One More Chance Read online

  "Snap out of it, Juliana," he commanded. "It's okay— you're not hurt." Relief made his voice gruff.

  Sudden comprehension flooded her face, and her lips parted. She's going to start screaming, he realized. She's about to lose it.

  So he kissed her.

  He didn't think about possible consequences; he simply acted. Her lips felt cool beneath his, and very, very soft. Very, very defenseless… And then she yanked back, her eyes wide and frightened.

  "It's all right," he whispered, holding her lightly by the shoulders. "I don't know any other way to comfort you."

  "Oh." She caught her breath on the word, then sighed and swayed toward him.

  He pulled her into his arms and looked down into her face as her eyelids drifted closed. So he kissed her again.

  This time her mouth felt warm and alive, but with an appealing uncertainty. He hadn't planned on letting passion creep in, but he found himself coaxing her lips apart. She hesitated and then yielded to him. His tongue plunged inside; desire ripped through him with the sudden full joining of their mouths.

  He gathered her pliant form closer as heat curled his stomach into an aching knot. He moved his hips against hers in time to the urgent stroking of his tongue.

  Comfort was suddenly the farthest thing from his mind.

  And from hers.

  Juliana slipped her arms around his neck, dizzy and disoriented, but pleasantly so. All the powerful anxiety of the last few minutes seemed to disintegrate beneath the potency of his kiss. Cold chills ran up and down her spine, her arms. Her trembling knees threatened to collapse entirely.

  This can't be happening, she thought, her mind teeming with a million implications. Taken completely by surprise, she'd had no time to prepare her usual defenses. For a woman accustomed to being in control of situations and her own emotions, being in control of neither was a terrifying—and heady—experience.

  The kiss deepened—his doing or hers? He dropped his hand from the small of her back to her buttocks, drawing her even more tightly against him, and she felt the strength of his arousal. She rose onto tiptoes, trying to lose herself in him, her thighs pressing against his, her hips responding to the rhythmic thrust of his.

  He dragged his lips away and lifted his head. His breath labored in his throat, but then, so did hers. They simply stood there in each other's arms, as if neither could figure a graceful way to move either forward or back.

  After a moment she cleared her throat and her gaze fell from his face to the strong column of his throat. She could see the throb of his pulse beneath the smooth bronzed skin. She swallowed hard. "I'm sorry I… overreacted. If that can had hit me, it could have killed me."

  "It could have killed Arnold what's-his-name, if it'd hit him on the head. It was a dangerous thing to do, knocking it off the shelf."

  He sounded exactly the same as he always did, a detail wildly at odds with the fact that they still stood locked in an intimate embrace.

  "Yes, but…" She shuddered. Better to concentrate on physical danger than the emotional peril in which she found herself. "I live in terror of accidents. I go around ducking and dodging and covering my head with my arms."

  "That'll pass. Just give it time. When your hair grows a little longer, things'll get back to normal."

  "But when will that be?" She bit her lower lip. "Sometimes I wonder if things will ever be normal again. Will I ever feel comfortable around people? Will I ever work up the nerve to go back to the office?"

  "Tomorrow. You promised."

  "I didn't promise. Opal assumed."

  He knew that stubborn expression by now and recognized a fight in the making. Maybe a good fight was what she needed to take her mind off what had truly been a terrifying near disaster.

  He tightened his grip on her waist. She leaned away from him, her back curving, which brought her hips more firmly into contact with his. Keep it up, he thought grimly, feels great. Damn, it'd been a hell of a long time since he'd got worked up by a woman, and he was definitely worked up—and getting more so.

  Pay attention here, Ware. He cleared his throat. "Opal assumed you were your father's daughter. I don't think she was wrong."

  Her outrage pleased him; she fairly sputtered, and bright color washed into her pale face.

  "You don't know anything about it." She braced her hands on his arms and shoved. "Will you… just… turn me loose?"

  "All you had to do was ask."

  He released her so suddenly that she stumbled into the table, reaching back to steady herself with her hands. She started to speak, but instead gasped as if in pain.

