Chances Are (23 page)

Her eyes lowered once again to the list. There were new mannequins, the two neon fixtures she'd wanted—in fact, this list was almost a duplicate of the one she'd handed Brandon weeks ago. Including the robotic mannequin.

She tried to suppress her growing excitement. It might be a mistake. They may have... what? "I'll need to authorize this purchase before signing for it."

The phone call took only a minute. Purchasing verified the shipment; the delivery men breathed a sigh of relief and finished hauling in the crates. Chip began prying open the containers and pulling out the straw packing, exclaiming as the contents of each were revealed.

Veronique just stared at the slip of paper in her hands. Brandon had done this. There was no one else who had the authority to spend this kind of money, nor had she shown anyone else her proposal. The props were a peace offering; he was betting they would work where flowers had failed.

He was wrong. Veronique's eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened on the packing slip. If he'd ordered the props out of a real belief in her ideas and judgment, she would have been touched. But he'd done it out of guilt; he was attempting to
buy
her forgiveness. She couldn't be bought.

If she accepted the shipment, he would think he'd won. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. She couldn't send it back—it was too important to her, she wanted the props too badly. And Brandon knew it.

Anger flared, and she came to a decision. She was going to accept the shipment but make it clear that was
all
she was accepting. "Chip, hold down the fort. I'll be right back."

Five minutes later Veronique stepped into Brandon's reception area. "Hi, Maggie. Is Brandon in?" Veronique forced a cheerful smile.

"Yes, but..." The woman's voice trailed off, and she sneaked a peek at his closed door from the corners of her eyes. "He's been in such a foul mood lately. I don't know what's wrong, but he's been acting like a bear with a thorn in his paw. He might not see you without an appointment."

So, Brandon had been in a foul mood, Veronique thought, her lips curving. It served him right. "No problem," she said easily, and pulled the crumpled memo from her pocket. "He told me to stop by sometime today."

Maggie looked relieved. "I'll tell him you're here."

Moments later the receptionist told her to go in. Veronique's mouth went dry when she saw him. He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit; his tie was loosened, his hair rumpled. And he looked tired. His eyes were shadowed, and the tiny lines radiating from them seemed more deeply etched than before. She caught the warmth a moment before it blossomed in her chest, and she hardened her heart. It served him right; she hoped he never slept again.

Squaring her shoulders, she tossed the packing slip onto his desk. "I got your message. All of them." Before he could speak, she added, "And I want to make something perfectly clear—I'm accepting the props only because I know they're right for the store. Not because I forgive you. Not as a peace offering." She swept her hair away from her face. "There will be no peace. Is that clear?"

"Veronique—"

"Is that clear?" she demanded again, shoving her shaking hands into her trouser pockets. He hadn't shaved, she thought, then silently swore as she remembered how his rough chin had aroused the delicate skin of her abdomen.

He dragged a hand through his thick, dark hair. "Sit down... we need to talk."

His voice was soft, coaxing. She steeled herself against its effect on her. "You had the chance to talk before... you wasted it."

When he saw her turn to leave, he was up and around the desk in a flash. He grabbed her by the elbows. "We
need
to talk," he repeated. His gaze, of its own accord, lowered to her mouth and lingered there.

Her heart thundered in her chest. He wanted her. She read it in his hungry gaze, felt it in his hands as they held her. And, God help her, she wanted him. What had happened to her cool determination? she asked herself. What had happened to her unflappable calm? Her racing pulse made determination laughable; her hot cheeks and trembling hands made calm absurd.

"You're not being reasonable," he said softly. "Let's talk this over. There's no sense in—"

Reasonable?
she thought furiously. "If you don't take your hands off me—right now—I'm going to scream. Remember, I don't care about my reputation."

Her voice had a deadly edge, and Brandon drew in a deep breath. She wasn't kidding, but he wasn't about to let her go now. "You're not playing fair, Veronique."

"Fair? Who was the one who kept secrets? Who was the one who poked and probed, the whole time knowing the truth... the whole time laughing behind my back? Don't talk to me about fair."

"I never laughed at you, Veronique." He slid his hands from her elbows to her shoulders. "I did what I thought I had to, but I hated it. I should have trusted you, I know that now. I'm sorry."

Her eyes flooded with tears; she blinked them away. She would not cry, she vowed, clinging to her composure. She would not let him see her pain. Taking a deep, steadying breath, she said icily, "This conversation is over."

"No." He pulled her toward him, stopping only when her breath mixed with his and the tips of her breasts barely brushed against his chest. "I was going to tell you, Veronique. What can I say to convince you of that?"

"Nothing." He looked as if he meant to kiss her, and she silently swore. If he did, she would melt against him. She should have known better than to come up here. Nothing had been solved; she'd only made the pain worse by proving to herself how much she still wanted him. Feeling exposed and foolish, she stepped away from his hands. "I guess we'll never know."

Brandon watched her walk out the door, a heavy ache in his chest. He missed her. What an understatement, he thought derisively. The truth was, every time she walked away from him, he felt as if he were dying inside. He'd never realized before how important one person could become to another. But then, he'd never shared himself and his life with anyone.

He'd been such a fool. What would she say if he told her he'd fallen in love with her? She would probably laugh in his face. And he wouldn't blame her if she did. He could see how he looked in her eyes—like the Blake Rhodeses and Jerome Delacroix of the world, power and money hungry, more concerned with position and portfolio than with other people or genuine emotion.

Maybe he had been like that once. Maybe that's why he'd been so unhappy. Veronique had changed all that—she'd changed his life. There had to be a way of convincing her that his motivations, if not completely honest, had been honorable.

He narrowed his eyes in consideration. The lines of communication had to be opened. Traditional gifts like flowers hadn't worked. Nor had the props or sincerity. How was he going to get her attention?

