Chance laughed shortly, bitterly. "Is that what you think?"
"Isn't that what you want everybody to think? Isn't that the image you work so damned hard at? Hard as nails, self-sufficient, doesn't need anybody?"
Chance stared.
"You think I don't understand?" Quisto asked gently. "What better way to keep the world at arm's length? Especially when you've got such a good excuse. Who's going to argue with you? Pretty selfish, amigo."
"Selfish?" The word seemed to surprise him even more than Quisto's unexpected perceptiveness.
"Sure. Don't let anybody get close so you don't get hurt. Pretty one-sided, pal."
Chance gave him a sour look. "Taking up armchair psychology?"
"Did I make you mad? Good. At least you don't look like death warmed over anymore."
Chance looked startled, then rueful as he sat back in the chair. "I've been had," he grumbled.
"Nothing but the truth, man. If the shoe pinches, it's not my fault." He grinned at the pained look Chance gave him for the mangled axiom. Then, before Chance had time to throw his protective walls back up, Quisto asked quietly, "It's Shea, isn't it?"
Chance wanted to deny it, meant to, but the protest seemed to drain out of him. He studied the empty glass for a long moment. He'd never opened himself up to anyone before, not like he wanted to with Shea. But he couldn't, didn't dare, and everything he'd been holding in for so long was beginning to fester. Just when Quisto thought Chance wasn't going to speak at all, his voice came, low and hoarse and tight.
"I'm out of control, Quisto. I … can't deal with it anymore." His head came up; the look in his eyes matched the ragged sound of his voice. "You were right. She got to me." He laughed harshly. "I didn't think there was anything left in me to get to, but she found it." His fingers tightened around the glass. "And I have to sit there and lie to her, every day, and it makes me sick!"
Quisto leaned forward, intent. "Listen, Chance. If she knows, if she's involved with her brother's dealings, then it won't matter. It'll hurt, but at least you'll know it never would have worked. And if you're right about her, if she's innocent, maybe she'll understand."
"Understand? What, that I used her to put her own brother away?"
"That you had to do it."
"But he's her brother, Quisto. And he's made damned sure she thinks he's lily-white. She'll never believe it. And she'll hate me for it."
"That's what's really bothering you, isn't it?"
Chance let out a shuddering sigh. "Great, huh? Eight years as a cop, and I do the stupidest thing possible. I get myself tied up in knots over a prime suspect in a major investigation."
"You do pick your moments," Quisto agreed dryly. "I've watched women throw themselves at you for two years now, and get nothing but bruised egos. This one rips your thumb open and you turn to mush."
Instinctively Chance looked at the now grubby bandage that still wrapped his thumb. He'd thought of taking it off, knowing it was probably healed enough, but he'd been reluctant to for reasons he hadn't wanted to delve into. Pretty dumb, Buckner, hanging on to a stupid adhesive bandage. His mouth twisted in rueful self-deprecation.
"Okay, partner," Quisto said softly. "I'll take the club for a while. Give you a chance to … regroup. Maybe something will break soon, and it'll be all over."
He felt like a coward, but Chance nodded in relief. "Thanks."
"Sure." Quisto got to his feet, took Chance's glass and went to refill it. "Sure you don't want the worm?" he called out over his shoulder.
Chance grimaced, Quisto laughed, and Chance felt a little less like a cringing, frightened fool.
* * *
"Whew! Hot stuff, baby!"
Shea smiled at Eric's appreciative whistle; she needed every bit of moral support she could muster right now. She felt her smile wobble.
"You all right, Shea?"
Eric's eyes were warm with sympathy as he looked at her, and she had to look away.
"I'm fine. Let's go."
"We've got a couple of minutes yet." The shaggy-haired guitarist leaned forward and touched the dying white rose. "You have a fight with him?"
"I don't know."
Equally shaggy eyebrows quirked. "You don't know?" She sighed. "I didn't think we did."
"But he hasn't been around for three or four days."
"Five," she said glumly.
"Why don't you just call him?"
She made a face. "I did. But he's got an answering machine on at home, and he never called back."
"So maybe the machine's broken. Try him at work."
"All I have is a pager number." Eric frowned. "A beeper?"
She nodded. "He said he's always out of the office and that was the only way to reach him."
Unaware she was frowning herself, she remembered the day he'd given her the numbers. He'd been open and straightforward about his home number but oddly restrained about the other. She'd only pressed because it was beginning to bother her, this vagueness about his job. She'd even tried the number once, hoping they would answer with a company name, but had been met with a computerized voice that told her to punch in the number she wanted him to call. She'd hung up without doing it.
"Don't you think that's a little … odd?" Eric's voice was carefully tentative.
"Only when he's not around," she admitted ruefully.
Eric grinned suddenly. "Don't tell me the ice maiden's melting!"
"Give me a break, Carlow," she said with mock sarcasm. "Any woman who doesn't tumble for your charms immediately is an ice maiden to you!"
