Tempting Chance Page 5

  “Or bosses.”

  “Right.” Chance leaned toward her conspiratorially. “Just how many of you are there?”

  Beth thought of Liza and wanted to cringe. “If you only knew,” she quipped.

  He shook his head, amused. “You make me laugh.”

  It could be worse, she thought. She could make him sick.

  “Where do you come from, Beth Waters?” he asked. “I know little about you except that you have an eccentric grandmother and an equally eccentric sister. What’s the rest of your family like? Totally insane?”

  Beth turned away from him on the pretense of adding more cream to her coffee. “Actually,” she said softly and after a moment, “the rest of my family is quite sane. Bland as bathwater, in fact. They pride themselves on being just like the people next door. Middle-class values and lifestyle—brick ranch house in the ‘burbs, shaggy dog, and a station wagon. My father’s an accountant, my mother a homemaker.”

  “Intriguing,” Chance teased, leaning against the counter and propping his chin on his fist. “Tell me more.”

  Beth shrugged. “There’s not much else to tell. My parents rewarded levelheadedness. Expected it, really. Tantrums weren’t allowed. Outbursts of any sort were discouraged.” She stirred her coffee, still avoiding his gaze. “Normalcy was encouraged. As was moderation in all things.”

  She finally turned to face him. “That’s probably why I don’t mind my crazy neighbor—I can’t get much farther from Kansas than Mrs. Braswell.”

  A sadness slipped over her expression, and Chance frowned. He reached out and trailed his index finger over the curve of her cheek. Her skin was as soft as satin, and warm and pliant. His pulse stirred. “What are you thinking?”

  She shifted her gaze. “About how much my parents could say without even uttering a sound.”

  Chance gave in to the urge and cupped her face in his palm. “And what did they say to you without words?”

  Beth ached at the memory of the things her parents hadn’t said about her art. About her. “How much I disappointed them.”

  Chance felt her words like a punch to his gut and fought the impulse to take her into his arms. Instead he brushed his thumb slowly, rhythmically across her cheekbone. His breath caught as she tipped her face into the caress.

  That simple and trusting gesture affected him more than any of his own physical sensations, and the truth of that had him reeling. He dropped his hand.

  “I think,” he said, his voice thick, “I would have liked your generic little ranch house. My parents were both artists. I learned early that art supplies came before milk or new school shoes or birthday parties. In my parents’ home, what hung on the walls was so much more important than the walls themselves, a canvas or drawing always took precedent over a couch or chair. And they were temperamental.”

  “So that’s where you get it,” Beth murmured, feeling bereft without his touch, wishing that he would touch her again.

  Chance smiled softly but without amusement. “Tantrums, outbursts, and hurt feelings were the order of the day. In fact, our lives were one bloody battle after another. They divorced when I was thirteen.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was better for them, although I can’t say that our lives became any less tumultuous—the emotional focus just shifted.”

  Surprised at himself, Chance shook off the memories and their corresponding emotions. He’d never shared that part of himself with another, had never felt the need to. But in those moments, he had wanted her to understand him. It had seemed so natural, so right, to share himself with her.

  Unnerved, he forced a casual smile. “Things work out. I got my love of art from them.”

  “But you didn’t want to be an artist yourself?” she asked, her voice husky with emotion.

  “Didn’t have the gift or the drive.” He took a sip of his cold coffee and grimaced. Crossing to the sink, he dumped it and rinsed the cup.

  When he swung back around, all traces of melancholy were gone from his expression. “So tell me, how did your sister fare in this oh-so-normal household?”

  “My sister?”

  “You have more than one?”

  “No.” Beth lowered her eyes. Tell him now, she thought. Get out of this fabrication before it’s too late. Explain that she had been embarrassed, insecure about her art and...

  But what if he didn’t understand? What if he fired her?

  The thought of losing her job made her ache; the thought of Chance thinking less of her scared her. As much as she hated lying to him, she couldn’t face the consequences of the truth.

