The time had come to see them.
Chance looked up and saw her. Liza stood in a patch of sunlight, her hair a halo of fire around her head, her expression vulnerable. As he gazed at her, he thought of Beth and of a memory from his childhood—of that moment he’d realized that the mess of his parents’ marriage had nothing to do with hate but everything to do with love.
Liza’s gaze found his then, and the breath hissed from his lungs. Liza and Beth were the same person.
Ridiculous.
He shook his head to clear it, unnerved by his imaginings. Was he so obsessed with Beth that he couldn’t even separate her from her sister?
Liza smiled and crossed to him. “Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re not.” Chance signaled the waiter. “I was just enjoying an espresso and the last of the day.”
Grateful for the distraction, Beth studied the purpling sky. “This is my favorite time of day. There’s a quiet, a hushed quality to it, as if all of nature is preparing for sleep.” She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. “I can smell the ocean. It’s like perfume, don’t you think?”
Liza’s words were soft, too soft for the woman he had pegged her to be. They reminded him of her sister. Chance stared at her, the sense that something was not right eating at him.
The waiter arrived then, and Chance opened his mouth to ask Liza what she would like, then shut it as she looked over and smiled, first at him, then the waiter.
“A chocolate cappuccino,” she told the young man. “Extra whipped cream.” As the waiter walked away, she flashed Chance another saucy smile. “I like my sweets.”
“So does your sister. Like her sweets, that is. I caught her eating chocolate chips the other morning. She keeps a bag stashed in the file cabinet.”
Beth didn’t know what to say; she found it disconcerting to have someone commenting about her to her. “We’re a lot alike,” she said finally.
“But you’re also very different.”
“Yes.” Beth lowered her eyes to her hands, realizing to her horror they were clasped nervously in her lap. She relaxed them. “We are.”
“The differences are obvious.” Chance rested his elbows on the table and leaned conspiratorially toward her. “In what ways are you alike?”
She looked up at him through what she hoped were provocatively lowered lashes. “I’d rather hear about you.”
“Would you?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She trailed her fingers back and forth over the lacy wrought-iron tabletop, acknowledging that bantering would be the best way to keep him at bay, but honest enough to admit that hadn’t a thing to do with it.
Heaven help her, she was enjoying herself.
Beth swallowed. She couldn’t get caught up in this game. She couldn’t begin believing her own fantasy. If she did, she would be hurt.
With a sinking sensation. Beth realized she’d been caught up in the game from the moment it had begun. She’d wanted to believe all along.
She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Tell me something about Chance Michaels. Something I wouldn’t know from looking at you or reading a bio.”
“Let’s see...” Chance paused. “I like gangster movies and buttered popcorn, even if neither is very good. As a kid, I longed to be a professional tennis player, but I gave up the idea when I discovered girls.”
“Girls? And why was that?”
He smiled wickedly. “I didn’t have time to practice anymore. Tennis, that is.”
“Any regrets?”
“Are you kidding?”
He wiggled his eyebrows, and she laughed. “I guess not.”
Her coffee came then, and she pretended great interest in it, adding sugar, stirring and tasting, using the time to collect her thoughts. This was not proceeding according to her plan. She was flirting with him, for heaven’s sake. She was trying to attract him.
But she wanted him to be attracted to her, not a figment of her imagination. She was in deep, deep trouble.
“Your turn.” Chance propped his chin on his fist. “After all, fair’s fair.”
“All right,” she said almost defiantly, wishing she could blame anyone but herself for this messy situation. “I like rainy mornings and the sound of thunder—neither of which I get too often out here. And I positively adore listening to jazz while eating anchovy pizzas.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Anchovies?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She smiled. “But don’t offer me an olive, olives are my mortal enemies.”
He laughed. “How about drivers who don’t use their turn signals.”
“Despise them. And their counterparts who refuse to get out of the passing lane even though they have no intention of passing anyone. How about you?” She took a sip of her cappuccino. “Any pet peeves, Mr. Michaels?”
Chance thought for a moment. “Unjustified arrogance and liars.”
The coffee lodged in her throat; Beth worked to swallow it and her panic. “Really?” she managed after a moment. “And if the arrogance is justified?”
Chance shrugged and laced his fingers around his cup. “Tolerable then. But I won’t put up with phonies or deceit.”
Beth stared at him, feeling as if the world had just shifted on its axis. A moment before, she had been debating telling him the truth. She couldn’t now. Or ever. Eva had been right—if she had come clean, he would have fired her. And when the truth came out—and it would—he would never understand. Or forgive her.
She blinked against the tears that stung the back of her eyes, realizing that he’d asked her a question. “I’m sorry, what?”
“How long have you been painting?”
Her hands trembled and she curled them around her cappuccino cup. “Forever. Art’s the only subject in school I liked.”
Chance leaned back in his chair. “Did you go to art school instead of a university?”
“No.” Beth sipped her cooling drink, insecurity barreling over her. “Kansas State. And before you ask, my degree’s in business.”
“Odd choice.”
“Not if you’re Suzannah and Burt Waters’s child.” She met his gaze then. “Why so much interest?”
