ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  "It's horrible. Sometimes I think I could gain five pounds just breathing."

  "Don't. Perfection shouldn't be tampered with."

  She blushed, and Chance wondered at himself. He'd meant it as nothing more than an acknowledgment of a fact, but it had come out sounding like the kind of thing Quisto would say—a glib, toss-away compliment. Yet she had accepted it and colored as if she received such compliments rarely. That, he thought, was impossible.

  "Thank you," she said, again with that touch of shyness, as she stopped at the base of the stairs that led up the side of the building. She'd have a view of the water from the front windows, but not the expansive view her brother's house had.

  "You're not staying with your brother?" He tried to make it sound only mildly curious.

  "No," she laughed. "Paul's lifestyle is a little too extravagant for my taste. And there are always too many people coming and going."

  I'll bet. But he only said, "Your privacy."

  "Yes," she admitted. "I like to decide who invades it."

  "Where do I apply?" The words were teasing, but his eyes were serious.

  "I think you already have."

  She leaned forward suddenly, gave him a swift, impulsive kiss on the cheek, then whirled and ran up the stairs. Chance stood at the bottom for a long time, staring after her, trying to regain control over a heart that had suddenly begun to slam in his chest.

  * * *

  Cheeks flaming, Shea leaned back against the door she had hastily shut. What on earth had possessed her to do that?

  As if you didn't know, she told herself chidingly. But just because he happened to be sinfully gorgeous, with that sun-bleached hair and those incredible blue eyes, just because he was tall and lean and solid and had a backside that made her fingers curl, just because he had caused a glow of feminine pleasure simply by admitting he'd been jealous when he thought Paul was her lover instead of her brother, that was no reason to throw herself at him.

  She walked across the small living room to look out the window. She could see the ocean, glittering under a bright, distant winter sun. It had snowed in Tahoe yesterday, she'd heard on the news, and she closed her eyes to envision the, pure white coat covering the place she loved. Yet this place was appealing, as well, with the sun, the ocean, the smell of clean salt air.

  And with one Chance Buckner, who had dropped into her life from out of nowhere and made her more aware than she'd ever been of any man. Would he be there tonight? she wondered a little anxiously. He'd never said, and she'd been too embarrassed to ask.

  She'd never cared before, and she didn't quite know how to deal with it. It made her feel even more self-conscious about performing. She'd sung in front of friends before, even in front of a boyfriend or two when she'd been in college, but never had she felt this tight little knot of anticipation. He'd responded to her songs in the way she'd meant them to be felt. She knew it, she'd seen it in his eyes that first night.

  She'd felt as stunned as he'd looked. She hadn't thought she'd ever see him again after the encounter on the street. She hadn't been able to understand the odd sense of loss she had felt, the odd sense of longing, the feeling that something important had happened to her and she hadn't realized it until it was too late.

  What was it about him? He'd managed to make her feel more fierce emotions in the short space of time that she'd known him than she'd ever thought possible. She'd been amused at their first encounter on the street, finding to her surprise that she'd enjoyed the banter between them. She'd been a little amazed the first night at the club, both at his unexpected presence and the strength of his reaction to her music.

  The white rose, standing out among the scores of red ones, had both touched and intrigued her, just as his comments about Paul had angered her. She'd wanted to slap him when he'd continued to harp on her brother, but she'd wanted to giggle when she'd realized why.

  She'd felt delightfully relaxed after that, talking to him in a way so totally unlike her that it amazed her. And most disturbing of all, when he'd told her of his wife and child, she'd wanted to hold him close, to soothe away the tortured look in his eyes, the lines of pain on his face.

  How had it happened? she wondered. So young … it had been four years, he'd said, and he was only thirty. An accident, she supposed. She knew so well that tearing, horrible pain, although she guessed one never really knew the pain the loss of a child, even one unborn, caused unless they'd undergone it. She prayed that test would never be asked of her.

  She went through the motions of washing her face, getting ready to go to bed, but she found herself haunted by a small glowing image. A child, a blue-eyed, sandy-haired imp with a ready laugh and his father's crooked grin.

