It had gone on for two long years, until Quisto had become his partner and had refused to treat him like a fragile shell. The rest of the department had gradually followed suit and had at least seemed to forget. For that, among other things, he was intensely grateful to his boisterous partner. Someday, he thought, maybe when they were both maudlinly drunk, he would tell him so.
Chance smothered a yawn and swung his feet back up on to the desk as he scanned the last of the papers. It was a marriage certificate, with the original application attached—nice work, he thought, appreciating the extra step taken by the county employee—issued to Elena de Cortez y Mendez, widow and housewife, and Sean O'Shea Austin, divorced and a contractor. He studied it, trying to ignore the qualm of guilt he felt about prying into her personal life without her knowledge.
Again the words seemed to blur and slip, and he rubbed at his eyes as another yawn broke through. Quisto got up suddenly, reached out and gathered up the papers from Chance's desk, stuffed them back into the envelope and stepped back.
"Come on."
Chance looked startled.
"You're dead on your—" Quisto glanced at his position in the chair "—butt. You go home and get to sleep. I'll handle the rest of today, and you can take the club gig tonight."
"I'm fine."
"Right. Red, white and blue eyes are in. Come on." He grinned. "You'd probably rather be on your own tonight anyway."
"We've got too much to do—"
"It's almost two. If you go now, you can get at least five hours and still make it to the club in time."
Quisto gripped his arm and pulled. Suddenly the thought of those precious hours of sleep were too tempting and he gave in. He fell asleep in the car, and was barely aware of stumbling up the stairs and into bed.
* * *
"What I do on my own time is my business," Shea said, looking at the slim, elegantly dressed man across the room from her.
"This is my place," he said, smoothing his pencil-thin mustache with one gold-ringed finger, "and I decide how the people who work here will act."
Shea got up from the stool and glared at him. "This was your idea, remember? You know I don't care for performing. I came as a favor to you."
Paul de Cortez looked unmoved by her anger. His dark hair, slicked back with some type of gel, glistened. His skin was beautifully olive, his face handsome, but somehow his eyes detracted from his looks, as if the barely perceptible tightness around them and the hint of coolness in them truly reflected his soul.
"That does not mean you can socialize with the customers. You are my sister, not some hired floozy."
Incongruously, Shea wanted to laugh at the outdated term. It enabled her to get a grip on her slipping temper.
"Yes. And you are my brother. But that doesn't mean you can run my life."
"Oh?"
"No. And if I want to see him, I will."
"You will not. You don't even know who this man is."
As quickly as her anger had ebbed, it flared again. "I'm beginning to think I don't know who you are." Something odd flickered in the narrow dark eyes, but she didn't stop. "I don't see hide nor hair of you for years, but now you think you can run my life?"
"I've always taken care of you. Or have you forgotten?"
His tone of voice stiffened her spine.
"No. I've never forgotten that you took care of me, and of mother. But we never asked for it, and that doesn't give you the right to tell me what to do." Chance's words came back to her. "You don't own me."
"No?"
Shea stared at her brother, wondering if she had really seen the dark, ominous shadow that seemed to slide over his face. For a split second, it was as if she were looking at a stranger, and one that somehow frightened her. Then it was gone, and she told herself she was imagining things.
You're just disappointed, she told herself, because Chance wasn't here tonight. You're unhappy, and you're taking it out on Paul.
"I'm sorry, Paul. I'm just … wound up, I guess. I love you, and I know how much I owe you."
Paul de Cortez nodded, pleased, as if something that had unexpectedly popped out of line had settled obediently back into place.
"And I'm just a brother who's worried about his little sister," he said smoothly.
"He's really nice," she began, but stopped when Paul's expression darkened again.
"We'll discuss this again later," he said, glancing at the expensive thin gold watch on his wrist. "It's almost time for the last set."