  If she couldn’t come clean about Liza, at least she could speak from her heart. “She fared the same as I—as best she could. They never understood her need to create, never thought she had any talent. They made it plain they thought she would fall flat on her face.”

  “And has she?”

  Beth felt the color drain from her cheeks. She opened her mouth to answer, then shut it again as Jody, the new receptionist, stuck her head into the kitchen. “Problem at the install. Something about a piece not fitting in its designated space.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Beth said quickly, dumping the last of her coffee in the sink and starting out of the kitchen.

  “Beth?”

  She paused and looked back at him.

  “Tell her for me, I don’t think she has.”

  Beth’s heart stopped, then started again with a vengeance. “Thanks,” she murmured, the word catching in her throat. “I will.” Not trusting herself to say anything more, she hurried for the phone.

  It was nearly noon before Beth came up for air. The install was finally on smooth footing; even the curator sounded happy.

  Only then did Beth remember her lunch date with Eva. She checked her watch and swore silently. Today was not the day to leave the office for a leisurely lunch. She picked up the phone to catch her grandmother before she left, then swore again when she got her machine.

  “Problem?”

  Beth hung up the phone and looked up. Chance stood in her doorway. “I just remembered I promised Eva I’d go to lunch with her today.”

  He sauntered across to her desk. “So go.”

  “But the install—”

  “Isn’t everything under control?”

  “Well, yes...” Beth tapped her chin with her index finger. “But I hate to leave when—”

  Chance caught her hand, inspecting her stained fingers. He rubbed them gently, then brought her hand to his nose. He met her eyes. “You’ve been playing in paint, Ms. Waters. Oil paint.”

  Beth’s heart began to hammer. She slipped her hand from his, dropping it to her lap. “I stopped by Liza’s studio on the way in—she’s back in town—and we got to talking and... I helped her clean up.” Beth cleared her throat. “Let me try Eva again.”

  Chance took the receiver from her hand and dropped it back into its cradle. “You deserve a lunch out. I want you to go.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You’re going.” He settled himself on the edge of her desk, picked up a framed photo of her and Eva, studied it for a moment, then set it back down. “Speaking of going, have you ever been to the Artful Fools Ball?”

  “Artful Fools,” she repeated. An extravaganza put on to benefit the South Orange County Cultural Center and Foundation, Artful Fools was held on April Fools’ Day and was considered the zaniest event of the year. Eva had been a couple of times, and although Beth had always wanted to go, she’d never been able to afford it.

  Beth shook her head in answer. “Why?”

  “Because I have two tickets and wondered if you would like to go.”

  “With you?”

  “None other.”

  “Oh.”

  He reached out and gently lifted her chin. “I hope that’s a yes?”

  “Yes. I mean, I’d love to go.”

  “Good.” He stood. “A number of collectors will be there, many of our artists att
end. The press will be in attendance—really, everyone who’s anyone in the L.A. art community. It’ll be a terrific opportunity for you to meet people.”

  A sliver of disappointment speared through her, and she fought it off. For a moment she had allowed herself to hope he’d asked her for a reason other than business. “Sounds perfectly terrifying.”

  Chance laughed. “Don’t worry, Red, I won’t just throw you to the wolves.” He crossed to the door, stopping and turning back to her when he reached it. “Saturday night. Dress is formal. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Formal?” she repeated. Today was Thursday. Where in the world would she find a dress by Saturday? And how would she pay for it?

  “Is that going to be a problem?”

  Beth looked up at Chance and shook her head. “No problem. If I have to, I’ll just borrow something.”

  “From Liza?”

  Beth inched her chin up, unreasonably annoyed that he thought Liza would have a dress when she herself obviously didn’t. “Eva, probably.”

  “Great.”

  After flashing her a quick smile, Chance ducked out of her office.

