Her Last Chance

by Michele Albert

  His cell phone rang, and it took him a moment to locate it beneath the paper and files on his desk. “DeLuca.”

  “Vinnie, it’s Steve. She’s at her hotel. You told me to call you when she got back.”

  Despite Cookson’s warning, and his own resolve to shake off this woman’s hold over him, Vincent asked, “Is she alone?”

  “Naw. She’s with some guy. Looks like a moneyman.”

  Barely out of jail and already back to business as usual. She was quick, resourceful, and always seemed to land on her feet. He had to give her credit for that. He felt a sharp twist in his gut at hearing she was with a man.

  “What do you want me to do now, Vinnie?”

  “Go on home. I won’t need you to watch her anymore.”

  “You sure? You said you wanted—”

  “I know, but the situation’s changed. I owe you a couple beers for all the shit I’ve had you do these past few weeks.”

  “Hey, I didn’t mind. I needed to work more on my tailing techniques, and she’s nice to look at. A lot nicer than a lot of other people I’ve tailed.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. Tell you what, the next hot babe we gotta follow, your name will be the first on my list.”

  Steve laughed, and after ending the call Vincent spent the next hour writing up a report, then decided to call it quits. The case hadn’t cracked wide open, but he still deserved to celebrate with more than pizza and beer at home.

  Hell, he’d go out for pizza and beer. Maybe he’d really splurge and order a deluxe burger meal instead of pizza.

  The federal building was by the Old City neighborhood, and Vincent headed for Claudia’s hotel without even thinking. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he made up his mind to pass the hotel, but then he spotted a parking spot across the street and pulled into it instead.

  As the car idled, he stared down at his hands on the steering wheel, white-knuckled with tension. Okay, no regrets for what he’d done last night, not really, but . . . it still bothered him. Arresting her made him feel like a cheat, and when he won, he wanted it to be fair.

  Not that she’d give a damn about his reasons or explanations, and everything he knew about Claudia Cruz told him she’d play to win by any means, foul or fair. Still, talking with her seemed like the right thing to do. They’d never had a civil conversation before he’d had her arrested though, so what were the chances of having one now?

  Vincent climbed out and leaned against the door, tugging his tie loose as the humidity latched onto him like an energy-sucking parasite. While traffic sped past, he observed the lights turning on and off along the nine-storied rectangle of the building, an ever-changing checkerboard of light and dark, with an occasional shadow moving behind the draperies. The window of Claudia’s room remained dark.

  The FBI had a long history of using whatever means possible to gain necessary information, but he’d handled this situation with Claudia all wrong, and he had to face up to it. It didn’t help that she’d willingly opened herself to risk while he’d sat on his ass in his office, complacent in the safety imposed by the long list of rules and regulations he was sworn to obey. Most of the time he didn’t bother carrying his gun, since working the Art Squad didn’t even involve drama, much less danger.

  As Vincent realized that he actually envied Claudia Cruz, a taxi pulled up in front of the hotel, and a familiar head of copper-colored hair emerged.

  A man followed Claudia out of the taxi. Tall, dark, expensive suit. This would be “the moneyman,” probably Sheridan’s top-gun lawyer who outsharked the sharks.

  The man leaned down and spoke to the cabdriver, then joined Claudia. They talked, and although she touched his arm, laughing, he kept his hands in his pockets.

  Vincent grunted, understanding the fear all too well, that if he touched her, it was all over. Adios, self-control.

  Claudia suddenly turned and looked right at him. He held her gaze, hating that she’d caught him watching her, yet inexplicably pleased that he had her attention.

  She turned back to her companion, a brief, gesture-laden conversation followed, and the man also turned to stare at him.

  Damn. This was awkward.

  Just as Vincent turned away, Claudia grabbed her companion’s tie, yanked him down, and kissed him.

  And not a friendly peck on the cheek, or a polite thank-you-for-bailing-me-out-of-jail kiss, either. Vincent could tell it involved tongue, and plenty of it. The man took his hands out of his pockets, grabbed Claudia’s hips, and pulled her close.

