Shawna Delacorte - The Millionaire's Christmas Wish

During the course of their three encounters she had run away from him, ignored him, been rude to him, rejected his invitations and cast aspersions on his character. And still he could not tear himself away from her. He certainly was not a masochist nor was he so desperate for feminine companionship that he needed to put up with this type of treatment to spend a little bit of time with an attractive woman.

There was no logical reason for him to be standing there, but somehow this woman had reached out and grabbed hold of his senses as no one else ever had. She was her own woman, not what she thought someone else wanted her to be. She had her identity intact, unlike most of the women he knew who would rather attach themselves to his. It was a very appealing aspect of who she was. She was also intelligent, beautiful, independent—very independent. He could still feel her body enfolded in his embrace and taste her mouth pressed against his. She was everything a man could want.

“Well...” She nervously shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “If you’ll excuse me—”

He offered an inviting smile. “Let’s go get some coffee.”

“That’s not possible, Mr. Fowler. These are cut flowers, not plants. I need to get them back to the shop immediately and put them in the cooler.”

“Okay. We can get some coffee after you take care of the flowers. And please, call me Chance. Mr. Fowler is reserved for dear ol’ Dad, the one and only Douglas Winston Fowler.”

She stiffened to attention, literally as well as figuratively. “I don’t believe I’d feel comfortable calling you by some cute little nickname given to you by the press... ‘Take-A-Chance Fowler,’ always ready to take a chance on some new adventure...”

Her words trailed off when she saw that look dart through his eyes, the same one she had seen when she had called him a playboy. Only this time it did not disappear as quickly as it had before.

He looked away from her for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, then recaptured eye contact with her. “Chance is my legal first name, given to me at birth. It was my mother’s maiden name.”

A stab of guilt caught her up short when she saw his reaction to her words mirrored in his eyes. It was almost as if she had reached out and physically struck him. She spoke with genuine regret as she tried to apologize. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

He glanced away again before saying, his voice soft, “It doesn’t matter.”

She heard what he said, but she did not believe him. She could tell that it did matter, that it mattered very much. Without meaning to, she had hurt him and she felt bad about it. “I just assumed—”

“You seem to assume a lot.”

Chance had said the words without malice or anger, but he had not been able to hide the underlying vulnerability that seeped into his tone of voice. Marcie felt the pangs of guilt stab deep inside her. She knew she had been less than gracious. That was a laugh—she had been downright rude. Something about this quick glimpse of the man beneath the facade touched an emotional place for her. It was a different place than the excitement caused by his kiss. This was a place of caring, tenderness, and concern. She took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then slowly expelled it.

“You’re right.” The sharp edge to her voice was gone, along with her guarded attitude. “I sometimes do tend to make assumptions. It’s a bad habit of mine.” An additional softness caressed her next words. “I apologize for the crack about your name. It was totally uncalled for.”

“I’ll tell you what, Marcie Roper.” He reached out and ran his fingertips across her cheek, then cupped her chin in his hand. He plumbed the depths of her eyes. He saw uncertainty, wariness, and something else... a warmth and a passion that he very much wanted to tap into. He quickly allowed his hand to drop away as the temptation to kiss her grew stronger. “You can make it up to me by joining me for a drink when you get off work tonight.”

She glanced down at the ground, indecision churning inside her. “I—I don’t know.”

“Now that’s what I call an improvement—you didn’t reject my invitation outright. You’ve left it open for discussion.” He placed his fingertips underneath her chin again and gently raised her face until he could look into her eyes. “Why don’t we try for the next level, where you agree to have dinner with me this evening?”

“You’re certainly a fast worker.” A shy smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “A minute ago it was coffee, then it became a drink after work, and now it’s dinner tonight.”

“You should have accepted my invitation at the coffee level. Now, it’s too late. Besides, you owe me.” He saw her objection start to form, and quickly cut it off before she could give it a voice. “You owe me the opportunity to prove that your preconceived notions about me are wrong.”

He flashed a teasing grin. “Surely you wouldn’t deny me my Constitutional right of being innocent until proven guilty...” His smile faded as he searched out her vulnerability and caressed the essence of her soul. “Would you?”

“I suppose I do owe you that much.” There was a hint of concern surrounding Marcie’s words. She was not sure exactly how she had gotten herself into this predicament.

“Good.” Chance’s face literally beamed his pleasure at her acceptance. “When will you be finished with work? What time should I pick you up? And where—at the nursery or at your house?”

“No... I mean, it would be more convenient if I met you somewhere.” The last thing she wanted was to be trapped someplace where she could not conveniently and quickly leave if things turned out the way she feared they probably would. She caught herself, putting an immediate stop to the direction her thoughts were taking her. She was making assumptions again. He had been correct, it was a bad habit. It was something she needed to work on.

