Midway through the first song she knew it was going to be a good night. They were with her, the people in the crowded club, and it energized her even though there was only one person she was really aware of. She could feel his gaze on her as she moved around the stage, and for a moment she wished she'd worn the red dress. It made her feel sexy and attractive, just the way he made her feel when he looked at her with those blue, blue eyes—
She broke off her own thoughts determinedly, a little astonished at herself. She was not in the habit of fantasizing, especially about a man she'd just met. She was letting her imagination run much too fast, and it was time to slow it down.
But that, she discovered, was easier said than done. Even the songs she'd chosen for this set reflected her confusion, songs of tentative hope, and fear of disappointment. The words of the last song seemed to hover in the air as she took her bows to the enthusiastic crowd.
"Your head knows better
But you keep on tryin'
What your mind's tryin' to sell
Your heart ain't buyin' "
She usually went back to her dressing room between sets, but she knew the moment she saw Chance standing beside his table that she wasn't going to this time. She came to a halt before him, the other band members eyeing him curiously as they went past. When Chance spoke, his words were simple. And irresistible.
"Will you stay?"
She nodded, earning a cough of disapproval from one of the bookends. Chance started to speak, but at the look that flickered in her eyes, he lapsed into silence to let her handle it. The flash of thanks that lit the gray depths was more than payment enough.
"You just run along, boys. I won't get lost."
"But Mr. de Cortez—"
"I'll handle my brother." She smiled sweetly at them. "And I promise not to slip out without telling you and getting you in trouble."
Chance smothered a grin at the carefully worded promise. He had no doubt that she meant she would indeed slip out—but she would tell them first.
"You know the boss's rules, Ms. Austin. No fraternizing with the customers."
So nothing could slip out of an unwary mouth? Chance wondered, eyeing the matched pair with a little more interest.
"I'm going to sit down now, boys. The only way you can stop me is physically, and I don't think my brother would like a scene in front of all his guests." Her voice dropped a little, and a note of tenacious determination came into it. "And I guarantee you, if you try it, a scene is what you'll get."
Chance was cheering inwardly, trying not to let it show. She might be all soft beauty and spun silk on the surface, but the core was rapier steel. She hadn't wasted any time with arguing, but had gone directly to the one weapon they couldn't fight.
The bookends hesitated a moment after she sat down in the chair Chance had pulled out for her.
"Pete won't like this," they warned, then scurried off in tandem. To report her indiscretion, no doubt, Chance thought. So Pete Escobar was in charge tonight. I wonder where the loving brother is, and what he's up to?
"—glad you're here."
Her soft words jerked him out of his contemplation. Damn, he hated thinking about de Cortez when she was around. He hated thinking about what he was, that brother she loved. He hated thinking about why he himself was here, and what she would think if she knew. But most of all he hated wondering if she really didn't know about her brother's dealings, or was just an incredibly good actress.
"Sorry," he said, having missed most of her statement. "I was watching the bookends. What did you say?"
She smiled at his name for her shadows, then lowered her eyes as she said shyly, "I wasn't sure if you'd be here tonight."
"I couldn't miss my favorite songbird." He glanced around at the busy room before adding wryly, "Neither could a host of others, it seems."
"They like the club," she said lightly, disclaiming credit for the continued good business.
"They like the entertainment. Particularly the beautiful lady with the voice."
Even in the dim light he could see her blush, and he marveled at it. How could someone who did this for a living, even if it was only once in a while, be so unpretentious? She was on a stage, in the spotlight, and had to know that men were watching her eagerly, some as much for that slender, curved body as for her dynamic voice and talent.
And he wanted to kill them all, he thought in a sudden rush of protectiveness. He didn't want them ogling her, lusting after her. He glared around the room as if to pick them out for that harsh retribution.
"Maybe your brother's not so wrong," he muttered. "There's too damn many people watching, realizing you sat down here. They might think you're setting a precedent here."
In her new determination to go slowly, Shea refused to acknowledge the pleasure his unconsciously possessive tone gave her, but she couldn't seem to stop the words.
"I prefer to think of it as making an exception."
His gaze snapped back to her face. Her color was still high, but she met his look steadily. She had, he thought, the craziest way of making him melt inside. Instead of the usual things he heard from women about his hair or eyes or body, things that left him coolly unmoved, she tossed out a few words that subtly complimented all of him. She made him feel as if she saw him as a whole, not a collection of parts that by chance happened to be attractive to the opposite sex.
"Thank you."
She smiled and shifted her eyes to the vase that held the customary three red roses. Then she looked back at him.
"I never did thank you for the rose."
He grinned suddenly, and Shea felt her heart take an odd little tumble in her chest.
"Sure you did. You sent me a Band-Aid."
She couldn't help grinning back. "It seemed like the least I could do. I didn't mean to stab you."
"I was … out of line."
But it had worked, he thought. It had gotten her attention. Again he smothered the knowledge that it had been a device to do just that, for the sake of the case. She was silent, seeming to sense his unease, and in his haste to fill the gap he reached for the first words that came to mind.
"But I really thought he was … that you … that he…" He stopped, floundering.
