Her Last Chance

by Michele Albert

  “So the outfit’s for my sake. I should’ve known.”

  “Really? And how can you be so sure it’s not just because I don’t care what you think of me?”

  “Because I know you.”

  Hot anger rolled over her—and a little something like fear. Her fingers tightened on the door. “You know nothing about me, DeLuca. Nothing at all. You see what I let you see; you know what I let you know. The rest of it belongs to me.”

  He’d only ever see the self-confident woman she’d worked so hard and fought so long to become—never that little brown-skinned girl from the wrong side of town, the wrong side of the border, the wrong side of everything.

  Vincent’s eyes narrowed. “I guess that explains why, when you look at me, you only see what you want to see, too.”

  The instant he stepped back, Claudia slammed the door in his face, closed the security bar, and clicked the lock into place. Retreating to the bed in the safety of darkness, she fell against the mattress, bouncing into its softness. Its vast, empty softness.

  God, how had she let him get to her like that? She was a grown woman, a professional, a—

  “Ah, shit!” Claudia bolted upright, glancing at the alarm clock. She’d forgotten to call Ben. But it was still early by West Coast time. Besides, the man never seemed to sleep; sometimes she wondered if he was even human.

  She dug around in her purse for the cell phone she was using this month and dialed his private number. It rang four times before he answered.

  “Sheridan.”

  “Hi, Ben. It’s Claudia.”

  “It’s about time. I spoke with Ron. He said everything went well and you’re in the clear.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that . . . and sorry for the trouble. I really didn’t think anything like that would happen.”

  “Don’t worry about DeLuca. I’ll take care of him.”

  Unease prickled. “It’s okay. Really. DeLuca’s just doing his job. No hard feelings on my end.”

  After a brief silence, Ben asked, “Any progress in getting to the bottom of these incidents?”

  She didn’t like the avoidance, though it shouldn’t have mattered. Protecting her was Ben Sheridan’s job, and it hadn’t bothered her before when he’d gone all barbarian on someone else’s ass on her behalf.

  “Maybe. I talked with a guy who saw a woman outside the Champion and Stone gallery early in the morning, carrying a box. It sounds suspicious enough to check out.” She decided against telling him how much she’d paid for that info; it’d go on the expense report, and Ellie would take care of it without a question. “I asked him to contact me if he heard anything else. Other than that, nothing new.”

  “All right. Keep me posted. I have another assignment for you, so you’ll have to fly out of Philadelphia early next week.”

  “No problem.” She was always juggling multiple assignments, but the prospect of a new challenge didn’t make her as excited as it usually did. “Just let me know when, so I can wrap up what I need to on this end before I leave.”

  “You’re okay?”

  “Yeah, Ben, I’m fine. My ego took a bruising, but that’s all.”

  “Happens to the best of us.” He sounded amused, and relaxed. And not for the first time, she wondered how he managed to juggle so much without ever making a mistake. Man definitely wasn’t human. “Make sure you check in again soon.”

  “Will do. And again, I’m really sorry. I should’ve been more careful.”

  “You’ll know better next time.”

  She considered asking him not to retaliate against Vincent, but she was too tired to deal with the questions Ben would ask.

  After ending the call, she tossed the phone on the bed. Ben hadn’t sounded angry, only impatient. If she didn’t turn up any solid leads soon, he’d have to pull her. Keeping her tied up on a case that had hit a dead end would be a waste when she could be making money for him elsewhere.

  Her cell phone rang and she picked up, frowning when she didn’t recognize the number. “Hello, who is this?”

  “Digger Brody. You the one who wanted to know about the woman outside the gallery, right?”

  “Right.” Maybe the night wouldn’t end as a total waste. Hot damn. “You got something for me, Brody?”

  “Yeah. I think you’ll want to hear this. It’ll cost ya.”

  “We’ll see. Let’s meet and talk about it.”

