Chances Are (7 page)

Her hands still rested on his chest; his heartbeat slowed under her palm. The rain really was a shame, Veronique decided. She would have liked to kiss him. She curled her fingers into his lapels for one more moment before regretfully stepping away. "So, do you believe in God?"

She was weird, nuts, cuckoo. He reached out and tenderly touched her rain wet cheek. "We're being drenched, and you're babbling about God. Come on, let's go in."

Veronique laughed and held her ground. "Well, do you?" she pressed. "Believe in a higher power?"

"Yes. Satisfied?" He could see she wasn't and groaned. In a gesture of resignation, he lifted his eyes heavenward. What did it matter? He couldn't get any wetter. At least the downpour had slowed to a steady rain.

"I need more champagne," she announced. "How about you?"

"Why not?" He leaned against the whitewashed siding; his eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched her. Her sodden gown dragged the ground as she sashayed down the balcony. She grabbed the bottle, dumped the rainwater from the glass and refilled it with wine. She sipped, then made a face. "Flat, warm and watery."

"Mr. Rhodes?"

Brandon glanced at the doorway. It was the waiter, carrying a fresh bottle of champagne. His expression was horrified.

"You said to check on you..." The man's voice trailed off. "Shall I leave this?"

Brandon made a small fluttering motion with his right hand. "No. Thank you for—"

"Yes," Veronique inserted firmly, and stepped forward. "We'll take it." She took the new bottle from the tray and set the old one in its place.

"Yes, of course. Well, I..." The waiter cleared his throat, his eyes racing between the two of them. He obviously thought them both insane. "Perhaps I could get you some towels?"

"No."

"Yes." The waiter coughed, and Brandon repeated the affirmative. "Yes. Some towels, please."

"I like being wet," Veronique said after the man had left. She wrestled with the cork. "I used to sneak out when it started to rain—Maman would think I was playing quietly in my room—and I'd roll in the wet grass, sail boats in mud puddles and generally make a mess of myself."

"Here, let me." Brandon took the bottle from her hands and popped the cork. It sailed into the air, and the wine bubbled over the lip of the bottle. He poured a glass and handed it to her. "First of all, I can't imagine you playing quietly in your room. Secondly, didn't your mother ever catch on?"

"She's a sweet, trusting soul." Veronique's nose twitched as she took a sip of the effervescent liquid. "Besides, the housekeeper had a soft spot for dirty little hoydens. She'd hustle me upstairs and clean me up before Maman, or worse, Grandfather Jerome, caught sight of me."

Brandon thought of the forbidding Jerome Delacroix and winced. His father and Jerome had had business dealings, but he'd never trusted the man or understood why his father did. And he couldn't imagine Veronique living in the same house with him. "How long did you live with Jerome?"

"Until I was thirteen." She handed him the half-full glass. "Then Maman inherited her house. No one could convince me that where you live doesn't make a difference. Our lives changed drastically for the better. What's your story?"

Brandon shrugged. "Military school. Harvard Business. I was a page in the Mardi Gras court of Rex when I was twelve..." His voice trailed off as he thought of his father and the contents of the safety deposit box. Suddenly frustrated, he ran both hands through his dripping hair. "I don't have any bad-boy stories to tell. I've never been crazy. Or disrespectful. Or irresponsible. Dammit, I
feel
like being irresponsible." He looked up at the clearing sky, then over at Veronique. "I feel like taking chances."

Empathy, warmth... genuine liking poured out of her for him. Veronique's eyes met his. "You've come to the right place. I specialize in irresponsible; chance taking is my forte." She arched one delicate eyebrow. "Would you like me to show you?"

Brandon's eyes met hers a moment before he laughed. "Let's have some fun."

Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "Are you prepared to accept the consequences?"

"Which are?"

"Well," she began, "it depends on the agenda, but you can count on a killer headache tomorrow, an empty wallet tonight and lots and lots of regrets."

His smile answered hers. "Where do we start?"

"Right here." Veronique took the glass from his hands, downed the champagne, then set it aside. "First rule, wild people rarely drink champagne, but when they do, it's right from the bottle."

"No problem there," Brandon said, and held the bottle to his lips. Because of the fizz, it was like drinking Coke from the bottle, but with a lot more kick. "Now what?"

"Now we exit this dead party and go have some fun." She rubbed her hands together. "I know this place that—"

"Excuse me, Mr. Rhodes, madam, your towels."

Veronique eyed the man speculatively as she took one of the towels. "Is there a way out of here besides the ballroom?"

The waiter blinked, as if surprised by the question. "Only through the kitchen, but—"

"Perfect," she interrupted, her tone crisp and businesslike. "Can you show us?" When the man nodded, she grabbed Brandon's hand. "Come on. Don't forget the wine."

The waiter led them back into the ballroom from the darkest side of the balcony. Veronique glanced around and grinned. Even skirting along the edges of the room, they were drawing attention.

"I'm disillusioned," Brandon whispered as the waiter ducked through a door tucked in a deserted corner. "I thought wild people would parade right through the middle of the ballroom."

"No way," she whispered back, sticking close to their guide. "Then they'd all know what we were doing. Sneaking out is so much more effective. The few who saw us will spread the word, and everyone will wonder what we were up to. Conjecture and hearsay are far more dangerous than the truth."

As she finished speaking, they stepped into the kitchen. It was a beehive of activity. Waiters rushed in and out, depositing empty trays, then picking up freshly-filled ones. The cooks mixed, checked and arranged. The caterers hovered and fussed, barking out an occasional order or curse.

