apprentice."

Veronique lowered her eyes. Nothing between them had changed since their first night together. He was still bored, and she was still a diversion. And that would never change, she sternly reminded herself.