Chances Are (3 page)

"Oh, ladies first." His lips twitched, and he gestured toward the table. "Please."

"Chivalrous but unwise," Veronique said, racking the balls. "However, if you insist."

Brandon watched as she readied for the break. She held the cue like a pro, loosely but with absolute control. Her eyes were narrowed as she lined up the shot; her arm movement was smooth. He grimaced as the cue ball hit the apex of racked balls with a crack. A perfect break. Four balls dropped into pockets.

"Six, off the side and into the corner."

With a combination of surprise and admiration, Brandon watched as one after another she called the shot and sank the ball. "You've played this game before."

"Once or twice." Her laughing eyes lifted from the table to meet his. She liked having caught him off guard and smiled as she lowered her gaze once again to the table. "Haven't you ever known a woman who could play pool? Eight in the corner pocket."

"Not like this." Brandon shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. "A real hustler, aren't you?"

She sank the last ball, then began to rerack. "Let's just say I've spent a little time in pool halls." She picked up the square of blue chalk and expertly twisted it over the tip. "In fact, I used to sneak into Cooter Brown's before I was eighteen."

"No kidding," he murmured as she executed another flawless break.

"Mmm. Once—four off the side—I was busted for being underage. They dropped the charges because I hadn't had a drink. I didn't sneak in to drink. I went to play."

He cocked his head. "And make money."

Veronique just laughed and called another shot. She sank it neatly.

"So—" Brandon leaned against the table and folded his arms across his chest "—what else did you do before you were eighteen?"

Her eyes lifted to his. "That's a rather loaded question, Mr. Rhodes. Fifteen off the one and into the side." The shot missed its mark by an inch. "Blast," Veronique muttered. "I hate stupid mistakes."

"I wouldn't sneeze at thirty-six to nothing," Brandon said, picking up his cue.

"That doesn't justify stupidity. Besides—" she eyed him, noting the ease with which he held the cue "—I have the feeling to underestimate you would be the biggest mistake of all."

Brandon's lips curved. "You're probably right," he murmured, then sank two balls with one shot.

Veronique watched as he set up his next shot. One corner of her mouth lifted in wry amusement. She'd missed the shot because she'd let him distract her. It hadn't been the saucy question that had blown her concentration—although she had to hand it to him, he was either totally ingenuous or damn clever. It had been his eyes; She'd looked up and lost herself in them. They were the most amazing color—a perfect gray, warm and smoky—and surrounded by sooty lashes.

Veronique tilted her head. But the thing she liked best about his face was his eyebrows. Sweeping and dark, they had a high natural arch that gave him a rakish, dangerous appearance. Would he be as dangerous as he looked? Her pulse fluttered, just a little, at the answer, and she smiled to herself. She'd never been one to run from trouble.

"Good shot," she murmured as he completed a particularly tricky maneuver.

"Thanks." He glanced at her from the corners of his eyes. "Worried?"

"Not unless you're planning to sink the next sixty-four balls." She pulled a small ladder-back chair away from the wall, swung it around and straddled it. "Misjudge one shot and the game's mine. I won't give you another chance."

Brandon propped his cue against the table and slipped out of his dark jacket. "You're pretty cocky." He shot her an amused glance as he rolled up his shirt sleeves.

Veronique shrugged. "I know my capabilities."

"Yeah?" Brandon bent and lined up his shot. He looked back up at her the moment the cue hit the ball. "So do I."

Minutes passed without them speaking. The only sounds in the room were Brandon's murmured calls, the crack of ivory against ivory and the muffled thumps of balls dropping into pockets. Veronique's fingers curled around the slats of the chair as she watched him bend and straighten, then move around the table to make another shot. The fabric of his white shirt strained across his shoulders as he pulled back on the cue, then followed through. A custom-made shirt, she assessed, eyeing the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his hips. He must belong to a club, she thought, idly running her fingers through her hair. Her lips tilted. He was the health-club type. She'd tried a gym but found it, well... tiresome.

Her thoughts returned to the game. He'd sunk seventy-two. Blast, he could go all the way. Maybe she would have to—Her speculations were interrupted by the sound of the door to the billiard room opening and a surprised gasp. Veronique's eyes crinkled at the corners. In the doorway stood Lily St. Germain, Sissy Dunbar and a woman Veronique didn't recognize.

"Brandon!" The indignant word flew past the unknown woman's lips.

He pulled up a fraction on the cue, and the three ball, instead of dropping into the pocket, balanced on the very edge. "Damn." Shaking his head, his eyes shifted from the missed shot to the doorway. He straightened slowly. "Yes, Aunt Isabella?"

His aunt released her breath in a short huff. "What are you doing?"

He arched one dark eyebrow, expression sardonic. "I think that's obvious."

"But you should be..." Her words trailed off at his thunderous expression. She stared at him a moment, then turned and marched from the room. The other two, after tossing accusing glances at Veronique, followed her.

Veronique caught her lower lip between her teeth to keep from laughing, then stood. "Tough break, you were close." She picked up her cue and chalked the tip, then lined up the shot. "Say good-night, Gracie." The three ball dropped into the pocket.

"Are your ears burning?" Brandon's eyes rested on the curve of her rear as she bent to make a shot.
Nice
.

"Perpetually."

His gaze trailed down her impossibly long legs then back up, lingering on the place where black suede met red denim. "You don't mind?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Should I?"