  * * *

  Chance paused outside Beth’s apartment door. He wasn’t nervous, he told himself. He certainly wasn’t excited. Tonight was business and nothing more.

  Sure. The thoughts he’d been having all day—ones of Beth in his arms, soft and yielding, of her mouth on his, open and inviting—were the result of...

  Chance frowned, searching for something plausible. He swore silently when he didn’t come up with anything. This had to stop. Beth Waters was not for him. She was a serious kind of woman, a woman who expected commitments—like marriage and children. He was the kind of man who ran from commitments.

  Annoyed with his own thoughts, Chance knocked on her door. A person always wanted what he couldn’t have. It was human nature; he was no exception. Beth Waters was off-limits, which made her more attractive, more alluring, more—

  Chance’s thoughts came to an abrupt halt as she swung the door open. Stunned, he moved his gaze slowly over her. Her dress revealed nothing but hinted at everything. Unrelieved black, it skimmed over her curves, teasing, daring a man to touch, to explore, to discover for himself.

  He let out a husky “Wow.”

  She tried to smile and failed. The heat In her cheeks became fire, and she ran a hand self-consciously over her hip. “Do I... look all right?”

  “All right doesn’t even start to cover it. You look sensational.”

  “You really think so?” She smiled with pleasure, reaching up and nervously touching her hair, which she had piled on top of her head. “I’ll grab my wrap.”

  She swung around; Chance made a strangled sound of disbelief. The dress had no back. None. From the big rhinestone button at her nape to the small of her back—and beyond—the dress had been cut away to reveal and tempt. Her white skin glowed in shocking contrast to the ebony of the dress.

  Arousal swept over him, and he simultaneously thanked and cursed the sadistic designer who had fashioned her gown.

  Beth turned back to him, her expression alarmed. “I borrowed it from Eva... it was the most demure she had.” Beth looked down at herself. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”

  Chance coughed. “It is,” he managed, his voice thick, “but that’s what makes it so... wow.”

  She wasn’t quite sure how to take that, and caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’re certain?”

  Chance laughed, charmed and refreshed by her honesty. The women he usually dated never doubted their looks. And even if they did, they would never admit it.

  Of course, he reminded himself, this wasn’t a date.

  “I’m certain. In fact, you’ll no doubt be the hit of the party. I’ll have to fight off armies of suitors. I’ll probably have to slay a dragon, or King Kong, or—”

  Laughing, Beth cut him off. “Okay, already. I’ll get my wrap.”

  Her wrap consisted of an outrageously long black-and-white chiffon scarf. Chance helped her drape it around her shoulders, and they stepped out into the night.

  The trip from her apartment to the Cultural Center took nearly an hour. Chance drove at a leisurely pace, more interested in studying Beth than in getting to the party.

  She continued to intrigue him. She was a woman of contrasts, at one moment painfully shy, the next witty; she could be reserved and timid, yet when she laughed, she held nothing back. She had no self-confidence when it came to her looks, yet she could handle the most arrogant and demanding collectors with an ease that astounded him. Who was this woman?

  For about the twentieth time since they’d left her apartment, he glanced at her from the corners of his eyes. She stared straight ahead, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her back stiff. She looked as if she were preparing herself for the electric chair. He reached across and covered her hands with one of his own. “Don’t be nervous.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Even in the dark I can see your fingers turning white from lack of circulation. They’re cold.” He rubbed his fingers against hers, warming them. “Relax, Beth. I won’t let anybody bite.”

  “Darn, that’ll take all the fun out of it.”

  He laughed, then growled softly. “I won’t let anybody else bite, that is.” She blushed and lowered her eyes; he laughed again. “Don’t worry, even in that dress you’re safe.”

  That was exactly what worried her. The last thing she wanted to be was safe. Disappointment curled through her, but she met his gaze evenly. “I’m not a complete innocent, you know.”

