Chances Are (16 page)

Brandon shot her a glance from the corners of his eyes. "A penny for your thoughts."

Veronique lazily tipped her head in his direction. "You'd be losing money."

His laugh was soft. He reached across the seat and laid his hand over hers. "I enjoyed today."

Veronique's gaze shifted from his profile to the hand covering hers. He was wearing a Cartier watch. The elegant timepiece suited him, she thought. As did sixty-thousand-dollar cars and fine restaurants and women in jewels. As airbrushed trinkets and glitter-sprinkled objects suited her. She pushed the unsettling thought away and smiled. "I did, too."

He laced his fingers with hers. "All of it, Veronique."

His meaning was clear, and the blood rushed to her head. She felt suddenly breathless, too warm and totally vulnerable. Knowing she should distance herself from him now, before it was too late, she curled her fingers around his. They were strong, warm and comforting. She remembered how they'd felt against her cheek, strong but as gentle as the touch of silk against skin, and she smiled. Her voice was husky as she murmured, "So did I."

They didn't speak again until Brandon double-parked in front of her apartment building. He made a move to get out of the car, but she motioned for him to stay where he was. "You'll get a ticket," she said, opening the door.

"Don't forget your starfish."

"Thanks." She stuffed the small brown bag into her purse. "Well..."

"Yeah, well." He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "Veronique, I—"

A horn blasted behind them. "I wanted to tell... I needed to talk—" The horn sound again, and Brandon softly swore. "Never mind. It wasn't important."

Veronique doubted the truth in that statement, but wasn't sure she wanted to hear what he had to say anyway. She suspected she wouldn't like it. "You'd better go," she said, hurrying out of the car. "See you around." She waved and stepped up onto the sidewalk.

He opened his mouth to say something, but another honk, followed by an angry shout, stopped him. With a final, frustrated glance in her direction, he shoved the car into gear and took off.

Veronique stood on the sidewalk, watching him until the car had disappeared around the corner. She frowned as she realized he hadn't asked to come up and she hadn't offered. Sighing, she turned and headed inside.

Chapter 8

Veronique hung the brightly-colored dress on the back of her bedroom door. As she ran her index finger over the shiny fabric, it caught the light and winked at her. It was hard to believe, she thought, that four weeks had passed since she and Brandon had bought this dress.

Four weeks. It had been four weeks of fun, of craziness... of Brandon. He'd dragged her to photographers; she'd retaliated by picking the one with the corniest poses. He'd insisted on checking out caterers—but only ones who made those little pastry swans. They'd looked at florists, discussed locations for a reception and turned their noses up at every invitation they saw. Veronique shook her head. It was ridiculous, really. They were spending all this time on a wedding that would never take place.

Veronique turned away from the dress, crossed to the bed and sank onto one corner. She sat there a moment, then as if she hadn't the strength to remain erect, flopped onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. A long narrow crack ran from one edge of the ceiling to the other. The light fixture, she noted, needed to be cleaned.

With a small sigh, her thoughts returned to Brandon. They'd spent a lot of time together; in fact, since their trip to the Gulf coast, she'd seen him almost every day. But every time he'd initiated a reason for them to be together, he'd used the original game as an excuse. Her chest tightened, and her palms grew damp. He was still using her as a way to escape his stuffy life... and she was still letting him.

Veronique groaned and plucked at the brightly patterned bedspread. And worse, for the last four weeks she'd lied to herself. So effectively that she'd almost convinced herself that she was going along with Brandon because she never backed down from a challenge. Veronique laughed without humor. That was bull—she'd played along with him because she wanted to be with him and because she'd grown to depend on seeing him. Her fingers curled into her palms. Good God, the truth of that scared the hell out of her. She'd never depended on anyone before; she'd been independent, a loner and a maverick. No one had been able to touch her because she hadn't cared enough to let them.

She rolled onto her stomach and rested her chin on her hands. Damn Brandon Rhodes anyway. He'd insinuated himself so completely and so stealthily into her life that she didn't know how she'd survived without him. And that made him dangerous.

But every time she reminded herself of that fact, he did something that made her happy. Like emailing her a particularly funny comic strip or, knowing her fondness for sweets, sending her a dozen Mr. Chippy's chocolate chip cookies.

Veronique sighed and rolled back over. The problem was that just being with him made her feel warm and wonderful inside. Like the other night. "What do you mean, 'who won the 1947 World Series?'" she'd demanded, craning her neck to see the card Brandon held. "How am I supposed to know that?" When he'd only laughed and made noises that resembled game-show timers, she'd lowered her eyebrows ominously. "Stop that! I can't think with all that noise."

"Tough, Delacroix. Time's up. What's your answer?"

Veronique drummed her fingers against the game board for a moment, then widened her eyes in mock surprise. "My God, there's a jumper on the ledge across the street." When Brandon whipped around to look out the window, she grabbed the card from his hand. His oath of surprise and her shout of "the Yankees" were uttered at the same moment, as was the spontaneous laughter that followed.

Before she could run for it, he had her pinned to the rug. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that cheaters never prosper?"

"Oh?" She arched a delicate eyebrow; her pounding heart belied the cool gesture. "I won, didn't I?"

A slow, wicked smile snaked across his face. His gaze lowered to her mouth. "A matter of opinion, certainly." He wound his hands in her thick, soft hair. "But I think I won this game."

Veronique laughed. The sound was husky and, she knew, too inviting. "I was talking about Trivial Pursuit, Rhodes."