Brandon's gaze jerked up to hers as he realized he'd been thinking of tempting curves and alluring hollows when he should have been thinking of his father. "I'm sorry, what?"

She bent to make another shot. "Should I mind people talking about me?"

Brandon cursed under his breath, stood and moved to the other side of the table. "I've never thought about it."

"That means you've always played by the rules." She sank the last ball and began to rerack.

"And you don't?" he asked, folding his arms across his chest.

"I stopped a long time ago." The polished wood slid smoothly between her fingers; three balls dropped into pockets.

"No regrets?"

"I gave up regrets when I gave up rules. It makes life a lot more fun." Her eyes met his. She wouldn't ask him about regrets; right now he was consumed with them. Instead, she smiled. "Kiss your ten bucks goodbye." She took the shot, the ball dropped into the pocket. "Could I interest you in another game? Perhaps double or nothing?"

Brandon wasn't sure whether he was annoyed or amused. "Why do I have the feeling I'm being suckered?"

"Because you're astute," she said, not bothering to hide the laughter in her voice. She slipped the two bills into her pocket and sauntered toward the door. "Enjoyed it, Rhodes. Let's play again sometime."

What a strange woman, Brandon thought as she ducked out the way she'd come in. He crossed to the French doors and watched her progress down the gallery until she disappeared through the parlor door. He'd always thought the stories of her exploits, if not totally fabricated, were embellished. Now he wasn't so sure. Maybe he would have the opportunity to ask her one day.

After long moments of staring out at the yard, Brandon shook his head and turned away from the beautiful day. Tomorrow he would have to begin the transition at Rhodes. It was the last thing he wanted to think about, certainly the last thing he wanted to do, but the store wouldn't maintain for long without a president. First he would have to—

There was a discreet knock at the door before it opened. The obviously flustered butler stepped into the room carrying a bottle of Jack Daniel's and a glass on a tray. "Yes, Winston?"

"Sir, a..." The man cleared his throat. "A young... lady said you required this." He set it on the butler's table. "Will there be anything else?"

"No. Thank you, Winston." Brandon smiled to himself as he poured a drink. Veronique Delacroix was a strange woman with a lot of class.

Chapter 2

"Morning, Chip," Veronique called out as she entered the display department of Rhodes. She tossed the small white bag that contained her breakfast onto the table and headed for the coffeepot. "Welcome back."

"Why are
you
so cheerful?" her assistant mumbled, looking at her over the top of the sports page. "It's Monday. Or haven't you heard?"

Her laugh was husky. "What a grump. Save me the comics, will you?" After pouring herself a cup of coffee and adding generous amounts of both cream and sugar, she crossed to where Chip sat. She snitched the funnies, then plopped onto a metal folding chair that was dusty and crusted with years of paint splatters. Her gaze wandered over the cluttered room. It never ceased to amaze her that their beautiful, pristine displays were created in this chaos. She smiled. "Artistic ambience. Don't you love it?"

"Not on Monday mornings."

"Fine." Veronique rested her sneakered feet on the worktable in front of her. "No cheese-filled croissants for you." Her lips tilted a moment before Chip's head snapped out from behind the paper.

"Croissants?" He ran a hand through his sandy hair, still rumpled with sleep. His grin was sheepish. "I'll be civil."

"I thought so." She handed him a pastry and a napkin. "Anything exciting happen on your vacation?"

"Our car broke down halfway to Disney World, and Sheila and I are fighting."

Veronique swallowed a laugh along with a bite of croissant. "You two are always fighting. Got any new news, any juicy gossip?"

"I'm sure you heard about Mr. Rhodes."

For a moment the only sound in the room was the crackling of Chip's newspaper. "I was at the funeral," Veronique murmured. She rested her chin on her fist. After a moment, she tipped her head and her eyes met Chip's once again. "What do you know about Brandon Rhodes?"

"Only what I've heard. He's bright—attended Harvard Business School. He's the model of the successful young executive." Chip stood and crossed to the coffeepot. "Rumor is he was dissatisfied with his position as the company's public-relations representative and wanted a hand in the day-to-day running of the store. Why?"

She lowered her eyes and shrugged. "Just wondered, him being the new boss and all." The truth was, she'd thought of him countless times over the last week. And she wasn't sure why.

"Rumor also has it, he and his father weren't close."

"Mmm," she murmured noncommittally. She took the last bite of her croissant, then washed it down with a swallow of coffee. "Ready to get going?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." Chip stood, and together they headed upstairs.

An hour and a half later, Veronique stepped back to eye the display in progress. "Hey, Chip, what do you think?"

"It needs more red," he responded dryly. "Would you hand me the pins."

"Pssst... Veronique."

Veronique peered over the side of the platform at one of the salesgirls from cosmetics. She was waving a magazine. "What's up, Deb?"

"You've got to take a look at this." The petite brunette was practically dancing with excitement.

"What is it?"

"Mr. March. Come down now, before the store opens."

"Toss it up to me."

Debbie's expression was horrified. "What if I miss?"

"You won't." Veronique held out her hands, catcher-style.

The salesgirl shrugged. "All right."

Veronique caught the magazine by the very edge of the first page. It was the latest issue of
Pillow Talk,
and staring back at her was a picture of a blond Adonis wearing skintight ski pants and a come-hither smile. She flipped it open to the centerfold. "Oh, my."