Second Chances

Chapter One





Present day . . .





It was a dreary Sunday afternoon in June, and Holly Olivia Jefferson was bored to tears. Bored, bored, bored. Lord knows there was nothing on television worth watching - a hundred and seventy-four channels at sixty-five dollars a month and not a blasted thing to watch, she groused to herself. Not that she was easily entertained, though; if it wasn't a documentary on British history - preferably pre-Victorian - or a Rogers and Hammerstein musical or The Godfather - she was likely to shut the boob tube off and pick up a book. But right now none of her favorite authors had anything out; she'd devoured Narcissus in Chains the instant it was released, leaving a barren two year gap before there'd be another installment of Anita Blake and Jean Luc's adventures. And aside from the occasional biography of such eclectic favorites as Gene Simmons, Lucille Ball, and Wallis Simpson, nothing much appealed to her . . . even her "recreational reading" of erotic fiction. It was a low ebb in her cycle and even that wasn't particularly titillating right now.

She was so bored and desperate for something to do, in fact, that she decided to finally start scanning all of those family pictures she'd crammed into one of those storage boxes that fits under the bed - and that had to be plenty bored. Of course, each of the pictures of herself, her sisters, her family and friends had to be oohed and ahhed over, favorite memories pouring over her like hot fudge over a generous scoop of Ben and Jerry's World's Best Vanilla.

Her face twisted into a sad grin as she picked up one picture in particular: Chance Thompson. He was full-frontal in a plaid flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots, which might well have looked nerdy on any other guy. But not him. Six-foot-six and two hundred ninety pounds of drop-dead gorgeous on the hoof, with a crooked smile and usually gentle gray eyes that could make even a modern, liberated woman swoon at fifty paces without his even having to think much about it.

Holly caught her breath at the sight of him, as she always did, feeling the same damned rush of excitement he always generated deep within her. He'd been the love of her life for all of her life; since before she could remember, he'd been the only man for her. The only man she'd ever had any interest in at all, to whom she'd given her virginity without the slightest hint of a reservation - beyond concern for the pain, of course.

. . . the man who had torn her heart out and stomped it into the pavement in front of her.

Tears filled Holly's eyes, and that familiar background ache that had slowly ebbed to a dull throb over the past year came rushing eagerly to the forefront with all of its "how-could-he's" and "how-could-I-have-been-so-stupid's."

Still, even now, all she wanted in this world was his hard arms around her one more time.

Would she ever get over him? Holly sighed long and low. Apparently not. A glutton for punishment, she was. Or, as her Mom would say, a glutton at the least.

After a long moment wallowing in deep pain, she turned back to the box of pictures, leaving Chance's soft gaze staring at her from the top of the kitchen garbage can. He'd hurt her enough for one lifetime. Holly gritted her teeth. She wasn't going to let him do it again.



Only a year ago . . .



Holly sat straight up in bed as the phone blared from the nightstand beside her. Half-angry, half petrified, half-still-sleepy, she glanced blearily at the time. 12:45 A.M. Slapping the speaker-phone button, she growled, "Somebody had damned well better be dead for you to be calling me at this hour." Her tone did not invite further conversation.

His voice, as always, was all that was needed to bring her nipples to tight, aching peaks and make moisture begin to collect and drip lazily on to the plain-Jane white cotton panties she wore to bed along with a little-girlish baby-doll nightie, since he wasn't there with her to prevent her from wearing any clothes to bed. "Tsk, tsk, Holly. You'd better start watching your language unless you want me to start watching it for you." Chance could hear her exasperated sigh, picturing her lying naked in their bed and punching the pillow as if she wished it was his face. Holly hated it when he called her in the middle of the night, but his nightly nine o'clock phone call when he was on duty was delayed due to a gunshot wound, an eighty year old lady with an "aching vagina", and a premature birth. "You can stick your tongue out at me all you like, but you were the one who mentioned to me that you wanted to try to curb your swearing."

How could he have known that she'd had her tongue poking out of her mouth at him well before he'd even finished his sentence?! Blast him; he'd always had her pegged to a "t". She'd be damned if she'd confirm or deny his audacious statement.

"And you can pull your lower lip in, too."

"Chance! Cut that out!" she huffed and puffed, rolling around angrily, impatiently throwing off the comforter that she'd just cuddled under a few seconds ago.

Oh, man, that warm, rumbly chuckle flowed over every inch of her skin, making it feel too tight to bear, too sensitive for the slight weight of even just the summer gown. "Nope. No one knows you like I do, sweetie." His voice took on a harder, possessive edge. "No one else is ever going to get the chance, if I have my way."

"Don't you go there," she warned sharply. "Besides, you always get your way."

"Yeah, you're definitely abused." Somehow, he sounded extremely doubtful, for a reason that Holly couldn't fathom.

"You're right. I am."

"Uh-huh. Not nearly as often as you should be, anyway."