The conversation was still nagging at her when she took the stage, but her concern fled on joyous wings when, at the table he'd been the first night, she spotted Chance. The smile he gave her sent little darts of warmth shooting through her in all directions, and she smiled back without bothering to hide any of her delight at seeing him there.
When she came back out of her dressing room, it was to thread her way through a milling crowd of departing patrons. Many thanked her for the show and praised her songs and her voice, still others had suggestions for the rest of her evening that ranged from innocent to lurid. One was so obscene she stared at the man in shock; in seconds Chance was there, and his powerful, forbidding presence made the rest of the group melt away like butter from a hot knife.
"Thank you," she said a little breathlessly as he guided her back the way she'd come.
"We'll use the back door," he said briefly, painfully conscious of using the crush to his advantage, so he could check out the rest of the hallway. He already knew exactly where the door exited to, but he wanted a glimpse up the inner stairs, to see if there was anything there except the room being used as an office.
There wasn't, just the solitary door at the top of the steps. He got no chance to look further; one of the bookends was there, watching him suspiciously, as he had been all night.
"Where's the other half of the set?" he asked Shea.
"Oh, Paul needed him for something. A run to the bank, I think, although why he needs to make four deposits a day, I don't know. Hey, it's raining!" she exclaimed in surprise as they stepped outside. Chance nodded.
"It has been all evening. I think that's why I was … late."
"You were late because it was raining?"
His mouth twisted in a sheepish grin. "I fell asleep. I sleep like a log when it's raining."
A pleased smile curved her mouth. She told herself it was because she was glad he'd at last gotten some rest, not because it answered the question of where he'd been.
"I'm glad, then," she said softly.
She shook her head, raising her face to the fine mist as they came out of the narrow alley into the parking lot.
"Whew," she said, savoring the brisk, clean, rain-scented air. "They were a little rowdy tonight."
"What did that guy say to you? You looked rather alarmed."
She gave an embarrassed laugh. "He had a rather crude suggestion for my evening's activities."
Rage, hot, potent and instantaneous, boiled up inside him. "Damned son of a—"
He broke off as she lifted a slender finger to his mouth. The heat of anger became heat of another kind at the feel of her touch on his lips.
"It's all right. I'm … not used to it, but I know how people are." She shrugged. "It's why I don't perform much."
"But you do in Tahoe?"
"I do, if I need to."
"Need to?" He had to ask, he thought, or he'd give away that he already knew.
"It gives me a chance to try out new material. Songs that I've written during the winter. That way I can work on any problems before they're sold to somebody."
"But … they're you. You should sing them." He meant it. He'd thought it ever since Quisto had told him how successful other people were with her music.
A smile he'd never seen before crept across her face, and he knew that his instinctive words had pleased her immensely.
"Thank you," she said softly.
They walked to where he'd parked. He'd brought the Lamborghini this time, gi
ving the Jeep an apologetic smile as he left. I promise, he'd said, feeling a little silly talking to a car, one of these days I'll have the time to fix that tire.
He didn't think he was consciously trying to impress her by bringing the even more expensive car, but as she stared at it when he came to a stop beside it, he wondered. When she lifted her gaze to his face, there was something in the wide gray eyes that told him if he had been trying to make an impression, the one he'd made hadn't been the one he'd wanted.
"It's not mine," he said hastily. "The … Ferrari broke down."
"So naturally you got this as a loaner?"
"Sort of. I … borrowed it."
God, he hated lying to her. To cover his discomfiture, he quickly unlocked the door for her. He paused for a split second as he walked back to the driver's side, feeling an odd prickling at the back of his neck. He looked around, yet saw nothing but people heading innocently for their own cars, some casting sideways glances at the sports car he was about to enter. After a moment he shrugged it off and got in.
The swish of tires on wet pavement seemed to soothe them both. The talk was comfortable but inconsequential during the quick meal they ate at the diner he'd first taken her to, and when they were done and walking back out to the car, she looked up at him.
"It's a little wet for a walk," she said, referring to their usual habit after eating.
"I know."