  Mechanically she switched on the fan that drowned out the noise of the street below, and slid beneath the covers. She wiped at the sudden dampness of her eyes, never once thinking it odd that she was crying for the loss suffered by a man she barely knew. In the last moments before sleep claimed her, she hazily, rather confusedly thought that it was because she'd known he existed for a long, long time before she'd finally found him.

  * * *

  "Nothing. Absolutely nothing." Lieutenant Morgan slapped the surveillance logs down in disgust. "If this was all we had to go on, we'd have to say de Cortez is a model citizen."

  "He's building up to something big," Eaton said in dramatic tones. "I can feel it."

  "Right."

  Quisto's sarcasm was thinly veiled; Chance said nothing. That seemed to irritate Eaton even more, and he stopped his heavy-footed pacing in front of the spot where Chance half sat on the edge of the table in the conference room, adjusting the Velcro fastener of his ankle holster.

  "Did you get anything out of the broad yet? She's got to know what he's up to, and no woman on earth can keep her mouth shut…"

  He trailed off. Chance hadn't said a word, but when his gaze lifted to the man's face, it was pure ice. Eaton shivered without knowing why, and backed up a step. Chance lowered his foot to the floor with quiet care and picked up a pencil from the table. It was the movement of a man who needed something to do with his hands so that he didn't do something else.

  "Well, he should have something by now." Eaton whined, pointing at Chance. "My boys say he met de Cortez's slut last night—"

  A small snap echoed in the room as the pencil gave way under the pressure of Chance's grip. He was aware of Quisto looking at him curiously, but Chance's eyes were fastened on Eaton with deadly intent.

  "She's his sister."

  "What?" The flat, muddy eyes looked blank.

  "If you bumble heads had done your damned jobs, you would have known that. But your background stops with Esteban Mendez getting killed in a deal gone bad. You tracked Paolo Mendez, but never bothered to go any further with his mother after she relocated here. You never bothered to find out that Mendez's widow remarried, and had another child."

  "You're certain of this?" Lieutenant Morgan asked.

  Chance nodded as he handed him a piece of paper with some notes and dates scrawled across it. He'd never doubted what Shea had told him, but he knew his boss was going to need more than his gut feeling.

  "I checked it out with the county recorder this morning. They're sending copies of what they have—birth certificate, marriage license, all that. That's why I was late."

  Eaton had recovered now. "That's even more proof. If she's his sister, she must know what he's up to."

  "She hasn't seen him in years. And she never set foot in Miami."

  "But he brought her here now—"

  "She doesn't even live with him. She's staying downtown, a few blocks from the club."

  "And you expect me to believe she's here working for him and knows nothing about what he is, what he's doing?"

  "I don't much care what you believe."

  "I should have known you'd fall for some crazy story from her. She put out for you, Buckner? Is that really why you were late?"

  Chance's lean body uncoiled
from the table with frightening speed. Only Quisto's swift intervention of his own wiry body halted Chance's movement, giving him a moment to regain control.

  "Shut your mouth, Eaton, or I'll shut it for you." Quisto's voice was cold.

  "That's enough." Lieutenant Morgan's voice cut through the tension. "Agent Eaton, you are out of line. If you wish to continue to be privy to these meetings, you will cease these personal attacks."

  "You can't—"

  "We'll continue this in my office."

  Morgan literally herded the agent out of the room. Chance sank back down on the edge of the table, wondering why he'd let the man get to him again. Quisto wandered over to the window, looked out for a minute or two, then glanced back at Chance.

  "You all right?"

  Chance nodded.

  "Don't let him do it to you, man. It's not worth it."

  "I know.

  Quisto waited again for a moment before he said tentatively, "Rough night?"

  Chance's head came up sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Hey, take it easy, partner. This is me, remember?"

  Chance let out a breath. "Sorry."

  "I saw Hagan's Ferrari at the marina last night. And this morning."

  "I couldn't sleep."