  Chance thought of that night in the parking lot, thought of the way she’d melted against him. There had been nothing innocent about their kiss, nor about the way she’d responded to it. “No,” he murmured. “I know.”

  He squeezed her hand, then released it so he could turn into the Center’s parking lot. “I think I’d better warn you about this party... it gets a little weird.”

  “Weird?” she repeated, nervous again. “You don’t mean anything illegal or—”

  “Immoral?” He laughed. “No, nothing like that. But if someone comes up to you and starts talking in pig Latin, play along.”

  Someone did, indeed, come up and talk to her in pig Latin. Luckily, pig Latin had been the one foreign language she’d excelled at in school. Amused, Chance listened to her converse with the gentleman—one of the foundation’s board members and the evening’s host.

  The building that housed the Cultural Center had been the home of one of California’s wealthiest citizens. An art patron, he had donated the building and property to the foundation more than a dozen years back. The ten-thousand-square-foot building, designed and built by architect Frank Lloyd Wright, was nestled into the side of a cliff overlooking the ocean and was considered an architectural gem.

  Beth had always wanted to see the inside, but she would have to wait a bit longer to see it in its normal state. Because tonight the Cultural Center had been transformed into a fantasy world of magical colors, shapes, textures, and sounds, a world where art, interior, and inhabitant became one.

  Stunned, Beth dragged her gaze from the surreal vision before her to look at Chance. At her expression, he laughed. “It’s a long way from Kansas, isn’t it?”

  “But not far at all from Oz.”

  Chance smiled and tucked her arm through his. “Come, let’s mingle.”

  They moved through the sea of people, many of them costumed, some even masked. The costumes ranged from merely elaborate to outlandish beyond description. Beth spotted some traditional figures: Marie Antoinette. Napoleon Bonaparte, Vincent van Gogh; and some less traditional: the California Raisins, a Mayan god, figures from Picasso’s first cubist masterpiece. Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.

  Beth grinned up at Chance. “Have you ever costumed?”

  He returned her grin. “Last year I came as Zoro.”

  Picturing him as the masked man, Beth laughed and let him lead her around the ro
om. He introduced her to one person after another, keeping his word and never leaving her side.

  They laughed and danced and drank champagne. The wine was fine and dry; the bubbles went straight to her head. Even so, she let the circling waiters replace her empty glasses with full ones.

  Beth and Chance talked to Eva and her date, an artist twenty-five years her junior. Everyone knew Chance, and he introduced her as his irreplaceable new assistant. Even introduced as a business associate, Beth was leveled with some speculative stares, especially from women. Rather than self-conscious, the assessing looks made her feel proprietary. Even possessive.

  Tonight Chance was hers.

  As the minutes passed, Beth became more aware of Chance at her side, of his warmth and his strength, of the feel of his fingers on her naked back when he would silently steer her toward a new group, of the feel of his breath against her ear when he would whisper something to her, of the husky quality of his voice when he shared a private joke.

  “Are you hungry?” Chance asked.

  “Starved.” She tipped her head back and laughed up at him. “I was too excited to eat today.”

  He moved his gaze slowly over her flushed face. “I think you’ve had too much champagne.”

  Beth laughed again. She wished she could blame the wine for her light-headedness, but she knew the wine had little to do with it. “You can never have too much champagne, didn’t you know? It’s a law of nature.”

  Chance lifted his eyebrows, amused. “I know another law of nature, one about drinking on an empty stomach. Come on.” He laced his fingers with hers and led her to the buffet.

  The rest of the guests had lost interest in the food and had gone on to wilder pursuits, leaving Beth and Chance to themselves and the feast.

  “What are all these things?” Beth asked, breathing deeply through her nose. “They smell heavenly.”

  “Heavenly,” Chance murmured, his eyes on her rather than the display of exotic hors d’oeuvres. Her skin was as white as cream and looked as soft as silk. He let his gaze linger on the flesh exposed by her outrageous dress, taking in the delicate bones of her shoulders and back.