  Aware that this performance was for his benefit, Vincent wasn’t sure if he should feel angry or flattered.

  They separated after a moment, exchanged a few words, and Claudia walked into the hotel alone. Her companion spoke again to the cabdriver, then started across the street. He took his time, hands back in his pockets: just out for a casual evening stroll. Aside from the mouth and jaw marked with red lipstick, the shirt partially pulled from his pants, and the tie hanging askew, he didn’t act like someone who, only moments before, had had his hands full of one hot woman.

  Stopping in front of Vincent, he said flatly, “DeLuca.”

  “Yeah. Who are you?”

  “Someone who’d like to talk away from traffic.” He cocked his head to one side. “I hear you have a temper, and as I’ve had a pleasant night, I’d rather it not end in a messy death for either of us.”

  Vincent stepped back to the sidewalk, and the other man followed. “You’re Sheridan’s lawyer.”

  “Ron Levine, and since you already know who I am, let’s keep this short.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Vincent said softly, resenting that smear of lipstick—and his sudden irrational urge to ask the sonofabitch how she’d tasted.

  “Stay away from Ms. Cruz.”

  “I try, but she keeps coming after me.” Vincent gave a what’s-a-guy-gonna-do? shrug. “So how come I get the lecture and she doesn’t?”

  “I’m sure you have a reasonable excuse for being outside her hotel,” Levine said, as if he hadn’t heard the question. “And I’m sure I don’t have to explain the term restraining order to you. After all, you are a law enforcement agent.”

  Dick. “Any more words of wisdom?”

  “Only a warning, O Zealous One.” Levine smiled. “Sheridan is protective of his people. They’re family. You don’t want to mess with the family.”

  “The godfather-speak is a nice touch. Nothing like a hot summer night for melodrama.”

  “I’m giving you the basic facts,” Levine answered, not rising to the bait. “If you’re as smart as your supervisor claims, you’ll pay attention.”

  Again with the sarcasm.

  “Guess she really kissed you good,” Vincent said, motioning toward the bright red smear.

  Any other man would’ve instinctively wiped it away; Levine’s hands stayed in his pockets. In spite of himself, Vincent admired a self-confidence that rock solid. The man honestly didn’t give a damn that he was walking around with lipstick all over his face.

  “Yes, she certainly kissed me good.” Still wearing that condescending smile, Levine recrossed the street and got into the cab.

  Vincent watched until the taxi was lost in traffic, then turned toward the hotel, where a glowing window now marked Claudia’s room.

  The time for confrontation had arrived, but this hot-blooded, hot-tempered woman had been sitting in jail most of the day because of him. Charging up to her room might be the movie-style tough guy thing to do, but a real-world smart guy would give her time enough to cool down—and time enough for him to come up with a plan of action that wouldn’t end with a knee in his balls.

  Chapter Six

  Because a promise was a promise, Claudia searched for any bugs and hidden cameras inside her room. Having wired her share of hotels and vehicles, she knew all the tricks—probably better than Vincent, who struck her as less the “stealth” type than the “direct” type.

  Then again, he’d been watching her wh
en she came back from dinner with Levine. Maybe she’d read him wrong all along. Or maybe, like anyone, he had his breaking point and she had pushed him too far. Sometimes, she got a little too caught up in the chase and lost sight of the fact that living, breathing, fallible humans were involved.

  Her good mood began to fade as she continued her search. It didn’t take long, despite her thoroughness. She double-checked and triple-checked, but the room was clean.

  She’d begun a fourth round when she realized what she was doing, and why, and forced herself to stop.

  After stripping down to her bra and panties, she flopped onto the bed, reluctant to admit her crazy jumble of emotion boiled down to disappointment that she hadn’t found anything. She’d had plans for those recording devices, plans involving lots of sexy groaning and gasping and shouts of “Harder, harder!” and “Oh, God . . . yes, yes!”