  "So I guessed." Chance's eyes narrowed. "I just meant you look a little frayed around the edges."

  "Thanks."

  Quisto grinned. "You did see her, right? The guys in the van were pretty sure it was you."

  "Not intentionally. I … ran into her."

  "She really got to you, didn't she?"

  "No."

  The denial was weakened by the turmoil in his face, but Quisto let it slide.

  "So tell me, why haven't we seen this lady in the music stores? Or in concert, or on TV? She's good enough."

  "She doesn't want any of that. She just wants to write the songs, not do them live." His mouth quirked as he thought of the vivid, vibrant performer she was. "She says she's basically shy."

  Quisto chuckled. "Shy? The way she makes every guy in the place shift into overdrive? If that's—" He broke off, staring at Chance.

  "What?"

  "Austin," Quisto breathed.

  Chance looked at him quizzically. "So?"

  "Shea de Cortez Austin?"

  "Yeah. Her mother—"

  "Damn."

  "What?" Chance asked emphatically.

  "S.D.C. Austin."

  Chance rolled his eyes in frustration. "Will you please tell me—"

  "S.D.C. Austin. The songwriter. Wrote 'Prisoner' for Lisa Beaulow last year. Knocked the new Roiling Stones single right out of number one. Got nominated for a Grammy."

  Chance gaped at his partner.

  "She's done stuff for everybody from Willie Nelson to whatever that heavy metal group is with the spiderwebs."

  "I … she never said."

  "Modest as well as shy, huh?" Quisto teased.

  "Yeah," Chance muttered. Then he looked at Quisto intently. "Look, keep this quiet, will you? Eaton would just love to get hold of this. All he'd see is headlines."

  "He'd be frothing at the mouth," Quisto agreed. "You've got it, partner. I doubt if he'll figure it out on his own. He doesn't seem the type to listen to music. Muzak, maybe."

  "Thanks."

  "No problem." Quisto looked at him consideringly. "She just up and told you all that stuff, about de Cortez being her brother?"

  "Sort of."

  "Sort of?"

  "After she figured out what I thought he was." Quisto's dark eyes widened in understanding. "I see." There was world of speculation in the two words.

  "Oh? And I suppose you think I was late for the same reason Eaton did?" Chance said sourly.

  "If I did," Quisto answered softly, "I'd be cheering." Chance stared at him, then looked away. "She's part of the job." His voice was a little too sharp.

  "I know. I also know that she's the first woman that's gotten a real reaction out of you since I've known you. You've been in zombie-land too long, partner."

  "Thanks." Chance looked harassed. "Anybody ever tell you you're a nag, partner?"

  "Not me." Quisto grinned. "But I've got to say, when you finally get around to it, you've got great taste. I'd be jealous if I wasn't so glad to see you acting like a normal, red-blooded male for a change. She's hot stuff."

  "Damn it, Quisto—"

  "I know, I know, not on a case. But when this is over, if you're right about her not being involved, who knows?"

  "If I'm right." The whispered words were full of all his fears of being wrong, and the pain he'd feel if he'd misjudged her.

  "Sometimes you've just got to go with your gut, man."

  "Yeah." And mine's in knots.

  "You know we're set to go back to the club tonight."

  Chance nodded.

  "Then you'd better get some sleep. Unless your lady is into bloodshot eyes."

  "She's not my lady."

  "Yet."

  "Your mother's right," Chance said sourly. "You're incorrigible."

  "That's me," Quisto said, unperturbed. He got up, jerking his thumb at Chance as he headed for the door. "Go get some sleep. I'll swing by and pick you up tonight."

  Chance got up to follow him, but stopped dead when Quisto went rigidly still in front of him. He turned his head to follow his partner's gaze, and went stiff himself when he saw Eaton loitering in the doorway, blatantly listening. The muddy eyes gleamed with conjecture, and they were fastened on Chance.

  "Out of the principal's office so soon?" Chance asked, wondering how long the man had been there ad how much he'd heard. He had to just hope it hadn't been long enough to hear Quisto's revelation about Shea.

