Tempting Chance
By Erica Spindler
TEMPTING CHANCE
All Rights Reserved © 1993, 2013 by Erica Spindler
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
Published by Erica Spindler
Originally published in print by Bantam Books
For Cynthia: Sisters always. Friends at last.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect With Erica Spindler Online
Prologue
Elizabeth Lucille Waters was born September 4, at 3:57 a.m. The day also happened to be Labor Day, appropriately, and it wasn’t until after twenty hours that little Beth made her grand entrance. Or exit, as it were. Her parents were delighted with both their daughter and her method of arrival; both believed that hard work was the cornerstone of existence and that nothing good came without sweat.
In that case, little Beth was very, very good.
Her maternal grandmother, Eva, flew in from the West Coast for the big event, although she arrived two and a half weeks late. After all, playing the lead in a small company’s production of Mame could, with luck, parlay into something much grander; one didn’t walk away from those opportunities, even for the birth of one’s first grandchild.
The show must go on.
Upon arriving in Kansas, the former Eugenia McClowsky, also of the Land of Oz, was totally undone to learn that her daughter and “that accountant” she’d married had decided to call the child Beth.
The actress decided on the spot that she couldn’t have it. Beth was too ordinary, too everyday a name for her grandchild, this infant with carrot-red curls and huge blue eyes.
Holding the cooing child above her, the actress proclaimed, “I shall call you Liza.”
Chapter 1
It was the “Or else” that always got her. The “What if.”
Beth Waters’ finger hovered over the delete button. The chain letter had been forwarded by her neighbor Irene Braswell. The letter promised all manner of reward—or retribution—depending on her response to its demands. According to this one, breaking the chain had even resulted in death.
For someone as easily confused as her elderly neighbor, she knew her way around email and the internet. Beth sighed. She hated these stupid things. She hated herself for letting them have the slightest bit of power over her. Nothing bad would happen to her if she deleted it, just as nothing good would happen if she forwarded it.
Beth caught her bottom lip between her teeth, acknowledging her uneasiness, acknowledging the feeling of being “or elsed” into something she didn’t want to do.
Not this time. She wouldn’t be bullied. She wouldn’t be threatened by fear or anything that resembled it.
She hit delete.
There! Beth squared her shoulders. That felt good. Great, even. Eva—her flamboyant actress grandmother—was right. It was time she developed some spunk. It was time she took a risk or two.
Smiling to herself, Beth turned her attention to where it should have been all along--Art One’s inbox, crammed with all the messages that had come in over the weekend.
The next two hours passed quickly: she finished with the mail, took a dozen calls, assembled and printed the fresh crop of Curriculum Vitae that had come in, transferring the jpeg images each artist’s work onto a single CD for her boss to review.
She gathered up the materials to take in to her boss, Art One’s owner Chance Michaels. Beth thought of the artists, each an unknown--either starving or like her, with a day job to keep from starving. Each hopeful they would be the one selected for The Summer Show, the launch point for art stardom. Would one of these be the lucky one?
She hoped so because he had been a bear to work for. On edge and moody. Case in point, Chance had marched in an hour ago, growled out a good morning, then closed himself up in his office. She hoped selecting his star would put him in a better mood.
She stood, simultaneously scooping up the stack and smoothing her skirt. The CD slipped off and sailed under her desk.
Muttering an oath, she bent and peered under the desk. It had rolled beyond her reach. Feeling more than a bit silly, she knelt and crawled under the desk to retrieve it.
“Beth!”
Startled, Beth jerked her head up, whacking it on the underside of the desk. Tears sprang to her eyes and, rubbing her head, she cursed her luck. That her boss was a demanding, volatile, perfectionist workaholic didn’t rattle her.
That he was drop-dead gorgeous did. Big-time.
She squeezed her eyes shut and the image of his sharply defined face filled her head—square chin cut with a deep cleft; nose, Roman in character but not quite straight; mouth, full, generous, yet chiseled. His was a strong, masculine face.
But his features weren’t what made him so attractive to her. She loved his sense of fun, the hint deviltry that appeared at the most unexpected moments. As if a part of Chance Michaels refused to grow up.
That was the part of him she found impossible to resist, the part that kept her slightly off balance. Brash, bold, and boyish at the same time, Chance embraced life as if it were an exciting challenge.
And women were drawn to him like hummingbirds to nectar. Beautiful women. Self-confident, powerful women. Women who knew what they wanted out of life and took it.
He even attracted receptionists who understood a man like Chance Michaels wouldn’t look at them twice.
Beth took a deep breath. She would steel herself against his effect on her. Chance Michaels was just a man. As was her father. Her brother. The guy who delivered her bottled water. Nothing special about this one. Sure.
Head still smarting, Beth peeked over the top of the desk at him. Her heart crashed to her toes.
So much for plan A.
