Tempting Chance Read online

  After once again assuring the woman that she had no intention of moving, Beth shut the door and, with trembling fingers, twisted the dead bolt and fastened the safety chain.

  Turning, she leaned against the door and for several moments stared at her empty apartment. A chill crawled up her arms, and she hugged herself. What was she going to do? She didn’t have to check her insurance policy to know she was in deep trouble. The last time her policy had come due, she had canceled coverage on everything but... her studio.

  Panic coursed through her and she raced through her living room to the back of the apartment. Dear Lord, what would she do if they had taken her paintings? She swung open the studio door, then stopped a dozen different emotions barreling over her, not the least of which was relief.

  The thieves hadn’t touched her studio. They’d taken her thirdhand couch and ten-year-old TV, but they hadn’t wanted her art. Even common criminals were art critics, Beth thought, hysterical laughter bubbling to her lips.

  Giving in to the laughter, she laughed until she cried.

  Only after Beth had cried herself dry did she realize what had happened—the letter, she’d broken the chain. She had to get it back.

  Calling herself a superstitious idiot, she grabbed her purse and keys and headed for Art One.

  * * *

  Chance pulled into Art One’s small, secluded parking area, pulling to a stop next to a beat-up car. He looked at it and frowned. At present he had two employees at this location: Virginia, his office manager and bookkeeper, who drove a Volvo sedan, and Beth, who drove some late-model compact. This car he’d never seen before.

  Dammit. Chance flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. Not again. He’d been hit twice before, and the first time, the thieves—junkies—had been looking for drugs. They’d gotten Art One confused with the pricey veterinarian next door. Both times the criminals had irreparably damaged art in their frantic search for something whose value they could understand. The senseless destruction had made him sick.

  Chance narrowed his eyes, searching the office’s windows. They were dark save for a soft glow of light emanating from somewhere inside.

  Not this time, he thought, suddenly furious. This time he’d caught the creeps red-handed. Snatching up his cell phone, he punched out 911 and reported the intruders. Then, instead of staying put as they’d ordered him to do, he slipped out of his car.

  He wasn’t about to sit still while criminals ransacked his business and destroyed irreplaceable works of art. No way.

  Quietly, he shut the car door behind him and crept toward Art One’s back entrance, muttering an oath as he saw the alarm’s glowing green light. The thieves had neatly overridden the system. Again. What was the use of having the damn thing if it didn’t keep criminals out?

  He inched his way inside, going for the first available weapon he could find. He curled his fingers around a small, cylindrical sculpture called Post Modern Bird in Flight, the polished bronze cold and smooth against his fingers.

  Chance weighed the piece in his hand. From art object to blunt instrument—he hoped the artist had a sense of humor. He smiled grimly. And from art dealer to head-cracker. Nice.

  Chance heard the intruder before he saw him. The creep was in the reception area, rifling through Beth’s desk. Without making himself visible and in a voice he hoped sounded more ferocious than he felt, Chance called out, “Get down on your knees and put your hands behind your head. And before you think of trying anything funny, let me warn you, I’m armed and ready to use my weapon.”

  Chance heard a gasp. “I’ve called the police. They’ll be arriving any moment.”

  The jerk whimpered, then said something that sounded like “Don’t shoot.”

  Chance frowned. The intruder was a... woman? He eased slowly around the corner, peering into the darkened room. He took a step closer to the intruder, his sculpture up and at the ready. The whimper came again, followed by a whisper he couldn’t quite make out.

  But the voice sounded familiar. In fact, it sounded like—

  “Beth?” he asked, lowering his arm. “Beth, is that you?”

  Chance took the croak as an affirmative, and crossed to her. She just looked up at him, on her knees, her hands cupped behind her head. He swore, helped her to her feet, then swore again. Pale and trembling, she was obviously scared witless.