  Instantly contrite, he stepped toward her. "What is it? Are you all right?"

  She looked on the verge of tears. "Now look what you've done!" She held out one trembling hand.

  He stared down at it in consternation. On the end of her arm he saw a perfectly natural hand. It had five fingers just like most hands. He looked more closely, frowning.

  It also had five very long nails, one of which now dangled by the fingernail equivalent of a thread.

  Juliana sat at Ben's kitchen table, snipping her fingernails with a metal clipper and seething. But beneath her very genuine anger and disappointment over the untimely demise of her fantastic fingernails, there lurked a vague feeling of relief.

  Relief that something had distracted her from a sudden, burning, overwhelming awareness of Ben's tremendous physical appeal. Even now, ruthlessly divesting herself of this last and only vanity, she still tingled with new sensations.

  He sat across from her, drinking a can of soda, his expression stoic. He acted exactly the same, but to her he looked completely different: eyes bluer, shoulders wider, dimples deeper, and—heaven help her—everything sexier.

  A whole lot sexier.

  Don't look—clip, she ordered herself.

  When she was short-nailed again, she glared down at the clippings on the paper napkin before her. "Shi-oooot," she said.

  "Heard you the first time." He clapped down the can and stood up. "Let's go to the mall."

  "Forget it." She hadn't been to the mall since her release from the hospital and she sure as hell had no reason to go now.

  His heavy brows, darker than his sun-streaked blond hair, lowered threateningly. "Don't be a pain in the butt, Juliana."

  She ran the pads of her thumbs over the still-sharp edges of her newly devastated nails. As a delaying tactic, it failed miserably; he simply took her arm, lifted her out of the chair and stood her on her feet.

  The matter seemed somehow settled.

  He dragged her behind him through the department store, her hand engulfed in his big paw.

  "But I don't want a wig," she insisted, trying to dig in her heels.

  "Yes, you do. You're just too damned stubborn to admit it."

  He stopped at the edge of the wig and hat department, clamping one arm around her to keep her at his side.

  "Damn it, Ben! You're a big bully."

  "Yeah, yeah, I know." He sounded unimpressed. He pointed to a series of glass shelves displaying wigs of many colors and styles. "Do you like any of those?"

  Before she could respond, a carefully groomed saleswoman approached. "I'll be right with you," she said pleasantly. She continued on to a woman who sat at the small vanity table provided for customers trying on wigs.

  "I'm getting out of here," Juliana whispered.

  Ben shushed her. She gave him a dirty look while he openly eavesdropped on the saleswoman and her customer.

  "I—I'd like to try on a wig," the seated woman said. She was about Juliana's age, perhaps a few years younger, and she, too, wore a scarf over her head and wrapped around her throat. She smiled apologetically. "I recently started chemotherapy treatments and they've sort of… my hair…"

  Hesitantly she untied the scarf and loosened it, without removing it entirely. "My natural color is dishwater blond." She laughed nervously. "I kind of like the wig over there—the fluffy one. Do you have that in a light brown?"

/>   "I certainly do. It's one of our newest styles."

  The clerk helped the woman slip the wig on. She'd lost tufts of hair all over her head; it was awful, ever so much worse than simply having your head shaved, Juliana admitted to herself.

  With the wig firmly in place, the woman smiled broadly into the mirror, then glanced up at the saleswoman for confirmation.

  "Perfect," the saleswoman pronounced with a smile.

  "I like it, too. But I'm afraid my husband may think this color's a little too light." The woman frowned into the mirror, chewing on her bottom lip. "He wanted to come with me, but this was something I had to do for myself."

  Juliana turned so abruptly that she plowed into Ben's firm chest. She hadn't wanted to do it for herself; Ben had had to drag her in here kicking and screaming. "I'm a bitch," she muttered, her voice shaky.

  "That's true." He dipped one eyelid in a conspiratorial wink.

  He released his hold on her—she could leave now, if she chose, but she knew she wouldn't. If that poor woman had the nerve to face up to it, Juliana Robinson sure as hell did.