  Stakeouts were boring as hell, and the Feds would probably appreciate a little fun, even at their expense. It would be more fun for her if Vincent were eavesdropping, but obviously that wasn’t going to happen.

  So why had he been outside her hotel? A little zing of delight had gone through her when she spotted him, although seconds later anger had burned the pleasure to ash, and she’d kissed Levine in retaliation. Levine had been most accommodating, and the kiss had been nice. So nice that she shouldn’t have been thinking of Vincent DeLuca at all.

  Failing to ignore Vincent was bad enough, and now she felt this restless need to see if his car was still parked across the street. Worse yet, she was really, truly disappointed he hadn’t bugged her room, even though the possibility had been laughably remote.

  So . . . why the disappointment?

  Claudia closed her eyes with a sigh, guilt sneaking up on her unawares.

  Because it was something she would’ve done. Because it would’ve brought him down to her level. Because it would be so much easier if he fell so low. Because he’d said, When it comes to enforcing laws, there’s no gray area for me.

  It still surprised her, how much those words had hurt.

  Every clash with him reminded her of what she’d lost, of those she’d left hurting and disappointed. After what had gone down in Dallas, she didn’t even want to try to go back to law enforcement. Maybe some police force would’ve been desperate enough to take her, but not the FBI. Never in a million years, even if their hands were no cleaner than her own. Except for agents like Vincent DeLuca, who truly lived up to the myth, whom she envied, and whom she so resented because he underscored all her weaknesses and moral frailties.

  The last thing she needed was Vincent acting as her conscience, the little angel on her shoulder telling her to shape up, or else.

  With a snort of disgust, she sat up. Horny and lonely—always a bad combination, and a few glasses of wine and some heavy-duty kissing had only made the itch harder to ignore. She should have asked Levine up to the room. A night of hard, sweaty sex would’ve kept her too busy to feel sorry for herself, and Ben’s lawyer didn’t care about the purity of her morals or the state of her immortal soul.

  The sex would have been good, too; she had an eye for that sort of skill. Guys like Ron Levine had to be the best at everything, and all that intensity, restless energy, and pure male arrogance, usually translated to a great lay, if a short-term one.

  Wasn’t it just her luck that Vincent DeLuca had all that going for him, as well as being honest, incorruptible, dedicated, loyal, and a damn good lawman?

  Claudia perched on the edge of the bed, suddenly aware of the generic feel and smell of the place, its impermanence. The darkness and the silence . . . and the isolation.

  A sharp knock on the door startled her. She hesitated, wondering who it could be, then grinned. Levine, probably wanting to see if she was playing hard to get.

  Lucky for them both, all she wanted right now was a hot man to ride her all through the night and keep her body humming so she didn’t have time for moping or brooding.

  Halfway to the door, she realized it could also be Vincent. He’d come to the hotel for something—if not to keep her under surveillance, then what? Smile fading, she reached for a T-shirt in her suitcase, then changed her mind. If it was Levine, her being half-naked would save them both the annoyance of awkward small talk. Maybe even foreplay. If it was DeLuca . . .

  Narrowing her eyes, Claudia crossed the room, peered through the door peep, and let out her breath in a soft huff.

  Not the man she wanted to see. No, scratch that. Exactly the man she wanted to see, but for all the wrong reasons.

  Should she ignore him? Let him stew out there in frustration? Call for security? Open the door just wide enough to punch him in the face?

  “Claudia, I know you’re in there. Open up.” The muffled voice sounded tense.

  When was he ever anything but tense? The man seriously needed a sexual intervention. It would do him a world of good if some woman worked him over until his muscles turned to jelly and reduced his mind to nothing sharper than the fuzz on a baby’s head. Hell, it would be a service to humanity.

  And what a cause to martyr herself over.

  Claudia opened the door as far as the security bar allowed. “What do you want?” she asked calmly, not missing how his eyes widened when he saw what she was wearing. Or not wearing.