  After leaving Claudia, Vincent ended up at a bar a few blocks from his house. He wanted the distraction of people in motion, talking, connecting. The white noise of the bar would help shut her out. And if he got totally shitfaced, he could just walk home.

  “Hey, Vinnie.” The cute and plump twenty-something bartender smiled a greeting. “Bad day, huh? That suit looks like’s it’s been through a lot.”

  A quick survey proved her right, and he made an effort to straighten his tie and tuck the loose folds of shirt back into his pants.

  “Good and bad.” Vincent sat on the stool, elbows resting on the bar. “And in that order.”

  “The usual tonight?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Julie.”

  She set a cold beer in front of him, its dark, yeasty aroma filling his senses, then moved on to a customer who’d just signaled for a refill. The Leone family owned the place, and their youngest, Joey, sometimes did yard work for Vincent for a little extra cash.

  He glanced around, spotting a few familiar faces, then snagged a dish of nuts. Beer and nuts and a soothing darkness were just what he needed to relax, and the smells coming from the kitchen had his stomach growling and his mouth watering. He ordered the biggest burger on the menu along with a basket of fries, and had started seriously working on his beer when a woman sat down beside him.

  “Hi. Is it okay if I sit here?”

  Vincent smiled back at the pretty bottle blonde in the little, flowery dress. “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m Candy.”

  He held back a wince. Meeting a blonde named Candy in a bar only happened in bad sitcoms. Dutifully, he asked, “Need a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll take care of that.”

  Vincent hoped she was just being friendly rather than trying to pick him up. He’d long since learned there was no such thing as no-strings-attached sex, and he wasn’t such a bastard—or that hard up for sex—that he’d ease his frustration while pretending she was someone else.

  “So . . . you there in the suit. You have a name?”

  “It’s been a long day. Forgot my manners.” He smiled again. “I’m Vincent.”

  “You look like a man with woman troubles, Vince.”

  Why did everybody call him Vince or Vinnie, even after he’d introduced himself as Vincent? He preferred Vincent. His mother, alone out of the entire family, had always insisted on calling him by his full name, and the only other person who called him Vincent was Claudia Cruz.

  All hail the irony.

  “Not exactly.” Hearing his answer, and recalling Claudia’s exasperated response to his earlier hemming and hawing, he added, “But close enough. Is it that obvious?”

  “Only to a woman who’s having man troubles.”

  “Ah, I see.” All right; he’d been unfair to hold the bimbo name and bottle-blond thing against her. “Sorry to hear that.”

  The woman had a great smile, and it added an almost irresistible sparkle to those big blue eyes. “Thanks. It’s a bitch when the guy won’t even see me because he’s too caught up in some other woman.” She sighed dramatically. “Same for your situation?”

  “Nope. She notices me. She just doesn’t like what she sees.”

  Candy gave him a once-over that left him embarrassed as well as faintly flattered. “Then the lady must be blind.”

  Not wanting to encourage this line of conversation, because he knew where it would lead, he shrugged and picked up his beer. “It’s complicated.”

  “It always is.” Her drink arrived, cranberry juice and vodka, and Vincent was duly impressed when she knocked back most of
it in one long swallow. He had to admit, it was seductive. Putting the glass on the bar, she added, “But at least she knows you’re alive.”

  True enough. “Good luck. In getting noticed, I mean.”

  “Thanks, though I may have to do something dramatic for that to happen.”

  Vincent didn’t envy the poor bastard who’d run afoul of this woman. “That’s always one option. Not my style, personally.”

  She got the hint that he didn’t want to talk, and dropped a few bills beside her drink. “I think it’s the only option at this point. I should be moving on—big day tomorrow. It was nice talking with you, Vince DeLuca.”

  His burger and fries arrived, distracting him, and a moment passed before he realized he hadn’t told her his last name. Vincent swiveled around, but she’d already left. He surveyed the bar again, seeing only those who knew him as he knew them: by first name only. Then he spotted Joey Leone clearing tables in the back corner.