  Feeling like both bully and idiot, he hugged her. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, stroking her hair, finding that it was as soft as he’d imagined it would be. “I saw the car and didn’t recognize it. We’ve been hit before, and all I could think was...” Still she didn’t make a sound and his voice trailed off. “I feel like a total jackass, Beth. Please, say something. At least let me know you’re all ri—”

  “Police! Hands in the air, step away from the woman, scumbag. Now.”

  Chapter 3

  It took five minutes to convince the police Chance wasn’t a criminal. Then another five to assure them there wasn’t a crime in progress. Through it all, Chance kept his arms protectively around her.

  Beth told herself step out of his arms. But even as her brain delivered the command, Beth pressed her head in the crook between his neck and shoulder, her hand to his chest. She breathed deeply. He smelled of soap and sweat and the leather of his jacket; his heart beat strong and sure under her palm. The combination intoxicated her and she pressed a fraction closer, breathing in again, allowing herself the pleasure, for she knew that in all probability she would never be this close to him again.

  “Beth... honey, are you all right?”

  Honey. No doubt he would use the term of endearment for any female who had collapsed into his arms, but still it made her feel special, made her feel as if she were special to him.

  Calling herself an idiot, Beth smiled weakly. “I’m all right now. Thanks.”

  “You’re sure?” He tightened his arms. “You’re still trembling.”

  Relaxing her grip, she took a step back. “It’s been a long day.”

  “And an exciting night.” Chance laughed softly, and tucked some errant strands of her hair behind her ear. “What should we do for an encore?”

  His fingers lingered; her pulse scrambled. Beth lowered her eyes. “I can’t... imagine,” she said, attempting to sound casual and achieving breathless instead.

  “Can’t you?” Chance asked almost to himself, trailing his thumb along her cheekbone.

  Beth shuddered at the touch, calling herself the liar she was. She could imagine, quite vividly and down to the smallest detail. Despite the fact that he would never be interested in a woman like her, her imagination could envision exactly how it would be between them.

  Chance dropped his hand and took a step away from her. “I think we better get out of here.” He gestured toward his office. “I need to get my briefcase, then I’ll walk you out.”

  Beth realized that she hadn’t moved, that she was still staring at him, and quickly swung toward her desk, pretending great interest in straightening it. Tears stung her eyes. How could she have behaved that way? He’d been concerned for her well-being, and she’d practically thrown herself at him. It would almost be funny if it didn’t hurt so bad—mousy little receptionist swoons over gorgeous playboy boss.

  She couldn’t get more hokey or clichéd if she had written a script.

  And all because of that stupid chain letter.

  Beth sighed as she gazed at her now-chaotic desk.

  The letter was long gone. The rational part of her had known that before she’d raced down here. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been In the mood to listen to reason.

  Hearing her sigh, Chance stopped at his office door and turned back to her. The desk lamp created a backdrop of light for her profile, turning her hair into a halo of fire, softening her already delicate features.

  He cocked his head. She looked small and lost and... sad. Something twisted inside him, something in the vicinity of his heart, and suddenly he wanted to take her back into his arms. He wanted to
hold her and stroke her until she forgot everything but him.

  He wanted to make love to her.

  Chance sucked in a sharp breath. How in the hell had his thoughts strayed so far from reality? Even if Beth Waters wasn’t a woman who needed emotional commitment from a man, she was an employee. And a damn good one at that.

  Fatigue was playing havoc with his good sense.

  Nothing more.

  Sure. He and Beth had just shared an extraordinary, even harrowing, experience. It had brought out the Tarzan and Jane in both of them. An hour from now everything would be back to normal and he would wonder why he’d gotten himself all worked up.

  “Beth?”

  She looked up, her eyes large and vulnerable in her small face. That same place inside him ached, and he silently swore. Tarzan and Jane, he reminded himself. “Did you get what you came for?” he asked with forced casualness.

  She shook her head. “No, but I’ll make do.”