"That he 'owned' me, I believe you said?" Her tone was mocking, but her eyes were aglow with a teasing light.
"Yeah. And I didn't much like the idea." And that, he thought, was the absolute truth.
"Paul is a little … protective. I think he feels guilty for all the time he was gone, that I didn't see him at all."
Paul de Cortez never felt guilty about anything in his life, Chance thought. But she believed it. He knew she did. She couldn't know. Right, Buckner, keep trying to convince yourself. I thought you gave up the rose-colored glasses years ago. Ask the questions. Buckner. He did, but he had to work at keeping the bitter undertone out of his voice.
"But you heard from him, didn't you?"
"My mother did. More, after my father died." She smiled, a soft, affectionate smile. "He took care of us."
"He did, huh?" He heard the sour note in his voice and hastened to cover it. "Did you ever wonder—"
"Well, well. Turn my back for a minute, and look what happens."
Quisto grinned at both of them as he pulled out the chair he'd deserted for a cruise of the room several minutes ago. Before he sat down, he reached for Shea's hand, bent over it and kissed it with a grand flourish.
"Ms. Austin, my pleasure."
"And you," she said, looking him up and down, "must be Quisto." Her voice was dry but her eyes were dancing.
He looked a little surprised that she knew. He sat down, his eyes flicking to Chance, who glowered at him. "Yes, señorita. Quisto Romero, always at the service of a lady so lovely. Y talentoso, tambien."
"Talented, too? Such praise. Gracias, Señor Romero." Quisto's brow shot up, and he rattled off something in Spanish. Shea answered him as quickly, and a wide rim split Quisto's face as he sat down.
Chance watched them rather glumly. Since he'd known the young Cuban, and during trips to Quisto's family home, he'd picked up a smattering of the language, but this rapid exchange was beyond him.
"Hey, my friend," Quisto said with a devilish grin, "no wonder you can't resist her. Not only is she gorgeous, and talented, she's half Cuban, as well. Why didn't you tell me?"
Chance's mouth twisted in wry embarrassment. "It must have slipped my mind." Right, Buckner. Not one word she's said to you has slipped your mind.
"Sure." Quisto turned back to Shea. "I presume from your name that it's your father who had the misfortune of not being a Cubano?"
She laughed. "Yes. He left me his name, and his eyes."
"An inheritance to be proud of, songbird."
At his quiet words, Shea looked back to Chance. The implied intimacy of the nickname he'd given her seemed to please rather than embarrass her.
"Yes," she said softly. "And I am proud."
Chance had always looked on Quisto's machinations—usually successful—with the ladies with an aloof amusement. Tonight, however, as he watched his partner turn that charm on full bore, he found himself anything but amused. He was irritated, heading rapidly for angry, and only the fact that it just seemed to make Shea laugh kept him from issuing the scathing warning that was hovering on his lips.
When he realized what was happening, that he was nursing a full-blown mad against his own partner, he sank back in his chair in stunned disbelief. It had been so long since he'd felt anything for women but a weary wish that they'd stay away, since he'd considered them anything except a perhaps attractive nuisance that seemed painfully bent on upsetting his hard-won equilibrium, that he didn't recognize at first what he was feeling.
My God, he was jealous. And of Quisto and his easy charm. Shaken, he slid a sideways glance at Shea, who was laughing at something Quisto had said. He watched the sparkle in her eyes, and the dimple that appeared in her cheek as her mirth deepened. Then he looked away.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't look at her and see just a job. Not when those wide, thickly lashed eyes made his stomach knot, not when just hearing her laugh made him feel a warmth he'd never felt, not when that slim yet ripely curved figure made his body respond with a suddenness and a fierceness that left him breathless.
Bail out, Buckner, he told himself. Leave it to Quisto. He's a hell of a lot better at it than you are, anyway. It was a fine line to walk in the first place, and you've lost track of it now. You've committed the cardinal sin in police work—you've lost your impartiality. You're already so far gone that it'll rip you apart if she's dirty; if you go any further it will destroy you. You're out of it.
The decision brought him a sense of relief. He'd walk away, turn the connection with her over to Quisto, who would never in his life let a woman get to him. That, just weeks ago, the same would have been said of him, did not even occur to him. He was too busy wondering at the magnitude of the release he felt. It told him he'd made the right choice, and barely in time.
And then he made a fatal mistake. He lifted his head and looked at Shea.
* * *
"Mmph."
The muffled exclamation broke from Chance when Quisto's elbow dug not very subtly into his ribs. His eyes snapped open, and only then did he realize he had nearly dozed off.
"—continue monitoring the wiretaps," Lieutenant Morgan was saying, "but the chief has advised me if nothing breaks in the next few days, we'll be turning the bulk of the investigation back to the feds. We have other cases to handle."
Chance sat up, awake now. "But it's our city, our case."
"And we'll continue to watch him. But the chief can't justify to the city council the expenditure this is taking when we're not turning up anything."
"What happened to sticking with it, whatever it took?"
"It collided with the realities of city finance," Quisto said dryly.