  He caught the boy’s attention and waved him over to talk about hiring him for a few hours of yard work—and to confirm that, yes, the woman had quizzed Joey about him. Vincent then devoted himself entirely to his beer and burger, eventually letting his thoughts drift to the security recordings and what they meant . . . and, inevitably, back to Claudia’s generous curves in the black bra and panties; the anger in those usually cool dark eyes, and the smear of lipstick on the lawyer’s mouth.

  Vincent finished off the beer and ordered another. It had been a long, long day, and it looked like it would be a long, long night, too.

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday, London

  “Is that blood on your shirt? Oh, God, are you all right? Are the police after you?”

  Rainert von Lahr shut the hotel room door, raising his brow at the barrage of questions from the frantic blonde wearing his T-shirt—and little else. “Yes. Yes. No.”

  A look of confusion crossed her face. “But . . . wait,” she said as he pushed past her. “What happened? Are you in some kind of trouble? Your hand is—”

  “Business negotiations. That is all you need to know.”

  He stripped off his suit coat, shirt, and tie, and threw all of them, along with his keys, cigarettes, and lighter, onto the table by the window. Seeing the small smattering of blood irritated him all over again. That shirt had been one of his favorites. Now it was ruined, and the woman fluttering around him in distress didn’t help his mood any, either.

  “Are you sure the police—”

  “Vanessa, shut up,” he snapped, perversely gratified by the flash of fear in her eyes as she backed off.

  What had Kostandin Vulaj seen in this frail, neurotic woman? From the moment Rainert had held out his hand to her in Rio, he’d tried to understand why Vulaj had died for her—and why he’d not only bothered to help her but also dragged her around with him ever since.

  He had enough problems to deal with: his increasingly complicated workload, Avalon hounding him, Vulaj’s vengeful kin taxing his patience, his plans to get Ben Sheridan off his back, the Marlowe forgery fiasco that had nearly earned him a knife in the kidneys this morning. The last thing he needed was to babysit a dead partner’s ladylove, even if he’d had a certain fondness for Vulaj and felt a twinge of responsibility for the younger man’s death. Learning that Vulaj had planned to cheat him hadn’t eased that niggling guilt. Maybe because Vulaj was dead and couldn’t fight back, but more likely because it had been a neatly ambitious little double cross, one Rainert could appreciate.

  It was exactly what he’d have done, back in the day.

  After he kicked off his shoes, he looked up to see Vanessa pacing back and forth in the narrow space between the beds, her small breasts jiggling beneath the thin cotton. He took a moment to admire the show, because, despite her many flaws, she did have very nice breasts.

  Yes, well, that was one reason why he’d taken her with him, but hardly the important one. There were many women more beautiful than Vanessa Sharpton, and she presented him with a multitude of irritations: the jumps and trembles at sudden noises; the frequent sobbing that woke him in the night; the dazed, wounded gaze following him whenever he was with her, as if she thought he could solve all her problems with a magical snap of his fingers; the fear in her eyes whenever he got too close.

  He hadn’t touched her, and they slept in separate beds, but she was always there, sometimes so like a shadow that he forgot her presence, and other times a puzzle he studied with almost clinical fascination.

  Aware of his gaze, she self-consciously folded her arms over her breasts and sat down on her bed. “Don’t stare at me like that.”

  “You should relax,” Rainert said, for what had to be the hundredth time. “And if you don’t want me to stare, then put on some clothes.”

  She made a fluttery, distressed motion. “I was taking a nap. It’s not like you ever tell me where you’re going or when you’re coming back. And of course I’m tense! I lived in London for years . . . what if I run into someone I know?”

  “If you do, we’ll deal with it.” He shrugged. “In the meantime, everybody thinks you’re dead, so you might as well enjoy the undead life while you can.”

  Her eyes widened, full of surprise and confusion. “You’re insane.”

  As Rainert made his way to his bed and sat, he brushed against her. She flinched, and averted her gaze from his bare chest. “I assure you, I’m quite sane.”