"I … would you…" She ducked her head. He looked at her and heard her take a quick breath before she looked back. "I have a fresh bottle of Amaretto if you'd like to come up."
Chance found it suddenly hard to breathe. It was the first time since that hasty, unexpected kiss that she had made any kind of overture to him. They'd touched, of necessity on occasion, and he had even once or twice dared a quick brush of his lips against her hair or her cheek, but never again had she made a move toward him.
He wondered, as he stood in the small apartment over the bakery, if he'd made another big mistake. The place was just too warm, too welcoming. He'd expected an impersonal furnished place, knowing it was only temporary for her. And it was, he supposed, beneath the wealth of personal touches she'd added. A handmade afghan over the sofa, a collection of luxuriant plants, and bright, framed prints on the walls. The centerpiece was a stunning, expansive photograph of Lake Tahoe in winter, the pristine white of fresh snow meeting incredibly clear water sparkling under a winter sun.
"It's beautiful," he said, nodding at the picture when she handed him small glass of the sweet but potent almond-flavored liqueur. She'd introduced him to it over one of their late dinners, and he'd found he liked the taste. They sat on the sofa, looking across at the dramatic picture.
"Yes," she said. "It's my homesick pill."
The thought that she was longing for her home made him feel oddly disturbed.
"If you go up to the end of my road, the view is almost the same as that." She sighed. "It's so beautiful like that, after a fresh snow. But it's beautiful in spring, and summer, and fall, too."
Chance shook his head. "All the time I've lived here, and I've never made it up there."
"You should." Her voice was eager. "It's so wonderful. Maybe someday—"
She stopped, and the sudden color in her cheeks told him what she'd been about to say.
"I'd like that," he said softly, as if she'd finished the invitation. "Would you … show me around?"
"Yes." The single syllable sounded a little breathless, and she turned her head to stare at the photo again.
Several long, silent moments passed, the easy conversation they enjoyed outside lost somehow in the intimacy of this small, cozy room. At last, having drained the last of the warming liqueur, he leaned forward to set the glass on the long, narrow table in front of the couch. At the same moment, Shea shifted to move her legs, which had been curled beneath her on the sofa. They came up short, bare inches away from each other.
Eyes locked, their arms moved in slow, concerted motion, mirror images as the empty glasses were set down. Shea swallowed, her lips parting as she tried to draw in a breath. She didn't realize that she had moved, that she had tilted her head back as she looked at him. He didn't touch her, but she felt as if he had, as if he were pulling her toward him. It was an odd, magnetic tug, unlike anything she'd ever felt.
She knew in the instant before he moved that he was going to kiss her. She knew it, and her heart leaped in shivery anticipation. She expected a more intense form of the warmth that flared in her whenever he casually touched her, or when he flashed that crooked grin, or when she looked at the thick sweep of his lowered lashes below the sandy brows and the tousled, blond-streaked hair.
What she got was a sudden, fiery eruption, a burst of heat and sensation that raced along tingling nerves the way wildfire raced down a mountain. She melted before its raging force, going slack beneath the feel of his mouth on hers. She heard him make a sound, a low, husky growl from deep in his throat, then his hands came up to cup her face.
His tongue darted out to flick over her lips. She heard a tiny whimper of pleasure, not even realizing at first that it had come from her. As her lips parted for its escape, his tongue probed past them, seeking the sweet warmth of her mouth.
She felt the thick tangled silk of his hair and knew that somehow she had lifted her arms to encircle his neck. She threaded slender fingers through the heavy strands, loving the feel of it as it slipped over her skin.
He was engulfing her with his heat, pressing her back on the couch, only the taut muscles in his arms holding some of his weight off her. His mouth was devouring her, and she was reveling in it. She opened for him, urging his tongue deeper as her hands slid from the back of his head to his shoulders, pulling him even closer.