  "You'll step in it someday, hotshot. And I'm going to be there when you do."

  They walked past the glaring agent, ignoring his gibe. They could both sense his beady gaze on them as they went down the hail, and both had to stifle the urge to hasten their steps.

  Chance glanced back when they reached the end of the hall, in time to see Eaton scuttle back into the conference room and reach for the phone. Even at this distance he could read the profanity on the man's lips, and see the venom with which he punched out the number. The man flat makes me nervous, Chance thought, a little angry at himself for letting the fumbling agent get to him even that much. With a smothered imprecation, he turned back and followed Quisto outside.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  «^»

  This is ridiculous, Shea told herself firmly, trying to chivy herself out of the silly mood she seemed to be in. She thought she had done it, until she found herself taking such extreme care getting ready that she was in danger of being late for the first set.

  You're acting like a teenager on her first date, she told her reflection as she toned down the makeup that was much more than she ever wore offstage. You don't even know if he'll be here.

  Involuntarily her eyes strayed to the small crystal vase that sat to one side of the lighted mirror. It held a perfect white rose just beginning to unfurl. She lifted one hand, reaching out to gently touch one of the satiny white petals with a slender finger.

  "Shea! You're cuttin' it close!" The voice of Eric Carlow, the lead guitarist of the band, came through the door, jolting her out of her reverie.

  "In five," she called back, shaking her head once more at her wandering mind.

  She gave her makeup a last check, then got up and went to the rack of clothes that stood against the wall. She hadn't brought many, sticking to her favorite red and white pieces for more versatility. She'd planned on wearing a simple white dress with her red leather jacket, but when she stood before the rack she found her hand stretching past the hanger she'd meant to reach for.

  The dress she held up was demure in cut, with long sleeves that came down to a point past her wrists and a high turtleneck collar. It was a shimmering, luminous sweep of bright, gleaming red, shot through with a metallic thread that caught the light and sent it flying in
crimson sparks. The lines that were so simple on the hanger became incredibly sensuous when she put it on, the soft material flowing over her body, clinging to every curve.

  She wasn't even sure why she'd brought it on this trip. She rarely wore it, knowing she had to be in a certain kind of mood to carry it off. Was she in that mood tonight?

  What you should be trying to figure out, she told herself wryly, is whether you're in that mood because of Chance Buckner. Who might not even show up tonight. Resolutely she hung the dress back on the rack. Uncertainty was not the mood it took to wear that dress.

  Quickly she slipped on the white dress, a scoop-necked tank of a soft knit, and smoothed the slim skirt down to the hem that ended a few inches above her knees. Then came the short red leather tuxedo-cut jacket. She ran back to the mirror to clip on a pair of red-and-white triangular earrings, and fastened a strand of hand-carved red-and-white beads around her neck.

  She gave a last shake to the dramatic mane of hair that was so different from her normal style, slipped on the red high-heeled pumps that had been ready beside the stool at the makeup table, and stood up just as a rap came on the door.

  "Shea! Let's hit it!"

  "On my way."

  She pulled open the door, smiling at Eric as the shaggy-haired guitarist gave an appreciative whistle.

  "Lookin' good, mama."

  Then he turned and headed down the hall, leaving Shea to follow with the two ever-present bodyguards. The bookends, she thought, stifling a grin. Lord, Paul had been angry when he'd realized they'd let her slip out the back door last night. She was going to have to have a talk with him about that. She was tired of being shadowed everywhere she went. And there was no significance to the fact that it hadn't really bothered her until Chance had come along. No significance at all.

  It took every bit of her will not to search the room for him. And then, as she made her way down the path between the tables, she knew she wouldn't have to search. He was there. She didn't know how she knew, but she did. And when she reached the last set of tables before the steps to the stage, there he was.

  When he turned those amazing blue eyes on her, she felt as if the rest of the room had slipped away. He was smiling softly, warmly, and she felt a sudden weakness in her knees. Then one of the bookends nudged her, and she snapped back to reality before going onstage.