Chances Are (18 page)

He pressed more intimately to her. "When it starts," he murmured, "you won't have to ask."

Veronique's breath caught; desire was as stunning as a blow to her midsection. The pulse hammered in her head until she was light-headed with it. He was driving her mad with need. She'd never wanted anyone or anything with the ferocity that she wanted Brandon. And he knew exactly what he was doing to her.

"Thirsty?" he asked.

Her smile wasn't quite steady as she answered him. "Parched."

"I'll take care of that." He dropped a quick kiss on her lips. "Don't move."

How could she? Veronique wondered, watching as he moved through the crowd. She was as unsteady on her feet as she was light-headed. Her lips curved into a soft smile. She understood now why people afflicted with the malady couldn't eat, sleep or think clearly.

"Ms. Delacroix?"

"Yes?" Veronique looked up.

One of the hotel's stewards smiled and held out a tray that carried a glass of champagne and a small ivory-colored envelope. "Mr. Rhodes asked me to deliver these."

"Thank you," she murmured, her eyebrows drawing together. Where was Brandon? She took the envelope and, as calmly as she could, ripped it open. Heat washed over her—tucked inside was a key. She nudged it with her forefinger. Engraved in an ornate script on the large oval tag was an
L
and an
A.
The Leona Alfonsi suite, Veronique realized. The most famous suite of rooms in New Orleans.

As she lifted her eyes, her gaze settled on her grandfather. He stood not a dozen feet away from her. His face was pinched and white; he stared at her fiercely. A sudden chill raced up her spine, and she clutched the envelope tightly. Why was he—

"Should I wait for a reply?" the steward asked, shifting impatiently.

Tearing her gaze from her grandfather's, she flashed the young man a smile. She took the champagne from the tray and downed it, then replaced the glass. "No, thanks. I can handle it myself." Unconsciously touching the rose at her breasts, she turned and headed toward the door. She didn't have to ask—the seduction had started.

Chapter 9

The room was fragrant with the scent of roses. Heart thundering in her chest, Veronique closed the door behind her. For a moment she leaned against it, grateful for its support. Was she doing the right thing? She'd asked herself that question over and over during the ride up to the eighth floor. Being with Brandon felt right, felt wonderful, but her head warned her to be careful, and in truth, she was scared.

Veronique drew in a deep steadying breath. She wasn't a fickle woman: when she gave herself, she gave everything. Maybe that's why there'd been so few men—she hadn't been willing to share all of herself, the emotion hadn't been strong enough. But with Brandon she wanted to give and receive; she wanted to take and to share. She wanted it all.

There was an elaborate spray of white roses at the foot of the four-poster bed. Veronique pushed away from the door and crossed to the arrangement. A soft smile played at the corners of her mouth as she pulled one flower from the bunch. The thorns, she noted, had all been removed. She held the blossom to her nose, and her gaze circled the room. There was a champagne bucket and a serving cart beside an intimate table set for two. The antique globe lamps bathed the room in a warm golden light.

"Hi," Brandon said softly from behind her.

Veronique turned slowly. He hadn't surprised her—she'd sensed his presence before he'd spoken. "Hi," she echoed, her voice husky.

"I'm glad you came."

Veronique clasped her hands in front of her. "I'm not sure—" she cleared her throat "—it seemed so right downstairs... now..." Her eyes met his then skittered away. "Maybe I shouldn't have."

Brandon's chest tightened. He admired her honesty, but he didn't think he could bear for her to leave. If he pulled her into his arms now, she would melt against him. But he wanted her without reservations. He jammed his hands into his pockets. "Anything I can do to change your mind?"

Veronique lifted her gaze. The light was behind him as he stood in the doorway to the sitting room, and his silhouette was tall and broad against the rectangle of light. But there was an awkwardness in his stance: he looked stiff, uncomfortable and... nervous, she realized. He cared enough about her and her feelings to be nervous. Confidence surged through her; it would be all right—she was making the right choice, the
only
choice. "I think you already have."

Brandon's breath caught as her lips curved. Her smile was as seductive as a woman's could be; it held the promise of both passion and shadows. He knew that mouth would soften and part under his, but she was as much a mystery as an invitation. And it was her secrets that made him wait.

"The Leona Alfonsi suite," Veronique murmured almost to herself, glancing once again around the room. "New Orleans's most famous opera singer."

"Yes," Brandon said, his eyes never leaving her face. "She was also one of New Orleans's most colorful figures. A true eccentric." He crossed to stand in front of her, but didn't touch her.

Veronique held the flower once more to her nose. The scent was at once earthy and ethereal. She breathed deeply and knew she would never be able to separate the scent of roses from a desire so strong she felt weak.

"She was a woman of passion," Brandon continued, bending his head to catch the blossom's scent, "and conviction. A woman so filled with life that no one who met her remained unaffected by the experience." His voice lowered. "Like you, Veronique."

"You think so?" She laughed lightly and stepped away. Two could play the seduction game. Knowing she would draw his gaze there, Veronique dropped the rose on the bed, then crossed to the window. She ran a finger along the edge of one of the lace curtains, then looked over her shoulder at him. "She and Courtland were lovers... their affair was the most notorious of its day."

Awareness tightened in his belly. Her eyes and voice were as sultry as an August night, and Brandon fought to control his body. "It's said that Courtland promised to give her everything he had if she would stay with him."

"But she didn't," Veronique said almost sadly. "She couldn't."