"Yes," Lieutenant Morgan agreed, "but you have to admit, if this—" he gestured at the now voluminous surveillance log "—is all we have to go on after three weeks, it's going to take more time and manpower than we can handle alone." He shrugged.
"He's dirty," Quisto said positively. "He's just building a good front."
Jim Morgan looked at Quisto for a moment, then switched his gaze to Chance, raising an eyebrow in query. Chance nodded.
"He is. He's got all the moves. He's just waiting."
"For what?"
Chance shrugged. "I don't know. I just know that that's one leopard that can't change his spots."
After a moment, Morgan nodded. "I'll stall them for as long as I can. Keep on it. If nothing turns up, maybe we'll have to get a little more active."
They got up to go, but turned back when Morgan called to Chance.
"The county recorder's office sent this over for you yesterday."
Chance took the manila envelope but didn't open it until he and Quisto were back in their own cubbyhole of an office. It was small and cramped, but they preferred it to the alternative of the open, chaotic room that housed the rest of the detective division of the department.
Chance slid the contents of the envelope onto his desk and picked up the top sheet of paper. It was a copy of a birth certificate, documenting the arrival in Los Angeles County of one baby girl, Shea de Cortez Austin, on June 29th, twenty-six years ago. Small, he thought, a smile creasing his face unaware as he looked at the tiny footprint. Six pounds, four ounces. Eighteen and a half inches long. Probably all legs even then, he mused, his smile widening.
He let out a long, weary breath, rubbing at his eyes as the print on the page blurred. He leaned back in his chair, swinging his feet up to the desk. The past few days had been exhausting. From the moment he'd decided that he wasn't turning the contact with Shea over to Quisto or anyone else, which had been the instant he'd looked at her again, he'd been running nonstop.
He was at the club every night, where even the bookends had come to accept him, although it was with the disgusted look of men forced to endure a mosquito they would just as soon swat. After her last set, he took Shea out for a late dinner, ever conscious of that fine line between business and pleasure, although sometimes not sure which side of it he was on. Then they would go for a walk, and just talk for hours, until the dawn broke, sending its lovely pink light flooding down from the mountains toward the Pacific.
It was then that the line blurred the most. He found himself talking in a way he'd never done before, about anything and everything, although always conscious of having to take care in certain critical areas.
And he laughed with her. It had felt so strange, the first few times, as if he'd taken some long-stored-away tool out of a dark cupboard and found that, although rusty, it still worked. The line almost disappeared then, until something would remind him, and it would suddenly leap into sharp focus, hitting him like a lethal kick in the gut.
Then he was off to take his shift on the surveillance team, relying on cup after cup of coffee—so strong it ate at the foam cup—to keep him going. The potent liquid did nothing to ease the guilt he felt when he dropped Shea off at the bakery and she wished him a good day at work. And nothing seemed to be able to stop the warmth that spread through him when those gray eyes went soft with concern that he wasn't getting enough rest.
"You look so tired," she'd said this morning. "You can't keep staying up all night with me and working all day."
"You let me worry about that," he'd said gruffly.
They would have let him off the surveillance because he was, as they phrased it, "working" her, but Chance wasn't about to give Eaton any more ammunition. So he put in his time and then went home to grab a couple of hours of desperately needed sleep before getting up to go back to the club.
He knew he couldn't keep it up forever, but he felt driven in a way he'd never known before. He'd been as obsessed before, in the days after Sarah's—and his unborn son's—awful deaths, but he'd never gone at anything quite this way. Somewhere along the line it had be
come more important to him to prove Shea's innocence than her brother's guilt, and it was a new twist for him.
"Chance?"
"Mmm."
"Did you know her mother committed suicide?"
Chance's feet hit the floor abruptly. "No."
"Yeah. It's here on the death certificate."
Chance took the piece of paper Quisto held out. He stared at it for a moment, then reached for the phone.
"This is Detective Buckner. I need some cases tracked down and copies pulled. Yes, I've got the numbers." Quisto watched him stare at the certificate as he waited. "The first one's a coroner's report from January." He read off the number. "I need the autopsy report, too. And a copy of case number—" he squinted at the scrawled number and read it off, too "—as soon as you can. I know you're busy. So am I."
He covered the mouthpiece for a moment, reaching out to shuffle through the rest of the papers that had been in the envelope.
"And pull anything you can find on a Sean—" his voice wavered for a moment when he read the next name "—O'Shea Austin. It may only be a death report from about twelve years ago." He rolled his eyes at the answer issuing from the receiver. "Yes, I know that's a long time ago. If you can't find anything locally, try county-wide. And thanks."
He held the receiver away from his ear, and Quisto laughed at the pungent suggestion the records clerk had for Chance before he hung up.
"I don't think she's happy with you."
Chance shrugged. "It's a lot of work. And I don't mind. It's better than being treated with kid gloves."
Quisto knew what he meant. After the death of his family, Chance had been viewed as such a tragic figure around the department that no one would even question him; let alone snap at him. The women in the department especially seemed to take it upon themselves to treat him like a wounded child; the men who lived with the knowledge that it could just as easily have been one of them, couldn't deal with it and avoided him all together, increasing his isolation.
ONE LAST CHANCE Page 8