"Nuh-uh." Holly's legs began to shift restlessly, as if he was there with her, looking down his crooked nose at her with that "you're gonna get a spanking" look of his.

"Uhhhhh-huuuhhhh, baby. I know just what you need, Holly - whether it's a smack on your bottom every once in a while to keep you in line, or some good lovin' to keep you satisfied - "

Holly began to choke noisily. "Cough, cough - bullshit - cough, cough."

"Uh-oh," Chance warned firmly. "You'd better watch yourself, little lady, or you'll get a spankin' for using language like that."

"Oh, no!" she replied in mock terror. "Hmmmmmm . . . Should I get scared now, or wait 'til later?" she wondered allowed sarcastically, even though a spanking from Chance was nothing to sniff at.

Chance laughed in spite of himself at her antics. He was glad she had no fear of him. "You are a brat. I'm definitely going to have to start taking you over my knee more often, I can see."

Talk like that always made Holly very, very warm, and he knew it! She was moving agitatedly while lying on her back, as if she was doing the "well-spanked girl" dance in bed. "No! You can't do that!"

"Of course, I can, honey. It would be for your own good."

Holly whimpered into the phone. "Stop that! You're too blasted good at this!"

His reply could not have sounded more smug, even though he was aiming for vacuous. "Good at what?" Chance asked, and she could just picture how wide-eyed his expression would be, as if he couldn't possibly imagine what she was talking about.

"Being bossy. And dominant. And pushy."

"Comes with the territory," he was entirely unapologetic about his take-charge personality. "Can't very well be wishy-washy when I'm treating a patient in the field, now can I?"

"Humph."

"I did call with a purpose, though."

"How unusual. And what might that be, pray tell?"

"Watch your tone of voice, there, smarty-pants. I thought you might like to meet me for breakfast at Sunny's since tomorrow's Sunday and neither of us has to work for a living . . .?"

Visions of a Sunny's breakfast danced through her brain - cinnamon-nutmeg pancakes dripping with butter and real maple syrup, apple-smoked bacon, home fries - just the way he'd known it would, she was sure. But she was going to be firm with herself, and with him, if it killed her. And it likely would. "I can't. I'm on a diet."

His sigh was just this side of exasperated. "Holl, I'm going to tell you this again. And I'm gonna keep on telling you for the rest of our lives, since it apparently doesn't want to sink into the concrete between your ears: I don't care what you weigh. . You're gorgeous. You're beautiful. You're funny and you're smart. I love you the way you are." He paused a second, adopting a Mafia accent for his next line. "You want I should sing it, maybe?"

"God no!" Chance was one of the smartest, most capable men she'd ever know - he reminded her of her father tremendously in those ways, which was a great compliment to him. But one thing he could not do to save his life was sing on key. It was positively torture for her to listen to him murder any song he decided to "sing" - and she used the term very loosely. "Anything but that! No, no, pleeeeaaasssee don't sing at me - Billy Joel would roll over in his grave!"

"Billy Joel is still alive, Holly."

"But hearing you sing that song - even from several states away - would kill him deader'n a mackerel."

"I don't think we need to worry about Mr. Joel hearing me sing any time soon," Chance replied wryly. "So, you don't have to skip breakfast with me. If you want to watch what you eat, fine. But I will not allow you to do one of those stupid diets, like just eating tofu or eating nothing but graham crackers."

"I wasn't going to do that," she replied indignantly.

"Good. So come to breakfast and have something sensible. Have one pancake instead of three. Have fresh fruit and orange juice and low fat milk and two pieces of bacon instead of four . . . "

"Yes, dear."

"Grrrrr. Don't start that with me. You know how I hate it when you say 'yes, dear' to everything just to placate me. I'm going to be at Sunny's at eight. If you're not there, I'm going to come and get you."

"Chaaaa-aaance!" She knew that if he said he would come and get her, then by eight-thirty or so, come hell or high water, she'd be sitting in Sunny's, and he'd be none to happy with her for making him go get her.

"Holll-yyyyyyy," he sing-songed back at her. "Do as you're told, woman."

"Bite me."

"Mmmmmmm. That can definitely be arranged . . . or at least some very gentle nipping . . . and some extremely eager suckling . . ." He whimpered. It was always amusing to hear a man of Chance's size whimper like a lonely puppy - or in this case, a horny puppy. "Is it hot in here?"

Holly giggled. "It's been hot here for me since you started talking! I don't know about where you are."

"Believe me; it's very, very hot here. And also extremely hard to the point of being uncomfortable, frankly." She heard him groan a little and knew he was making an "adjustment". "I hate uniform pants."

"Poor baby!"

"Damn straight!"

"Hey, watch your language there, buster."

"I'm not the one who was trying to cut down on swearing. I don't swear very often, do I?"

She hated it when he was right. "Yeah, yeah. Still."

"Still I expect you to be there at eight, young lady."

"Uh-huh," she replied noncommittally.