  He examined his knuckles, taking in the swelling, the bruises and cuts. Nothing serious, but the sooner he iced them the better. “I’m not in a good mood at the moment, however, so I’d advise you to calm down and stay quiet.”

  She glanced at his hand. “You said you were going to give me a chance to get back at those people who killed Kos. So far, all we’ve done is fly from one country to another. . . . And how do you do that? Aren’t you afraid of being caught?”

  “I have my ways.”

  She glared at him. “Kos always used to respond to my answers with nonanswers, too. It pissed me off then, and it pisses me off now.”

  It was these little flashes of backbone that intrigued him most, along with a more recent discovery that, if he angered her enough, she’d fight back. Still, entertainment factor aside, the woman continued to be more trouble than she was worth.

  “It’s not complicated, Vanessa. Those people, as you call them, are always after me. That won’t ever change—not until they catch me or kill me.” Fear flashed in her eyes. She was clearly afraid of being stranded again, by yet another man stupid enough to get himself killed. “The trick is to stay one step ahead of them, and doing so is much easier than you’d think.”

  “Why?”

  “To begin with, I don’t act like I’m afraid of being recognized, or that I don’t have every right to be where I am.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “Suspicious behavior is noticed. I also know a lot of people who either owe me favors or want me to owe them favors. I keep proving myself more valuable alive than dead, though there are days when I have to remind people of that.”

  “Is that what happened today?”

  He leaned back, absently massaging his knuckles. The ache had progressed to a pounding throb; by tomorrow he wouldn’t be able to move his fingers. Fortunately, there was little chance he’d have to shoot anybody in the next few days, and, with any luck, the bruising on his back—where he’d hit the parking lot wall—wouldn’t be too much of an inconvenience, either.

  “There was a forged manuscript I was asked to recover before it could be used against several long-standing associates of mine. It was partially my fault the forgery was stolen in the first place, so I felt obligated to act. I recovered the manuscript, but a copy had already been made. Probably several. A copy of a fake wasn’t strong enough evidence to legally prosecute my associates, but that didn’t stop Avalon from going after them. The few that managed to escape are still upset with me, as you can imagine.”

  “Will these associates come after you again?”

  Rainert smi
led. “No.”

  She paled. “Oh.”

  He went to retrieve the ice bucket from the bathroom. “I need to get more ice. Is there anything you’d like while I’m out? Chocolate? Soda?”

  Vanessa shook her head. “No, but thank you.”

  So polite. So ordinary. So like the kind of girl he’d have brought home to meet his parents in another life and time—and so unlike the majority of women he’d been with over the years since he’d left that old life behind.

  He pulled on a clean shirt but didn’t bother buttoning it, then padded down the dim, carpeted hallway in his stocking feet. It occurred to him that her boring ordinariness might be another reason he kept her with him: the novelty of her recently-fallen-but-still-a-good-girl appeal. There was also the issue of her being as helpless as a kitten in a kennel of dogs; like any man, he could be flattered into protectiveness.

  As he scooped up ice, he wondered if that instinctual need to protect had caused Kos Vulaj’s fatal attraction to the woman. It seemed the sort of thing a younger, more emotionally immature man would fall for—the stupid bastard.

  Vanessa was still sitting on the bed when he returned, but she’d slipped on a pair of shorts. At least she no longer looked pathetically grateful when he walked through the door, merely relieved. No matter how many times he assured her he wouldn’t abandon her, she still didn’t trust him.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, she headed toward the bathroom, brushing against him as she took the ice bucket from his hands. “I can do this. You go sit down while I grab a towel.”

  Although he’d had more than his share of experience at self-doctoring over the years, Rainert didn’t protest. This was her way of not only thanking him for taking care of her but also of making herself valuable enough that he’d have a reason to keep her around. More important, a reason that didn’t involve sexual favors. He knew what she was thinking more often than not; she wasn’t a very good liar, and her emotions were ridiculously transparent.