  “Maybe I can help you search? Let’s see, what could you be looking for? Hmm...” He put his fingers to his head, swami-style, then closed his eyes. “This is southern California, so... my psychic powers tell me you’re looking for your crystal pouch. No, no... it’s your macrobiotic cookbook you search for. Wait—”

  He glanced back up at her, relieved to see all traces of vulnerability gone from her expression—he found her vulnerability damn difficult to resist. “You’re looking for your pet gecko, who also happens to be your good-luck talisman.”

  Beth burst out laughing, knowing with every fiber of her being that this night couldn’t get any worse. “You should do this for a living.”

  “Which?” Chance crossed back to her, enjoying the tinkling sound of her laughter. It reminded him of the wind chimes on the porch of his beach house. “Stand-up comedy or psychic readings?”

  “Both.” She shook her head, still smiling. “And watch where you walk, I don’t want you to squish Alfred.”

  “Alfred. Good name. Very dignified.” He stopped beside her. “Are you ready?”

  Beth nodded and they began moving toward the door. She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. She owed him some sort of explanation for her presence here tonight. The last thing she wanted was for him to wonder at a later date if she’d been up to something fishy.

  But she wasn’t about to tell him that this whole hysterical fiasco had been caused by the chain letter he’d teased her about the other day. She did have some dignity left.

  And if she had to lie to hold on to it, so be it. “I was looking for Liza’s sketches,” Beth murmured, averting her gaze. “She was working, and she... needed them.”

  “The sketches?” Chance stopped and turned to her, his expression apologetic. “Guilty as charged.”

  Beth’s mouth dropped. “Excuse me?”

  “I have them.” He grinned and tapped the bottom of her chin with his index finger. “You’ll catch flies. Hold on, they’re on my desk.”

  Beth snapped her mouth shut and watched as he ducked back into his office. Chance had the sketches? She thought she’d had them, had thought them tucked safely into her portfolio. Hadn’t she put them away the other day?

  She couldn’t remember.

  Chance returned with the sketches and handed them to her. “Please apologize to Liza, too. I forgot I had them.”

  Beth looked at the envelope, then back at him. She wanted to ask why he’d had them, wanted to so badly the question burned on the tip of her tongue. Surely he knew she was curious, surely he could read the question in her eyes.

  But he wasn’t offering explanations.

  Chance inclined his head. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Swallowing the question and acknowledging her cowardice, Beth followed him, the envelope containing her sketches clutched in her hands. Without speaking, they crossed the lot to where their cars were parked side by side.

  “Borrowed or new?” Chance asked as they stopped beside her compact wagon.

  She fished for her keys. “It’s all mine.”

  Chance looked down at her, studying the lines of her face. She lifted her eyes; their eyes met and held. Awareness eased up her spine. She called herself a fool.

  “Well...” she murmured, clearing her throat.

  “Well,” Chance repeated, shoving his hands into his pockets. “It’s been fun.”

  “Fun,” she repeated, knowing his words meant nothing, but feeling them like a punch to her gut. How did he do it? she wondered. How could he make her feel awkward and aware and tingly all at once, and by doing nothing more than looking at her?

  Chance plucked the keys from her fingers and opened the car door. She slid inside, anxious to put some distance between them.

  He bent down and handed her the keys. “I guess this is good night.”

  “I guess it is,” she murmured, her voice thick.

  “Drive carefully.”

  “I will.”

  Still Chance didn’t move. Beth swallowed, her mouth suddenly desert-dry. Dear Lord, she couldn’t be thinking the kind of things about him that she was. Like how his lips would feel on hers, how his hands would move over her body.

  But she was.

  Pretty hot thoughts for the last surviving virgin in North America.

  The time had come to go home. The faster the better. “Have a good weekend,” she said quickly, sticking the key into the ignition.

  She turned the key.

  Nothing.

  This couldn’t be happening, she told herself, her hands beginning to shake. Even bad luck could only go so far. Taking a deep breath, she tried again.

  Still nothing.