Chance lifted his eyebrows. “You are aware that I’m an art consultant, and that I find and launch talent.”
“Of course. I’m... Beth’s your assistant.”
He shook his head, his expression bemused. “Don’t mind me, I’m just used to artists being a little more impressed with that. And a little more excited when I express interest.”
“Is that what you’re doing? Expressing interest?”
“I thought so.” He downed the last of his now-cold espresso, then set the cup carefully on the saucer. “Is that okay? Or should I drop this now—”
“No, of course it’s okay. I’m just...” She lowered her gaze to her cappuccino, then looked back up at him. “What would you like to know?”
“Are you represented by anyone? A gallery? Another art consultant or representative?”
“No.”
“Many juried shows? Invitationals?”
Beth shook her head. “No again.”
“May I ask why not?”
“I don’t paint for money or acclaim,” she said, inching her chin up. “It’s just who I am.”
She looked away a moment, then back at him. She searched for the right words, then decided on the real ones, the ones from her heart. “I’m... protective of my art. It means everything to me, and I can’t stand the thought of... it being...” She lifted her hands, palms up. “I don’t show it much. At all, really.”
“What I’ve seen is interesting,” he said softly. “In fact, more than interesting. But I can’t truly evaluate until I’ve viewed the actual work.”
“I see.” She heard the hope, the anticipation that trembled in her voice and cursed it. Liza would not be so insecure, Liza would not be so vulnerable. Even about her art.
But she wasn’t really Liza. Beth caught her bottom lip between her teeth and gazed helplessly at him
.
Chance sucked in a sharp breath. Liza looked exactly like Beth. He frowned. Of course she did. Liza always looked exactly like Beth. That’s why they were called identical twins.
Images from the times he and Beth had spent together flashed, kaleidoscope fashion, through his head. Beth... passionate and pliant in his arms. Beth... her eyes glazed with need, clouded by hurt. Beth... vulnerable and uncertain, catching her bottom lip between her teeth.
Liza wasn’t shy and soft and heartbreakingly vulnerable. Liza didn’t make him feel possessive and protective.
And yet, for that split second, she had been all those things. And so had he.
Stunned. Chance lifted his eyes back to Liza’s. What he was thinking was impossible. Preposterous. Why would Beth pretend to be someone she was not? What could she hope to gain by such a thing? But how, he wondered, could two such supposedly different people, even though identical twins, be so much alike?
They couldn’t.
Anger rushed through him, even as he told himself he’d lost his mind. The Beth he knew was shy but direct and honest. She would never do something like this. And yet... he was certain his instincts weren’t wrong.
He had to know. And if she had tried to trick him, he wanted to know why. He had two ways of finding out: ask her or spend a little more time with her and unearth the truth himself. Only one way guaranteed the truth.
Coming to a decision. Chance reached across the table and caught her hand. “I’d like to see you again,” he said, trailing his index finger over it, slowly from wrist to thumb.
“To view my paintings?”
“No. I mean, I want to look at your work, but I want to see you again for... you.”
For a moment Beth’s heart stopped beating, then began a wild rapping against the wall of her chest. She wanted to agree to see him, badly, but the desire was impossible.
She pushed the want away and tossed her head back. “My, my, Mr. Michaels, that was direct. I like that.”
He pressed his finger to the pulse that beat wildly at her wrist, then smiled. “Good. I’m a forward kind of guy.”
“I think I’ll pass anyway.”
“I’ll call.”
“No again.”
“Why not? You want to.”
What could she say? That she couldn’t because she didn’t exist? Or that her twin sister would be brokenhearted if she did? She’d slipped over the edge of reason—she was angry and jealous over Chance’s interest in a person who was also her.
“Is... Beth the reason you won’t go?”
Her breathing stopped. “What could she have to do with this?”
He twined their fingers and leaned toward her, searching her expression. “Exactly my question.”
Beth tugged her shaking hand from his grasp. “You’re not my type. That’s all.”
Chance narrowed his eyes. She looked positively panicked: he pushed harder. “I’m exactly your type. And you’re mine. We both know it.”
“Do we?” She lifted her eyebrows coolly, haughtily. “Excuse me, I think I’ll go powder my nose.”
Aware of his eyes on her back, she sashayed slowly to the ladies’ room even though her every instinct pressed her to gallop. Once inside, she leaned against one of the tile walls, breathing heavily. The tile was cold against her heated skin, and Beth was grateful for the shock.
A woman came out of one of the stalls and looked oddly at her, and Beth managed a weak smile. Moving to the sink, she splashed cold water on her wrists and neck, then stared into the mirror.
She wanted to see him again. Not at the office. Not as employer and employee or as friends. But as man and woman. Even though it wasn’t her he wanted, even though it was madness, she wanted to be with him. Beth wet a paper towel and pressed the cold cloth to her flushed cheeks. She had to tell him no, had to end this now. The situation was already too complicated.
But she ached to kiss him.
He’d kissed her as Beth. She squeezed her eyes shut against the memory. But he didn’t want mousy little Beth who had never been any good with men, especially at attracting them. Chance wanted the bold and self-confident Liza. Chance desired a figment of her own imagination, the woman she’d always wanted to be but hadn’t had the guts to become.