He hesitated a moment, then gave in to her request. “All right. How about the Crestview Bay Bistro? The food there is good, the atmosphere comfortable, and the ocean view is terrific.”

“Sure, that will be fine.” She wondered if he had picked the bistro as a convenience for her since it was close to the nursery, or if it was someplace he really wanted to go. “What time?”

“You tell me... I don’t know your work schedule.”

She thought a moment. With Sandy out sick she would not be able to get away early. “How about seven o’clock? Will that be okay?”

He flashed a smile of genuine pleasure. “That will be absolutely perfect. I’ll make reservations.” He reached for her hand and gave it a little squeeze—not what he wanted to do, but it would have to suffice for the moment. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She watched him shove the cart toward the collection point outside the main entrance of the building. A hint of anxiety churned in her stomach. She quickly climbed into her van and headed out of the parking lot before he could return. She had made the commitment to have dinner with him. She was obligated to show up. Another hint of anxiety shuddered through her body. It was not trepidation. She was certainly not afraid of him. But it was anxiety none the less. Could it be her own feelings and emotions that she feared? It was an unanswered question that did not sit well with her.

Chance returned to his car just in time to see Marcie pull out of the parking lot. He was not sure exactly why he was so attracted to her, beyond the obvious of her being a very enticing woman. Was it merely the challenge of charming someone who kept rejecting him, or did it go much deeper than the shallowness of a physical attraction? He was not really sure he wanted to know the answer to that question, but the possibilities definitely disturbed him and at the same time they excited him.

For the first time in his life he seemed to be treading a thin line between playing a game and being drawn into what could only end up as a serious relationship. There was no doubt in his mind that with Marcie it could never be a casual affair. She was not the type of woman who would be willing to play games just for the fun of it. No matter how many times he told himself to get out and move on to something that was less of a threat, he did not seem to be able to do it.

Three

Chance arrived at the bistro nearly half an hour early. He secured a quiet table in a corner of the cocktail lounge and ordered a beer. It had been a bad day all around, starting with the insistent ringing of his phone as he arrived home from the flower mart.

The phone call had been from Hank Varney, apprising him that one of his students had gotten into trouble again. He had to admit that he was not surprised about Jeff being picked up for car theft, but it still upset him more than he wanted to admit. He knew he could not expect to have a one hundred percent success rate with the program, but when one of his students turned to criminal ways, Chance always took it personally.

Which brought him to another point of contention between Chance and his father. When he’d first come up with the plan to take school dropouts, disadvantaged older teens, and those who were having a difficult time of it because of an arrest record for minor offenses, and teach them a trade so they could make it in the world, his father had been vehemently against it.

“Can’t trust these punks... They’ll rob you blind... There will be no sponsorship from any of my companies.” His father’s words rang loud and clear in his ears, even five years later. That had been the last time he had attempted to talk to his father about it. Chance had gone ahead on his own and implemented his ideas, only on a smaller scale. He had formed a nonprofit organization, then established a working relationship with two contractors, one in San Diego and the other in San Francisco, where Chance maintained a second home.

It had taken all his charm and persuasive powers to convince the city and state officials whose agencies could recommend candidates for his program that he was sincere about wanting to help. It had been the largest hurdle for him—getting them to see him as something other than a spoiled son of a wealthy and powerful man, who was only playing at having a social conscience.

Chance bought fixer-upper houses and his students, under the supervision of a licensed contractor, did the repairs and remodeling. Once the property was sold, the profits were used to finance the next project, including wages for the students. The contractors would then work the graduating students into their respective construction crews as fully paid employees.

For the past five years everything had gone pretty much according to plan. But every now and then one of his students made a grab for what seemed like easy money rather than perform hard work. He had had such high hopes for Jeff, so it was with a heavy heart that he had left the jail that afternoon after talking to him. There had been no remorse on Jeff’s part, only arrogance and defiance. Chance’s failures were few and far between, but this particular one had upset him more than the others.

He continued to ponder the unfortunate turn of circumstances as he sipped his beer. Jeff’s arrest was not the only upsetting news of the day. He had received an e-mail just before leaving home to meet Marcie for dinner. He unfolded the printout and stared at it again.

Marcie arrived at the Bistro promptly at seven o’clock. She had barely found enough time to go home, take a quick turn through the shower, and change clothes. She spotted Chance seated by himself in the corner of the cocktail lounge. He seemed to be studying a piece of paper. The pensive expression on his face said he was troubled about something. She watched him for a moment before crossing the room to his table.