They didn't draw as much attention as she would have expected, considering what they must look like. Both caterers shot them nasty glances; she heard one of the dishwashers mutter, "Crazy rich folks."

Their waiter-guide stopped at a gray metal door with an exit sign above it and held out his hand. Brandon dug in his pocket and pulled out a bill. "It's wet," he murmured apologetically.

"It'll dry." The young man smiled as he slipped the bill into his pocket, then turned and walked away.

"Ready?" Brandon asked, hand on the doorknob.

"Yes... no... wait." Veronique breathed deeply and sighed. "I just noticed something. It smells incredible in here." Her stomach rumbled. "I haven't eaten. How about you?"

"No, but—"

"I suspect we can scrounge something up." She was wandering toward the counters covered with trays before she'd even finished speaking.

Minutes later Veronique sighed and licked her fingers. "A feast," she said as she finished one hor d'oeuvre and eyed the platter heaped with mushrooms stuffed with crabmeat, crawfish pastries, delicately seasoned shrimp and a countless variety of canapes. "I'm in heaven."

Brandon watched her lick one finger after another. Desire hit him with the force of a hurricane hitting land. He wanted to take her hand and clean the juices from those fingers himself. Saying the first thing that came to mind, he tried to push away the erotic images flooding his head.

"Speaking of heaven, why did you ask me if I believed in God?"

The canape stopped halfway to her lips. Her laughing eyes met his. "Because, for whatever reason, we weren't meant to kiss. Fate, destiny, the gods were working against our lips meeting."

His eyes rested on her mouth, damp from her own tongue. "That's the silliest thing I've ever heard."

"Not at all." She popped the hors d'oeuvre into her mouth and immediately picked out another. "It wasn't meant to be. I'm a great believer in—"

Without warning, he tumbled her into his arms. Her startled brown eyes met his determined gray. "Believe in this," he murmured a moment before his lips settled over hers.

The hors d'oeuvre slipped from her fingers; her hands instinctively flew to his chest. He brushed his lips softly against hers, as if testing their texture and their taste. Veronique moaned low in her throat as he continued to nibble at her mouth as if it were one of the canapes she'd just devoured. Frustrated at the teasing touch, she curled her fingers into his lapels and pressed closer.

But Brandon wouldn't be rushed. He took her mouth leisurely; it was a slow, thorough seduction. Without words he coaxed and wooed. With the lightest of caresses, the most soothing of movements, he conquered her. His hands and lips had never left her face, yet it seemed as if no part of her had been left untouched. Veronique wondered if she would ever feel steady again.

Brandon had felt her surprise, her instinctive resistance. He'd liked catching her—the spontaneous, mercurial Veronique—off guard. But more, he liked the way she melted against him. The blood rushed to his head as her lips softened, then parted. She tasted of champagne, laughter and the subtle blend of spices in the canape she'd just eaten. The taste was addictive, and he dove deeper. She smelled of rain and flowers; he breathed in the heady combination and knew he'd never experienced a more alluring scent.

Veronique slid her hands up to cup his neck. She was used to flash fires and lightning. She understood passion, expected explosion. But this tender command, this steady, hot flame was new to her. He drew her in as the waves drew in the sand, rhythmically, inevitably. The kiss lasted only moments, Veronique felt as if she would be changed forever.

She sucked in a quick, surprised breath as he pulled away. She didn't like, nor was she accustomed to, being caught off guard. She would have to be careful around Brandon Rhodes; he could prove to be dangerous.

Veronique stepped away. Her tone was light as she said, "You're learning. Kissing in the middle of a kitchen filled with curious eyes—scandalous! This incident will be all over town by morning."

Brandon didn't comment. His spontaneous act had startled him more than her. Kissing her had been like witnessing an explosion. He suspected making love to her would be like being the dynamite. He wasn't sure he was ready for dynamite.

Veronique shifted from one foot to the other. This situation was awkward, and she liked awkward even less than startled. What was he thinking? She shook her head. She absolutely would
not
act like a ninny over a simple kiss. She groaned silently—there'd been nothing simple about that kiss.

"So...?" Brandon stretched the word into a question.

"So," Veronique said, trying to sound glib, "we better get going. It'll be dawn before we know it." She grabbed his hand and started pulling him. "I know someone who's having a Bacchus bash tonight. The god of wine and revelry—it seems appropriate, don't you think? Come on, if we hurry, we might catch the last of it."

Chapter 4

Brandon stirred restlessly, then groaned. He was warm, he ached, he felt cramped. In an attempt to get comfortable, he rolled onto his side. Something wasn't right—the bed felt too soft, the pillow too hard, the blankets too short.

But there was an inviting softness against his cheek, his shoulder, the back of his thighs. And that scent. His lips curved as he breathed deeply through his nose. It was a fragrant, lingering scent—subtly earthy, endlessly sweet. Like a woman.

His eyelids flew up. As the light hit his bloodshot eyes, a shaft of pain shot through his head. Groaning out loud, he squeezed his eyelids shut. My God, how much had he drank? he wondered. He felt as if he'd been hit by a wrecking ball. The hammer inside his head tripled its beat, and he groaned again.

Brandon cautiously turned his head. The movement caused another sharp pain, but this time at the base of his skull. Gritting his teeth, he slowly opened his eyes, ready for but still cursing the sting of light. It took a moment, but when his eyes focused, they focused on the creamy flesh and soft curves of Veronique Delacroix.