His velvety brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned at her. “You okay? I was just about to call in the cavalry.”
The curving of his lips was cocky to the point of impudence. She felt the movement all the way to the tips of her toes. Heat flew to her cheeks and she cursed her redhead’s translucent complexion. “I’m fine.”
His grin widened. “You’re sure?”
Beth rubbed her head again. “Uh-huh.”
“Good.”
He leaned against the door frame and folded his arms across his chest. She met his gaze evenly, determined not to let him fluster her. After a moment she lifted her eyebrows coolly and in question, congratulating herself on her own performance. “You needed me for something?”
“Mmm-hmmm.” He cocked his head in amusement. “But first, is there something under there that I should know about? Something really great? A cockroach review? Dust balls on parade...?”
He let his teasing question trail off, and the heat in her cheeks became fire. She was still on her knees and half under the desk! Good going, Waters, she thought. Cool as a cucumber, real smooth.
She slipped back into her chair, making a great show of smoothing her skirt. “Of course not. I was just—”
“You tipped over your can.”
“Pardon me?”
He crossed to her, squatted down and reached across her lap. “Your trash can.” He righted it, then tipped his head back to look up at her. His eyes crinkled at the corners once again. �
�Nice legs, Red.”
She stared at him. “What?”
“Legs,” he repeated. “Real showstoppers.”
“Oh,” she murmured, wishing some cocky and confident comeback would spring to her tongue.
Laughing softly. Chance stood back up. “Sorry, I’m thinking that was inappropriate. I have this problem with saying whatever jumps into my head. I’ve been told it’s A.D.D.”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “I’ve got the weekend submissions prepared for your review.” She held up the CD. “That’s what I was under the desk retrieving.”
“Doesn’t Laura usually do that?”
“Don’t you remember?” Beth asked, surprised. “Laura quit. Friday.” At his blank look, she rolled her eyes. “Big argument, she called you an arrogant, demanding son-of-a—”
“I remember that part.” He shook his head. “Didn’t I ask you to call her and beg her to come back? Didn’t we send flowers?”
“Yes and yes.”
“And?”
Beth folded her hands in her lap. “You want the unvarnished truth?”
He looked at her, the solemnness of his expression belied by the mischief in his eyes. “I can take it.”
“She said you could take your job—and your apology—and shove them up—”
“Got it.” Chance glanced around them, taking in the crates of still-to-be-unpacked works, the stacks of ones needing to be recrated and shipped back to the artists. “Damn inconvenient timing.” He met her gaze again. “How many does that make?”
“Assistants? Three in three months.”
His expression changed, becoming intense, almost brooding. “Any suggestions? Besides an ad on Craig’s list and Ritalin?”
Beth gazed at him seriously. Thoughtfully. It was that intensity, the mood shifts, that made working for Chance difficult. But interesting as well. The job of Chance’s assistant would be demanding. And challenging. Too bad Laura hadn’t felt the same way.
Beth lifted her hands, palms up. “Sorry. But I’ll place the ad right away.”
“Thanks.” He started for his office, then stopped and turned back to her. “Am I that bad to work for?”
“No,” she said softly, horrified at the way her throat closed over the words. “No, you’re not.”
He smiled. “And Red?”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t just teasing. You do have great legs.”
And then he was gone. Beth stared at his closed door for a full ten seconds before she realized she’d stopped breathing.
* * *
Legs. Chance smiled as he snapped his office door shut behind him. She had them, all right. Slim, strong, and shapely. Unbelievably, he hadn’t noticed them before. He shook his head. Damn shame too. Legs like that tended to put a man in a good mood. And lately he’d been a bear.
No wonder Laura had quit. And the two assistants before her.
Chance crossed to his desk, a minimal affair made totally of glass. The entire office was done in light neutrals so as not to interfere with the artwork placed throughout—some pieces brilliantly, even shockingly colored, others subtly, evocatively understated.
Chance sat behind the desk and looked around him. All the art in this room belonged to his personal collection, each piece by an artist he not only represented but had discovered as well.
He moved his gaze from one painting to another, smiling as satisfaction warmed him. He loved finding and launching new talent. He’d made a bundle off each; these successes had earned him a reputation in the industry worth more than any amount of money.
But the satisfaction he felt had to do with more than either of those, he acknowledged. His love of launching new talent was more personal. More immediate. Chance shook his head. Maybe it had to do with the fact that his own parents had struggled so long to make a go of their art, maybe he loved it because it made him... What?
Feel. The word popped into his head, and he scowled.
Ridiculous.
Annoyed with himself and the train of his thoughts, he stood back up and began to move restlessly around the room. He turned his attention to the approaching Summer Show and his need for a brilliant yet undiscovered new talent. Every year the Summer Show at his San Francisco gallery served as a vehicle to launch an unknown into art stardom. Only this year, he hadn’t found the right talent, this year everything had looked... ordinary.