  After trying several more times with no luck, Beth rested her forehead on the steering wheel. Well, she had to admit it, she was a cursed woman. And if the letter lived up to its “or else,” She would be hit by a bus any moment now.

  She looked up at Chance. “You’d better get out of here, I wouldn’t want you to get hit by any of the debris.”

  “Debris?”

  “From the accident. A bus is going to hit me. Wait, I think I hear one now.”

  Chance laughed and opened her car door. “Let me try.”

  She sighed. “If you knew the kind of day I’ve had, you would know it’s useless. This car is not going to start.”

  “You never know.”

  “Okay, be an optimist.” She shrugged and climbed out so he could climb in.

  Chance tried the car with no more success than she. After a couple of minutes he slid back out. “We’ll call you a tow, then I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Beth made a sound of disgust and frustration and dropped her face into her hands. “I thought this night couldn’t get any worse.” She peeked at him over the tops of her fingers. “I was wrong. And right now I’d like to scream, I’m so mad.”

  “I’d say go ahead, but considering our evening, I’m afraid I might get arrested.” Chance tipped his head and grinned. “But kicking a tire might do the trick. Nothing like an immature display of temper to get rid of frustration.”

  Beth eyed him, then the front tire. She wanted to do it, wanted to wheel back and nail that tire with everything she had. “You’re convinced this will work?”

  “Oh, yeah, let that hostility out. You’ll be surprised how much better you’ll feel.” Chance folded his arms across his chest and rested against the side of the car. “You might want to swear while you do it, but that’s optional.”

  “I think I will.” Setting her jaw, Beth kicked the tire—so hard her toes stung and her eyes watered. She felt a hundred times better anyway.

  Then she heard a hissing sound.

  “Uh-oh.”

  Beth looked at Chance, then followed his gaze. The hissing sound was the air going out of the tire—at an extremely rapid rate. As they watched, the tire went pancake-flat.

  Beth giggled. Her giggles became laughter; she laughed until she cried. Then she was in Chance’s arms for the second time that night, weeping against his shoulder,
soaking his shirt and feeling like a total ninny.

  Chance held Beth as she sobbed, not having the faintest idea what to do. Weeping women were not his specialty. Not by a long shot.

  “Don’t cry,” he said awkwardly, stroking her hair. “It’ll be all right.”

  Face still pressed against his chest, Beth shook her head. “You don’t understand... this has been a really bad day.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “My goldfish died and my car died and my apartment was robbed. And now my new car’s dead, too.”

  Chance breathed in the scent of her hair. It was sweet and fruity, like watermelon candy. “That is a bad day,” he murmured, brushing his lips against the soft strands.

  “And now I’ve made a fool of myself,” she said, hiccupping.

  “No.” Chance tangled his fingers in the fiery strands of her hair. How could this woman feel so good in his arms? he wondered. Why did she feel so right?

  He tipped her face up to his and gently smoothed the tears from her cheeks. “Losing a goldfish can be a traumatic thing.”

  Her lips lifted. He felt the movement like a blow to his solar plexus. “Ah, Red...” Chance buried his fingers deeper in her hair, cupping the back of her head. “This is crazy.”

  “Yes,” she murmured, swaying toward him, her eyes fluttering shut.

  Even as he lowered his head to hers, he called himself a fool.

  Her lips were wet and tasted salty from her tears. He kissed her lightly, ever so softly moving his mouth against hers. Her lips trembled, then softened and parted. Drinking her tears, Chance took what she so shyly offered.

  Beth flattened her hands against Chance’s chest. Through the soft cotton of his pullover, she felt the heat of his flesh and the thunder of his heart. All the bad luck in the world was worth this moment, she thought dizzily. She’d never been kissed this way, never reacted this way. She burned, she ached. She wanted.

  She slid her hands to his shoulders. She didn’t care what he felt or why he kissed her. She could do nothing but revel in this moment and the sensations flashing, lightning-like, through her body.

  Curling her fingers around his shoulders, she deepened the kiss.