"If you end up spending Sunday with a sore bottom, don't come crying to me, little girl," he warned, and Holly knew it was more than a warning; it was a promise if she didn't do as he said.

"Why would I go crying to you when you'd be the one who warmed my bottom in the first place?"

"Because you always come crying to me."

"I hate it when you're right. Cut it out."

He sighed audibly. "I can't help it. I'm always right." No ego in his family, Holly though wryly, he got it all. Chance was one of those rare men who pretty much never experienced a moment of doubt. He knew exactly what he was doing at all times - he'd known what he wanted to do as a kid, worked hard through school and college, gotten a job in the hometown he loved, and settled in to help people and do what he loved - emergency medicine. Chance was a fire fighter/paramedic and a damned good one . . . of course. He could do anything any other fireman could do, but it was no secret that being a paramedic was what he loved to do.

"Grrrrr."

Chance laughed. "Well, you go back to sleep, sweetie, and I'll see you at Sunny's."

"Uh-huh," Holly grumbled.

"Nightie-night. Sleep tight."

"I never sleep good when you're not home," she pouted blatantly.

"Awwwww. That's cute. You'll be fine. Don't forget to set your alarm so you'll have time to get ready before breakfast. I'll see you tomorrow, baby."

"Night, Chance."

"Night, hunny-bunny. Dream of me."

"Always."

"Love you."

"Love you, too."

The dial tone screamed so loudly she smacked the button again to disconnect, then rolled over, turning his pillow lengthwise on the bed and hugging it as if it was him. Despite his reassuring call, it still took her a long while to fall asleep.

Chance, on the other hand, got a call on his cell phone not five seconds after he hung up with Holly. It was someone he didn't want to hear from, but that he was getting a lot of entirely unwanted attention from - the chief's daughter, Greta Landon.

"Hello?" he answered in as neutral tone as he could muster.

"Chancy-wancy, it's me, your Greta!"

Chance's eyes were in danger of rolling right out of his head. He hated it when she called him that. Hell, he hated it when she called, but what was he supposed to do about it? Jimmy Landon held Chance's career in his hand - his job and his ability to go to extra training classes as well as appropriating money for school if Chance decided to become a physician's assistant. Chance knew the man; he would not take kindly to some young upstart paramedic giving his daughter the brush off.

And it wasn't like Greta was ugly; in fact she was quite beautiful. Any man with eyes couldn't help but want her. She was five-nine and probably weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds or so, she had full, generous breasts, a tiny waist and inviting, almost always pouting, lips - even an eighty-year old would stiffen in her vicinity, and he'd be all right with her as long as he didn't try to use words of more than one syllable or talk about any other topic with her other than herself. Enlightened she wasn't.

"Hello, Greta. It's a little late for you to be up, isn't it?" He tried to keep the comment light, but if she hadn't been so wrapped up in herself she couldn't have missed the reluctance in his tone.

"Not for me, hot stuff. I'm a night owl." She could afford to be - her father still bankrolled her completely, even though she was twenty-five years old, paying for her apartment and all her bills. Jimmy Landon wanted his daughter to be happy, and he would do pretty much anything for her - even sacrifice a fire fighter/paramedic on the altar of her ego. "I just get horny at night, not sleepy."

"Oh."

"So, when are you and I going to get together, loverboy?" her voice lowered several octaves, as if she was lying next to him in bed.

Chance sighed, but deliberately kept his voice very soft and gentle. "You know that I'm with Holly, Greta."

"Who?" came the vacuous reply.

He'd explained this to her when she'd first begun to show an interest in him. "Holly. The woman I live with. I'm faithful to her, Greta, and I'll never be anything but."

Greta completely balked at the idea that some fat girl had the man she wanted. Especially a man who looked as delectable as Chance. "Oh, face it, Chance, she could never give what you need, what you want - "

"On the contrary. She gives me everything I want and need."

"But, Chancey, how could you possibly choose her over me?"

Obviously that idea was entirely abhorrent to her. "Greta, why don't you call Pete? I know for a fact that he'd love to take you out - " Peter Gallegos was one of the firemen on Chance's father's shift.

"I don't want Pete, Chance, I want you!" Chance could easily picture her stomping her foot for emphasis.

"Well, I'm sorry, Greta. I'm taken."

She laughed softly, and it worried Chance. "We'll see, Chancey-wancy. We'll just see about that."

Click.

Chance turned off his cell phone, but he knew that that was not the end of it, and he was right. He got emails, he got instant messages, phone calls, phone messages . . . all were Greta professing her love . . . well, her endearing lust for him, anyway. He tried to ignore it - and her - as much as possible, but it was uncomfortable at best and annoying as hell at worst.

He certainly wasn't going to mention any of them to Holly - she was so insecure about her looks and their relationship in general - if she knew that Greta had set her sights on him, she'd probably throw up her hands and tell Greta to have at him, and that was the last thing Chance wanted. He shook his head as he headed for bed. Heaven forbid Holly ever found out that Greta was chasing him.