It shouldn’t hurt. But it did, deeply and to the bone.
Beth stared at her fantasy self in the mirror. What would happen if she went for it? Why not take her fantasy all the way? Chance had proclaimed himself a confirmed bachelor; he ended every relationship before it got serious. He liked to have fun.
She’d never had fun. She’d never allowed herself a real-life fantasy.
She would be hurt. She would lose her job.
Both of those were givens already.
Beth closed her fingers around the damp paper towel, crushing it. If she didn’t grab this opportunity, she wouldn’t get... anything.
She wanted Chance. She wanted to be with him. Even though it was madness, even though she would be hurt.
Beth took her lipstick out of her purse. Marvelous Melon. She applied some of the color, then shook her head. Maybe she really was a multiple personality, but the truth was, she liked being Liza. She felt free, liberated. As Liza, she was able to say anything, whatever she felt, without fear of embarrassing herself. Without the damnable cloak of timidity she always wore.
If she’d decided to live out a fantasy, she might as well do it to the hilt. Have fun with it, pull out all the stops. Beth recapped the lipstick, tossed it into her bag. And that meant acting on her feelings for Chance. That meant being a bold, sensual, and confident woman.
The thought terrified her. It exhilarated her.
Choosing exhilaration, Beth headed back out to the patio.
The sun had begun its final dip in the west, and the sky behind Chance had transformed into brilliant palette that rivaled any she’d ever used. Beth paused a moment and gazed at him, regret arcing through her. If only he wanted her... Beth. If only...
She let her breath out in a determined rush and started across the patio. He didn’t want her. So she might as well stop wishing for the impossible and start living for the attainable.
With a calm and self-confidence that surprised her, Beth slipped back into her chair and flashed Chance a brilliant smile. “Where were we?”
He met her eyes. “We were talking about your sister.”
“Funny, I don’t remember that.”
“No?” Chance caught her hand. Running his finger across her knuckles, he dipped it into the juncture between her thumb and first finger. “Memory can be a selective thing. Just as truth can. What is it you remember?”
Beth worked to even her breathing. “An invitation,” she said with a calm she far from felt. “Something about anchovy pizzas and... bowling. Tomorrow night.” She saw she’d caught him by surprise, and she laughed. “We did a lot of bowling back in Kansas.”
“I haven’t been since I was a kid.”
“Me either.” She batted her eyelashes in exaggerated and contrived innocence. “Perhaps a small wager would be fun? The loser buys the pizza?”
“You’re pretty good at this, aren’t you?”
She arched an eyebrow. “This?”
He paused, then smiled. “Bowling, I mean.”
“No.” She pouted prettily. “It’s been so long, I probably won’t even be able to find the pins.”
Chapter 6
“You, Liza, are nothing less than a hustler.”
Beth looked at Chance, startled by the serious tone of his voice. “What do you mean?”
Chance held her gaze a moment, then tapped the score sheet. “That’s three strikes in a row.”
“In bowling, we call that a triple.”
“Like I said, you’re a hustler.”
Laughing, she stood and dusted her fingers with a powder bag. “Just call me Lucky Liza.”
“Lefty is more like it.” Chance mock-growled. “You’re up.”
“My, my, Mr. Michaels, a poo
r loser? I never would have expected it.” She crossed to the ball exchange and lifted her bowling ball.
“Not a poor loser, Liza. I don’t like losing at all.” Chance met her eyes once more. “And I don’t like being had.”
At that comment, Beth’s heart stopped. The day and a half since she’d agreed to this date had been agony... and ecstasy. She’d vacillated between calling the date—and this whole crazy stunt—off and being too excited to sleep.
But she hadn’t called it off, and she was having a great time even though she pretended to be someone she wasn’t, even though she’d slipped into the role so effortlessly, it scared her silly.
Then, every so often. Chance would say something that brought her smack-dab back to reality and reminded her just how absolutely insane this charade was.
Beth slipped her trembling fingers into the ball’s finger holes and tossed her head back with a cockiness she far from felt. “Still sounds like sour grapes to me.”
Ignoring his muttered comment, she positioned herself on the alley and lined up her shot. Eyes on her mark, she approached, swung and released the ball, then watched it sail down the lane, striking just to the right of the head pin. The pins exploded at the impact, all ten flying back into the pit.
“Yes!” Beth swung around, licked the tip of her index finger and touched it to her hip while making a hissing sound.
Chance leaned back in his chair, disgusted. “Is there any way to cheat at this game?”
“Are you accusing me of cheating?” she asked, sauntering back to where he sat.
“Not at all,” he said easily. “Just thinking about trying it myself.”
Beth leaned against the scoring table and smiled down at him, her hair tumbling over her shoulder. “I did a lot of bowling in Kansas.”
“You said that before.”
“Did I?” Beth managed, her heart beating slowly, heavily against the wall of her chest.
“Mmm-hmm.” Chance reached up and caught a lock of her hair and wrapped it around his finger. “How about your sister?”
“My sister?”
“I thought you had only one.”
“I do.” She swallowed. “Just Beth.”
Tempting Chance Page 8