  After a moment, he managed to drag his gaze up from her bare belly and cleavage, and the heat in those dark eyes sparked a low, sweet tug of desire. Her nipples tingled with the electric charge of his nearness, tightening in response.

  “To talk,” Vincent said. “I just want to talk.”

  Like hell he did. He might say that, but his eyes told a different story. It unsettled her, and even what little she could see of Vincent through the thin opening was too much. Dark, wary eyes with those ridiculously long, thick lashes, the aggressive five-o’clock shadow, a bit of chest hair peeking above the opened shirt and undershirt, that skinny black tie hanging loose. He smelled like summer nights and musky male . . . and beer.

  “You’ve been drinking,” she said.

  “I meant to come right up, but I had to work up to it first.”

  She felt a perplexing mix of surprise, amusement, offense . . . and hurt. “The prospect of seeing me is that terrifying, huh?”

  “No . . . not exactly.” His words, careful and cautious, appeared directed at her breasts. He shifted, clearly uncomfortable, providing her a glimpse of a forearm, all lean muscle dusted with dark hair. The ache of desire tightened, hungering with a will of its own.

  How easy it would be to reach out and run a fingernail along the curve of his neck to the hollow at his throat, leaving her mark on him.

  She wanted to mark him. She wanted to slip off that tie and use it on him in a way that would make that broad, beautiful back arch in a need as powerful as her own.

  “I wanted to talk to you about a few things, and I was thinking . . . Shit, Claudia, just let me in. I don’t want to do this in a hallway.”

  Vincent’s impatience cut across her thoughts, stirring her instincts of self-preservation and reminding her she couldn’t afford to do anything stupid ever again.

  “Too bad. You’re not coming inside, DeLuca, and I don’t want to talk to you tonight. Try again when I’m in a better mood.”

  “Which will be never.”

  “Probably.” She pushed the door closed—or tried to. His shoe blocked it. Annoyed, she looked back up and mockingly asked, “Feeling guilty, are we?”

  “No,” he snapped, his jaw muscles tightening, before adding evenly, “Not exactly.”

  “So what exactly is this all about?”

  He scowled. “Open the goddamn door.”

  “When nothin’ else works, try threats? Trouble is, I don’t scare so easy.”

  Instead of biting back, he suddenly smiled—a slow, sheepish grin that scattered her anger and frustration, and almost melted her resolve. That flash of charm, its unexpected warmth and sweetness, took her completely by surprise. It hadn’t occur
red to her that he wasn’t permanently prickly and difficult . . . that he might actually be a decent guy, if she gave him half a chance.

  He wouldn’t get that chance tonight. Not if she could hold on to her resolve for another five minutes, anyway.

  “A temporary truce,” he said, as if sensing her fading resistance. “I swear it.”

  If he swore a promise, he’d keep it. He was that kind of man. Was a truce what she wanted, though? She was horny, unsettled, weary of rented rooms and lonely beds and all the lies and threats . . . No, no. Letting him past the door would be a very bad idea.

  “Please?” Again the flash of charm, the hint of warmth. “I feel stupid standing out here. People are staring.”

  Poor baby. He should’ve sat through her day.

  Her wavering resolve hardened. “I said no.” At the disappointment in his gaze, she reluctantly added, “Let me sleep on it. If I decide I want to talk to you, I’ll be at the lobby bar tomorrow night at ten.”

  He let out a sigh. “All right. Fair enough.”

  Fair? Fair would be an apology, but he’d never admit a mistake; she wasn’t good enough for that. Claudia waited for him to move his foot, and when he didn’t, she stared pointedly down at his shoe. She could still feel his gaze on her, physical as a touch along the curves of her breasts, the length of her belly, the lace of her panties, and all the way down to her bare toes.

  Good enough to take to bed, though, the prick. “I want to shut the door.”

  “Did you know it was me knocking?”

  The question caught her off guard, until she realized the intent behind it. “Not until I looked through the peephole.”

  “You thought it was the lawyer.”

  “Maybe.”