It would have to be something big, something public, flamboyant, he decided. It would have to be something that Veronique herself would do.

His eyes crinkled at the corners a moment before he laughed.

* * *

Veronique tossed aside her book in disgust. It had been a week since the initial shipment of props had arrived at the store. Since then two more shipments had been delivered; today she and Chip had placed the automated mannequin in the front window. The store was being transformed, and she'd been congratulated by countless persons—from buyers to clerks—on how great it looked. The response from customers had been excellent; the store had been busy, sales up.

Then why wasn't she happy? Why didn't she feel a glow of satisfaction at seeing her dreams come true? Because all of her dreams
weren't
coming true, she answered. Because as hard as she tried to push Brandon from her mind, he was all she could think about.

Apparently he'd taken her at her word; he hadn't tried to contact her since she'd confronted him about the props. There'd been no calls and no flowers... and she was glad. Really, she was. The corners of her mouth turned down in sarcasm. That's why she'd been unable to laugh with friends or sleep through the night. The truth was, there was a pain inside her middle that wouldn't go away, and she didn't know what to do.

There was a soft rapping on her front door, and grateful for the distraction, she sprang from the couch to answer it. Her lips curved into a welcoming smile when she saw her mother. "Maman, what a nice surprise. Come in."

"Hi, sweetie."

Veronique embraced her, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "You look great," she murmured, taking in the stylish suit, flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes.

The flush deepened. "Do you really think so?" Marie looked down at her outfit in concern. "It's not too young for me?"

"It's perfect for you," Veronique said firmly. "Come on, I'll buy you a cup of coffee."

"Are you alone?" Marie asked, following Veronique, her gaze darting over the empty living room.

Veronique lifted her eyebrows in surprise. What an odd and unexpected question. "Is there some reason I shouldn't be?"

"I suppose not."

Her mother's response lacked conviction, and Veronique cut her a glance from the corners of her eyes. Could it be her mother was even redder? She took two cups from the cupboard, filled them, then handed one to Marie. "What brings you here tonight?"

"I would think you could guess, Veronique."

"Oh?" What was going on? Her mother looked almost impishly tickled. "You're being mysterious, Maman."

The other woman only shrugged and sipped her coffee.

Veronique tilted her head and tried again. "So tell me, what's new?"

Marie glanced down at her hands, then back to Veronique. "A man asked me for a date."

"A date," Veronique echoed, surprised. "What did you say?"

Marie's expression was at once flustered and determined. "I said yes. His name is John Billings, and he's a plastic surgeon. I met him at the Courtland's high tea."

At the mention of the Courtland Hotel, Veronique's heart leapt to her throat, and she ignored the desire to cry. "That's great news, Maman! I'm so happy for you."

"But that isn't why I'm here, and you know it," Marie said, lashes lowering coquettishly. "I brought you this." She pulled a lavishly wrapped box out of her shopping bag and handed it to Veronique.

"For me?" Veronique asked, pleased. She took the box from her mother's hands, ripped the paper away and tossed aside the lid. Nestled inside layers of delicate tissue was a white silk negligee. With a squeal of delight, Veronique pulled it from the box and held it up. It was simply styled of elegant unadorned silk, cut low in front and in at the waist. "Oh, Maman, I love it."

"I wanted you to have something really special..." Her tone was suddenly husky with tears, quivering with reproach. "I can't believe you didn't tell me, your
own
mother."

"Tell you what?" Veronique asked, stroking the delicate fabric.

"About your engagement. To Brandon. Really, that I should have to read it in the paper like everyone else! I couldn't believe—"

"My what!" Veronique's eyes flew to her mother's in shock.

"Your betrothal to..." Marie's voice trailed off. "Are you all right?"

She wasn't. It was as if all the blood had drained from her body. She felt numb. After a moment, Veronique carefully refolded the negligee. When she trusted her voice, she asked, "Who told you this?"

"Why, I read it in Sissy's column. Isn't it ... true?"

"No, Maman, it's not," Veronique said woodenly as pain ripped through her. The thing she wanted most but couldn't have was being cruelly dangled in front of her. When all she wanted was to forget Brandon, pretend that nothing had ever been between them, her name was being linked with his in the most intimate way.

Marriage. She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then looked at her mother. "You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes. It was in this morning's paper. Do you have—"

Veronique didn't give her time to finish the question. She raced to the living room. She hadn't read it, but she hadn't tossed it out, either. It still lay folded on the coffee table. She yanked the rubber band off and tore through the paper until she found Sissy's column. There it was, in black and white.

* * *

New Orleans Bachelor of the Year to wed.

Brandon Rhodes, owner of Rhodes and this year's Crescent City Magazine Bachelor of the Year, privately confided his engagement to Veronique Delacroix today. The news came as quite a shock, even though the couple's names had been linked on numerous occasions over the past months. Needless to say, the unexpected and unconventional coupling will set many tongues wagging and many an unmarried lady weeping...

Veronique crushed the newsprint under her fingers. Why was he doing this? Why was he publicly humiliating her? Did he think he could just continue the game he'd started so many weeks ago? Did he think that this time, like last, she would take the dare and play along? "Veronique, can I do anything?" She turned her eyes to her mother's concerned face and forced a weak smile. "Could I borrow your car?"

In the time it took to drop her mother off at home then drive to Brandon's house, Veronique had worked herself into an awesome temper. Fuming, she slammed the door of her mother's Mercedes and stalked up the brick walk. So, an engagement between them was a big joke? He was so much better than her that a marriage between them was an amusing game? Well... then... he was the one who wasn't good enough for her! She could outclass any of his snobby friends or family. Ignoring the bell and knocker, she pounded on the door with her fist.