The solid wall of his chest was too tempting to resist, and she arched involuntarily, pressing her breasts against the muscled expanse. A hoarse groan broke from him, and he lowered his body to hers as his kiss became fiercer, deeper. Shea's fingers dug into his shoulders, and she fairly rippled beneath him. She felt an odd undulation take her, ending in an upward thrust of her hips against his. She heard him gasp, felt the rigid column of aroused male flesh against her stomach, and a tiny moan rose from her throat. She felt his arms tighten around her.
His hand slid downward, stroking, caressing, sending little darts of fire through her. He paused for a moment, and she could feel the muscles of his arm tense, as if he were fighting his desire to move further. Then, on a sharply released breath, he did move, his hand gently cupping and lifting her breast as his thumb brushed over the tingling peak.
"Oh!"
She couldn't help her startled gasp at the heat that crackled through her at the touch. She felt the response of the tender flesh, felt it tauten and rise as if asking for more, then felt it even more when he touched her again, as if she could feel the tightness, the change just as he did.
Suddenly, with a choking sound that echoed with pain, he was gone. Shea whimpered at the sudden loss of the sweet warmth, at the instant protest of her body to the removal of his. Slowly her heavy lids lifted.
He sat looking down at her, something shadowy and incomprehensible to her in his eyes. A shudder rippled through him even as she looked. He shook his head, slow and dazedly, like an animal too much in shock to know how hurt it was. And then, without a word, he was on his feet and gone, leaving her staring at her closing door in cold, unrelenting silence.
* * *
Chapter 6
«^»
Quisto took one look at the bleary-eyed pale face of his partner and quickly stepped back, holding the door open to let him in. Without a word, Chance walked past him, waiting until he heard the door close before turning around. Only then did he seem to see Quisto's tousled hair, unshaven jaw, and the crease in his perfect olive skin that indicated he'd been facedown in a pillow.
"I…" Chance stopped, shoving his hands into his pockets and staring down at the floor. "I'm sorry. I guess I didn't think about how late it is."
> "You don't look up to thinking, period, my friend."
Chance appeared to be a man who had suddenly decided he'd made a wrong move. He started toward the door. "Sorry," he muttered again. "Go back to bed."
With that spry quickness of his, Quisto blocked his partner's way. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. I—" his eyes flicked to the door of the bedroom "—didn't mean to … interrupt you."
Quisto assumed an air of exaggerated woe. "Alas, not tonight, amigo. Even I must, on occasion, strike out." Then the kidding mien was dropped, and he looked at Chance steadily. "Sit down. I'll get you a drink."
"No, I—"
"Sit down. Or shall I sit you down?"
Chance looked at him for a moment before a wry smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. Quisto might be a couple of inches shorter and a few pounds lighter, but Chance knew his quick, wiry strength too well to take the threat, even made in jest, lightly.
"Yes," the young Cuban said, as if he'd read his thoughts, "it would be an interesting fight, wouldn't it? Are you going to make it necessary?"
Chance's weary body made the decision his mind was too confused to make: he sat. A minute later Quisto was pressing a glass into his hand. He took it, tossed the contents back in a quick but awkward movement, gasping a little at the jolting impact of the potent liquid.
"Easy, amigo. You and Jack Daniel's are only passing acquaintances, remember. That's Tennessee sour mash, not water."
Chance blinked to clear his eyes, the whiskey's effect fading a little, but his voice was still a little unsteady. "You out of tequila or something?"
"Almost. Only enough left to keep the worm wet. Didn't think you'd want that."
Chance's stomach churned at the thought. "No. Thanks."
Quisto leaned back in the lushly upholstered chair that was opposite the twin that Chance sat in. He studied his partner for a moment before he said softly, "What is it?"
Chance made a low, negative sound.
"Come on, buddy, something hit you like a ton of bricks tonight."
"No."
"Right. That's why you're at my door at four in the morning, looking like you've been hit by a truck, and downing two ounces of straight whiskey like it was milk. You, the invincible, unflappable Chance Buckner."
ONE LAST CHANCE Page 9