"Because she was fire," Brandon murmured, watching Veronique as she moved around the room. Her movements were liquid, lazy and sensual, and he was entranced by the gentle swing of her hips and the way the fabric caught the light. "And fire can't be contained or controlled."

Veronique ran her hand along the polished front of the armoire, then stopped and looked at him. "She knew he would never be hers. He was a Catholic and already married." How would she feel when Brandon married another? Veronique pushed the thought away and crossed to the champagne bucket. She pulled the bottle from its icy nest and examined the label. "Tattinger," she murmured. "Very nice."

What was she thinking? Brandon wondered, watching as she replaced the bottle then picked up a crystal ashtray and turned it over in her hands. She was the most elusive and exciting woman he'd ever known, and he wanted her with a greediness that shocked him. And with the greed came the fear that like the mercurial Alfonsi before her, she would never be his.

"They say—" Veronique replaced the ashtray and lifted one of the crystal wine flutes. She ran her fingers lightly over the delicate glass; she held it to the light. Without looking at him, she finished, "They say she haunts the hotel."

Setting down the glass, she crossed once again to the window. She moved aside the curtain and gazed down at St. Charles Avenue just as a streetcar lumbered past. "Would it surprise you if I said I believe in ghosts?"

Brandon cocked his head as he gazed at her back. Where was this heading? "No," he said softly, "it wouldn't surprise me."

Smiling to herself, Veronique let the curtain drop. He wouldn't believe in ghosts, she knew. Nor in magic, fairies or miracles. He was a man of reason and reality. But he understood who she was, and he believed in her. That was all that mattered. She turned back to him. "Champagne, please."

Silently Brandon crossed to the bucket and with easy movements popped the cork. He filled the two tall flutes with the effervescent wine and held one out to her.

As she took the glass from his hand, their fingers brushed. There was something intimate, something warm about the accidental touch, and Veronique's pulse fluttered. She lifted the glass. "What shall we drink to?"

"I would think that's obvious, Veronique," he said softly, and tapped his glass against hers. "To tonight."

Her heart skipped a beat. Those two words promised a passion few ever experienced and a heat most only dream of. She wished she could believe it was more than passion and that he, like Courtland before him, would give it all away for love. But she'd known the odds before she'd come upstairs, and they hadn't changed. Veronique lifted the glass to her lips; the wine was ice-cold and bracing as it slipped down her throat.

Seconds passed. The silence between them was almost too potent, and Veronique lowered her gaze to the serving cart. There were chocolates—Swiss, she decided, eyeing their dark, glossy surfaces—caviar, plump red strawberries, a variety of cheeses, crackers and breads. Her lips curved into a wicked smile. "This is an awfully well-planned seduction." She dipped her finger into the caviar, then stuck it in her mouth, slowly sucking the delicacy off. Her eyes never left his. "How did you know I would come?"

Arousal was instant, overpowering. He drew a sharp breath, then exhaled slowly. "I took my chances."

"I like a man who takes chances," Veronique murmured, picking out a small, dark chocolate. She held it to her lips, running her tongue experimentally along its rounded edge. His gaze hungrily followed her tongue as she tasted the chocolate, and she smiled ever so slightly. She felt like a temptress; the sensation was headier than the wine, more delicious than the chocolate. It was a sensation she could become addicted to. "But more—" her tongue darted out to taste the candy once again "—I like a man who takes liberties." Slowly, deliberately, she placed the chocolate on her tongue.

It took a moment for her words to register, but when they did, heat rushed over him in a fury. She wanted him without reservations; there would be no regrets. With a groan, he pulled her into his arms. And as he knew she would, she melted against him.

For a moment it was enough to feel her soft curves pressed against him, to gaze into eyes the color of heated honey, to catch her own subtle scent as it blended with the roses. But for a moment only. Contentment became hunger, and hunger raged out of control. Brandon's lips caught hers; they were soft, moist, already parted. Their tongues met, and a second after he smelled the chocolate, he tasted it. With a sensual shock, he realized she'd passed the melting confection from her mouth to his. With a sound of pleasure he accepted the gift. Its sweet, rich flavor flowed over his tongue, and he savored it. When he'd had his fill, he passed it back.

Veronique wound her fingers in his hair as she sucked the chocolate from his tongue. Did the candy taste the same to him as it did to her? she wondered dizzily. Sweet, dangerous and delicious? And what of her body pressed against his? Did it feel as achingly right as his did against hers? The last of the confection slipped down her throat, but the flavor lingered, and again she shared it with him, teasing and caressing his tongue with hers.

Veronique moaned as his hands moved down her back to cup and caress her soft swells, as he pressed her more intimately to him. She followed his lead, running her hands underneath his jacket to stroke his back and sides. Through the fine cotton shirt she felt the heat of his leanly muscled flesh—it was as if he were on fire.

She wanted that fire, she wanted to step into it, for it to surround her, consume her. "No more barriers," she rasped, pushing at his jacket. "I need to feel you against me. Now."

At her words, passion exploded between them. Gone was the capability for soft words and lingering caresses. This was as reckless as forbidden love, as steamy as an illicit rendezvous. He yanked off his tie while she worked at his shirt buttons. Under her urgent fingers, the fabric groaned, then gave, threads resisted, then snapped. He unzipped her dress; it slithered to the floor in a brilliant heap.

His shirt followed her dress; shoes were kicked aside. Murmuring her need, Veronique pulled him to the bed. His body felt wonderful against hers, and she promised herself she would take time to linger over every nuance later.
Much later,
she thought as he captured the tip of one breast with his lips, then the other.