  With assistance from the saleswoman, the choice was made and a smiling customer walked away a few minutes later, her hair picture perfect. A paisley scarf trailed from the pocket of her jacket.

  Somehow she seemed different, more self-assured than the woman who'd furtively removed her scarf to bare her humiliation a few moments ago. And humiliation it was; Juliana understood that only too well. Although in this enlightened age a woman's hair might no longer be considered her crowning glory, still it remained a powerful symbol of femininity.

  The saleswoman gave a satisfied sigh and turned toward Juliana. "Sorry to keep you waiting. How may I help you?"

  Juliana took a deep breath. "I'd like a wig," she said firmly. "I—" She glanced at Ben, suddenly thinking how foolish she felt comparing her situation to the one they'd just encountered. She would recover. It was just a matter of time. But chemotherapy could go on and on, with no guarantee of success.

  So she said, "I had a haircut recently that didn't work out and I need something to hide it while it grows back."

  Then she found herself sitting before the mirror, examining an auburn wig that fell smoothly into a short twenties' bob with full bangs and fitted nape. She yanked off her dark glasses and scarf and with clumsy eagerness, positioned the wig over her own super-short hair. Her questioning eyes met those of the saleswoman in the mirror.

  The woman's face was slack with surprise. "Boy, that was some haircut. You should sue!"

  Juliana laughed. "I was kidding about that." She adjusted the wig and smoothed a wing of hair over one cheek. "I had brain surgery."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry."

  "It was nothing." Juliana's gaze met Ben's in the mirror and she smiled. She felt suddenly and unexpectedly wonderful. Funny what a new hairdo—or new hair—could do for a woman.

  She wore the wig. As she and Ben headed for the exit, a display mannequin wearing the perfect dress to go with her new "look" caught her attention. The dress, gauzy and gray, was sleeveless with a dropped waist and jagged handkerchief hem—a costume straight out of a silent movie, she thought as she paused to admire it.

  "It's gorgeous," she sighed, lifting the skirt and letting it fall back in a graceful flutter. Unfortunately, it didn't fit her image. "Let's go," she said briskly, turning toward the door.

  "Wha 'da'ya mean, let's go?" Ben caught her arm and drew her up short. "Try it on."

  "Are you kidding?" What she meant was, "Are you nuts?"

  He looked pained. "You like it. I like it. Go put it on."

  "It's not my style," she argued. "I've never worn anything like that in my life. I'm more the tailored type."

  "Bull. Save us an argument and just put the damned thing on."

  She couldn't resist his logic. Once she donned the dress, she couldn't resist it, either. So she bought it, feeling downright daring as she wrote the check.

  And happy. Happy enough to burst. Once out on the sidewalk, she whirled around in front of Ben and stopped him with one of her hands flat against his chest.

  "Thank you." Her palm tingled, where it pressed against his chambray shirt. She withdrew her hand quickly. "I wouldn't even have tried that dress on without your unsolicited advice."

  "That's probably true." His face wore a wary expression, as if he expected her to add a "but" there on the end.

  The silence—the tension—stretched taut between them. She broke first, turning to lead the way through the early evening dusk toward her car. She licked dry lips, feeling breathless and shaky. Without comment, he fell into step beside her.

  She gave him a tentative smile over one shoulder. "This has been a great day, in spite of everything." She felt the need to talk, to connect with him on some level, however superficial.

  He pulled her car keys from his pocket and unlocked the passenger door of the Mercedes. "Didn't start out too well, as I remember. First Opal shook you up, then you almost caught five pounds of shortening with your head."

  A chill snaked down her back at the memory, but she shook it off and climbed into the car. "Yes, but after that it got good," she said with determined cheer.

  He slid behind the wheel and shifted on the seat to look at her. She met his gaze, feeling like a young girl, happy and excited and no longer trying to control the situation or hide her feelings.

  He reached out and drew the fingers of one hand lightly over her cheek. "I think I'd better get you home," he said gruffly. "Tomorrow's a big day."

  "Tomorrow?" She was so enthralled by his fleeting touch that for a moment the significance of his words didn't sink in. Then they did.