"I like my game better." Grasping her arms, he rolled over so she lay on top of him.

Awareness skidded up her spine. Veronique twined her fingers in his hair. One bare foot began slowly, rhythmically stroking his. "I'm not going to budge," she murmured, her lips only inches from his. "How do you propose we solve this dilemma?"

"I could ask you another question." He brushed his mouth against hers, then caught her sultry bottom lip between his teeth.

Veronique shuddered. His tongue dipped in to taste hers, and her eyes fluttered shut in pleasure. Brandon's lips traveled to her ear; he lightly ran his tongue along its contour. "Well, Veronique?"

"Okay, cowboy..." Her words trailed off seductively, and her eyes lowered to his mouth. "Give me your best shot..."

Irritated with her wandering thoughts, Veronique sat up and pushed the tangle of whiskey-colored hair out of her eyes. It seemed all she did lately was moon over Brandon. A dozen times a day she would catch herself staring into space with a silly smile pasted on her face. Annoying.

Veronique pulled her fingers through her hair, catching sight of her reflection in the dresser mirror as she did so. Large, almond-shaped eyes, a mouth that seemed too big for her face, high cheekbones and a small straight nose. Hers wasn't a pretty face; she wasn't cute. An interesting face, she thought. Even striking. She leaned toward the mirror, turning her head to the right, then left. She'd long ago stopped wishing for a turned up nose and cupid's bow mouth. No, what bothered her now was the dreamy expression in her eyes and the rosy flush that stained her cheeks.

Veronique scowled into the mirror. She absolutely was
not
in love with Brandon. So what if he was an endearing combination of a romantic and a realist, a celebrity and a typical the guy next door? "What would you do," he'd asked one night while they ate pizza, "if you suddenly had a lot of money?"

Veronique had laughed and shot him an amused glance from the corners of her eyes. "Where in the world did that come from?"

His gaze shifted to a point over her right shoulder, then returned to her eyes. "Nowhere, I just wondered. So..." He helped himself to another piece of the ten-topping pizza. "What would you do?"

"How much money are we talking about?"

"Oh—" he thoughtfully rubbed his jaw "—say a half-million dollars."

She laughed again. "I would never have guessed you were such a dreamer. But if you insist—I'd do something wildly impractical and totally self-indulgent. Maybe buy a Ferrari and travel the world. Italy and Paris. The far east."

"You're kidding," he said with obvious concern. "You wouldn't invest it?"

"Nope. I'm not the investment type." She sipped her beer, then added, "I'd definitely donate some to charity, something that helped kids. It'd be gone in a year."

"Veronique, that's crazy. Not the charity, but gone in a year? Really?"

Looking stunned and genuinely concerned, Brandon had spent the next twenty minutes explaining the finer points and wisdom of investing. Laughing to herself, Veronique shook her head. So what if he continually surprised her, leaving her off balance and pleased that she was? So what? She felt many things for Brandon, but love wasn't one of them. She liked him, enjoyed his company... she would even admit to a little infatuation—and even more lust. But not love.

She stood and stretched. If she was jittery and flushed it was only... her eyes narrowed in thought... only in anticipation of tonight's bash, her cousin Missy's debut party. Sure,
that's
why she was excited. She would see her mother and... and her cousins and a lot of other people who bored her silly. Veronique's eyes returned to the colorful dress, and she laughed. She was such a good gambler, she was even starting to believe her own bluff—the truth was, the only reason she was going to this stupid party was because Brandon was going to be there.

Veronique stood and walked back to the outrageous dress. Tonight she would be like a peacock at a party of swans. Her lips tilted at the fanciful image, and with one final look at the dress, she turned and headed into the bathroom to shower.

The next hour and a half passed quickly as she bathed and dressed. The gown fit as well as she remembered, skimming lovingly over her subtle curves, hugging all her roundest places as she moved. The hat was a darling disaster, part artist's beret and Mardi Gras extravaganza. She stepped into her impossibly high heeled shoes, then pulled on the opera-length gloves. Veronique turned this way and that in the full-length mirror, her lips curving as she did. She'd never looked lovelier. It was amazing she could look so good in such a tacky dress. She shook her head and wondered what that said about her character.

The cabbie arrived right on schedule. She grabbed her wrap and bag, then swung the door open. "Perfect timing, I—" The words died on her lips. The man at her door was wearing a chauffeur's uniform, complete with white gloves and a cap. "I don't suppose you're from Speedy Cab?"

He smiled broadly and tipped his hat. "Your car, Ms. Delacroix."

"My car?" Veronique repeated. "Who sent you?"

"Mr. Rhodes, madam. If you're ready?"

He'd done it again—left her breathless with surprise and pleasure. "Is Mr. Rhodes with you?" she asked, hating the husky quality in her voice. She cleared her throat. "I've already called a cab."

"No, madam, Mr. Rhodes sends his regrets. Luckily I intercepted your cab downstairs and informed him that his services were no longer required. May I help you with your wrap?"

Minutes later Veronique stepped onto the sidewalk in front of her building. The white Mercedes limousine was double-parked, and there was a line of annoyed motorists backed up behind the automobile. She shot them an apologetic look and hurried toward the car.

The chauffeur held the door open, and she stepped inside, making a small sound of pleasure as she did. There was a single white rose laying on the seat, and the car's interior was fragrant with its sweet scent. Smiling softly, she picked up the flower and held it to her nose. Its scent was heady, almost overpowering in its subtlety. She lightly trailed the blossom over her lips and cheek; the petals were as soft and inviting as velvet.