Frowning, Chance stopped and stared at a bold slash of red in one of his favorite paintings, acknowledging the restlessness that never seemed to leave him. The feeling that something important was missing.
Ridiculous, he thought again. Nothing was missing. He had a great life, damn near perfect. He had the freedom to do what he pleased, freedom from emotional entanglements. He had the financial success that enabled him to act on whatever whim struck him, be it a woman, traveling, or the latest high-tech gadget.
Damn near perfect, he thought again, then made a sound of disgust.
Maybe he needed to get out. He swung back toward his desk and the picture window beyond, squinting against the brilliant light. Call one of his women friends and go to San Francisco for the weekend. He could pay a visit to the gallery there, take in a few openings.
He hadn’t been out with a woman since he’d broken off with Jennifer. Or had it been Monica who’d demanded that they deepen their relationship... or else?
He’d opted for the “or else.” He always did.
How long ago had that been? Chance wondered, crossing to the window and the southern California sunshine that spilled abundantly through. Eight weeks? Twelve?
What the hell was wrong with him?
A movement outside caught his eye. Laughing, a child ran from her mother, a big red balloon bobbling behind her.
Red.
Beth.
Chance shook his head, thinking of how easily his receptionist flustered. And how prettily. He smiled. Red hair, blue eyes, and skin like fresh cream. With freckles. Lots of them.
He wondered if those freckles dotted more than her face, just as he’d wondered more than once if she blushed everywhere as deliciously as she did in her cheeks.
He’d never know, of course. She intrigued him because she was different from the women he usually surrounded himself with. And because he needed a change.
There, he’d admitted it. He was in a rut.
Chance rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger, his mouth lifting in self-directed amusement. After Monica or Jennifer, he couldn’t remember which, he had considered asking Beth out. The notion had popped into his head one Friday afternoon when she’d peeked through his office door to say good night. The urge had come upon him so suddenly and so strongly that he’d been stunned.
He’d fought the urge off and been glad of it ever since. Getting involved with one’s employees was a mistake, and Beth Waters wasn’t the kind of woman a man asked out because he needed a change of pace. Women like Beth Waters looked for something different, something more permanent, than what a man like himself could offer.
Outside his window the mother caught up with the child. As she scooped the youngster into her arms, the balloon slipped from the child’s fingers, was lifted by the breeze and taken.
“Chance?”
Startled, Chance turned. Beth had poked her head inside his office door. He met her gaze, and strangely unnerved by it, wondered if, somehow, she had read his thoughts. “Yes?”
“I knocked, but you didn’t answer.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He smiled. “You placed the ad?”
“Yes.” She took a deep breath. “And while I was at it, I called the university’s art department and arranged for a couple of graduate students to come over and help crate and uncrate the art out front. They’ll be here after lunch.”
“You’re a miracle worker.”
“Not so fast. I offered them fifteen dollars an hour.”
“I thought miracles were free.”
“Not in southern California.” She laughed
and began backing out of his office. “I’ll oversee their work and make sure the paintings get safely over to Benton and Brothers Advertising.”
“What would I do without you?” She blushed wildly, and he grinned. “I mean that, Red.”
Her blush deepened. “I’ll let you know when the students get here.”
“Do that.”
“Do you need anything before I—”
“No.”
“Okay. I’ll—”
“Beth?”
She stopped. “Yes?”
Yes. Chance felt that one word like a punch to his gut, with it the urge to invite her to dinner. He reminded himself what kind of woman she was and told himself to get a grip.
He swallowed the invitation. “Thanks again.”
And then she was gone.
Chance turned back to the window. The red balloon had long since disappeared into the field of blue sky, but for some reason, Chance found himself looking for it anyway.
* * *
“In your studio, just where I thought you’d be.”
Pastel poised in mid-stroke, Beth looked up from the drawing in front of her. Her grandmother stood in the doorway, her expression amused.
Beth shifted her gaze from her grandmother to her watch and was shocked to see it was nearly nine. The last time she’d looked it had been six-fifteen and she’d been trying to put the embarrassing moment with Chance out of her mind.
Without a lot of success. Even now, thinking about it brought an image of how she must have looked on her hands and knees rummaging under her desk.
Beth shook the image off, bringing her thoughts back to her grandmother. She drew her eyebrows together in confusion. Just yesterday, Eva had flown to New York to audition for a part on a soap opera. “When did you get back?”
The older woman flounced dramatically into the room. “This afternoon.”
Beth slipped the pastel back into the box, then turned to face her grandmother. “How did it go?”
“Very well. Great, in fact.” Eva bowed deeply, as if to an adoring audience. “It’s between me and another actress, and although my agent warned me it may take awhile for the producers to make a decision, I was much better.”
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