  "Oh, that," she said unhappily. She didn't want to think about tomorrow and Opal's friends, partly because she couldn't bear for today to end. But maybe it didn't need to, at least not yet. "Ben, do you have any plans for this evening?" she asked impulsively.

  He started the car. "No." He gave her a narrow look over his shoulder. "Why?"

  She hesitated. She wanted to spend the evening with him, it was as simple as that, only… Get a grip, Juliana. You're about to do something stupid.

  Because everything about him drew her now—the way he looked, the way his gravelly voice sent shivers up and down her spine, the way his harsh expression softened when he laughed…

  Why had it taken her so long to acknowledge his special qualities? For a heady moment she stared at his strong profile, admiring the straight nose and wicked curve of his mouth.

  I'll bet he's spectacular in bed.

  She gulped and looked quickly away. Never in her life had she entertained such blatant speculations about any man. In fact, the entire topic of sex occupied very little of her time or attention. She'd always believed sex was something she could live without.

  Lord knows, she had. She did. She was.

  "Hey, wake up."

  She reined in her rampaging thoughts. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking." She swallowed hard. "Why don't we pick up Paige and all go out to dinner? It'll give me a chance to try out my new look in public. My treat." With Paige along, they'd soon be back on the old, comfortable footing.

  Did he hesitate just a shade too long? "I suppose it'd be okay. It's been a while since I saw the kid. But I'll buy."

  "No, it's my idea so it's my treat." Relieved, Juliana settled back in her seat.

  They argued good-naturedly about it the rest of the way.

  They ate Chinese, Ben ordering for all of them. They shared the various dishes family style—moo shi pork, the thin Chinese version of tortillas filled with meat and vegetables and rolled up like a burrito, followed by shrimp with cashew nuts, tomato beef chow mein, and in deference to Paige, sweet and sour pork.

  They ate, they drank hot tea, and they talked. Like old and dear friends, Juliana thought as she leaned back in her chair, relaxed and happy.

  The waiter arrived with a plate of fortune cookies, and Juliana poured more tea.

  "I'm too full for a fortune
cookie," she announced. "That was really wonderful, Ben. How did you learn so much about Oriental food?"

  "A natural talent," he said with ostentatious modesty, breaking open a cookie.

  "Ha!" Paige gave him a mock-scornful look. "He learned from his wife." She grinned at Juliana. "She lived in the City before they got married—that's what people in San Francisco call it, 'the City.' She knew all the best restaurants in Chinatown, all those weird places with the stiff brown ducks hanging by their necks in the windows."

  Ben looked startled, as if thrown off by the girl's teasing remarks. Juliana felt a quick stab of jealousy, and ruthlessly beat it back. But she couldn't help feeling resentful that Ben had confided such personal details of his former life, not to her but to Paige.

  Or had he? Have I just forgotten? Juliana wondered, suddenly confused and unsure.

  Ben gave Paige a stern look: "I can see I'm going to have to watch what I say in front of you," he groused. "Everything can and will be used against me."

  Paige made a face at him, then gave her mother a conspiratorial glance. "That's cop talk," she said lightly. With barely concealed impatience, she watched Ben pull the fortune out of his cookie. "Well, what's it say?"

  "It says, 'Beware of beautiful woman with ulterior motive and silver tongue'."

  Their easy relationship was starting to grate on Juliana, even though she understood its source. They had gone through something together that she had caused but not shared—and she resented the hell out of it.

  Paige leaned forward and snatched the slip of paper from his fingers. She glanced at it, then gave him a triumphant grin. "That's not what it says! It says, 'The next full moon will beam happiness your way'."

  Juliana shook her head and forced herself to rejoin the party. "What a faker."

  Ben shrugged and popped a crispy bit of cookie into his mouth. "So sue me."

  Paige relaxed back in her chair and darted her mother a quickly assessing glance. "You look like you're in a good mood, Mama," she observed too casually.

  Juliana arched one brow. "That's a fairly safe assumption."

  She waited for Paige to go on. Instead, the girl picked up a fortune cookie and turned it over and over in her hands.