"Can I help it if I'm irresistible?" He gave her a look of mock anguish. "Except to you, the one woman who is immune to my charisma!"
For the first time in five days, Shea laughed. Eric had tried, during the first few days she'd been here, to get her to succumb to his not inconsiderable appeal. She had at last taken him aside, told him that yes, he was talented, gorgeous and otherwise tempting, but she was not in the market. He had been not at all wounded, and had soon become a good friend. A good enough friend to resist pointing out that for someone not in the market, she had fallen hard and fast for Chance Buckner.
Impulsively she gave him a swift kiss on the cheek. Eric looked at her in surprise.
"Let's go, Mr. Charisma. We're on."
He laughed and followed her, never guessing how much it was costing her to put on that cheerful face when inside she was dreading going out there to face another crowd that did not contain the tall, blue-eyed man with thick blond-streaked hair. If she found anybody when she scanned the crowd, it would be Quisto, and she didn't want to confront him again. She had, that first night, wanting to know if he knew what had happened to Chance. But the young Cuban had only said that he was busy, he didn't know where.
She'd tried to hide her hurt, but knew it had flared in her eyes before she could control it.
"You make it hard for me, querida. I don't want anyone to get hurt, but Chance is my friend."
She had left the table hastily, afraid she looked as wounded as she felt, and wondered why there had seemed to be a hint of warning in those last words. The days had gone on with no sign of Chance, and she avoided Quisto whenever she saw him, although she wondered why he kept coming around when Chance was so thoroughly and obviously avoiding her. But when she saw the sideways glances he garnered from the female club-goers, she guessed she had an answer to that.
She had tried to bury the turbulent feelings, but the conversation with Eric had brought them all bubbling back to the surface. Her emotions added a poignant note to her voice as she sang that night. She wavered between remembering those hot, luscious moments of pleasure and remembering the chill that had swept her when she had looked up into a pair of blue eyes that had looked nothing less than tortured.
At first she'd thought herself a fool, that she'd let too much of what she'd grown to feel for him show and had driven him away. But then she remembered that he'd begun that passionate kiss, remembered that he'd been just as caught up
in it as she had. She had the memory of urgently aroused flesh pressing against her to prove it.
Heat suffused her at that particularly intimate memory, and her voice caught in her throat. Fortunately, it was in the chorus of a quiet, lonely ballad, and it only made the song sound more heartfelt. She was grateful when Eric stepped up to sing lead on the next number, allowing her to retreat out of the spotlight and try to gather herself.
She didn't understand herself, didn't understand her reaction. She'd fended off enough amorous men, especially when she was singing, which somehow seemed to make her public property in their eyes. None of them had made her feel this way. None of them had ripped her composure to shreds, had driven all thought of resistance from her mind with the first touch of their lips on hers.
She paced the darkened area at the rear of the stage, aware that Richie, the group's drummer, was looking at her a little oddly. She reached for the pitcher of water kept on a table there, as if that's what she was after.
Why? She'd asked herself the question countless times over the past five days, since he had dropped out of her life as abruptly as he had appeared. Why had he looked at her like that, as if he were fighting some horrible, painful battle and losing?
Or perhaps he'd won.
She set down the glass she'd filled, feeling suddenly as cold as the ice water it held. Perhaps the battle she'd seen in his face was against his own urges, and rejecting her had been his victory.
She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering as a row of mental dominoes toppled one after the other. All the vagueness, the odd, obscure answers he gave her, his expression when she caught him looking at her unguardedly, the fact that although he'd told her about his past, he'd never really told her anything tangible about his present, not even where he lived…
All the pieces toppled, leaving standing only one explanation that she could see, glaring in the bleakness of her mind. He was shutting her out, and had been all along. He wanted her, at least he had that night, but not enough. He wanted her, but he didn't want to want her. Or he wanted her physically, but nothing more, none of the emotional involvement she now was certain she'd made obvious she already felt.
"Shea!"
The hiss of her name from the drummer whirled her around. She recognized the music and realized she was going to blow the next song if she didn't snap out of it. She barely made it up front by the end of the intro, and plunged into the song with Eric's eyes on her in sympathetic understanding. It only abraded an already raw wound, and she turned away.
She supposed in some part of her mind functioning separately from the part that directed her body to move and her mouth to form the words of the song, that she should be grateful. He could have just gone ahead and then disappeared. She wouldn't have stopped him.
She suppressed a shudder. She, who had always been so careful, selective enough to be called picky by her friends, would have tumbled into bed with a man she barely knew, had only met weeks ago. Yet when he touched her, it didn't seem to matter, just as it didn't matter that she knew so little about him. All she knew was that no one had ever made her feel like he did.
She forced herself to concentrate on the music, shutting all thoughts of him out of her mind. She was just congratulating herself on how well she'd done when a tall figure, made shadowy by the glare of the footlights, moved in a way that made her heart leap.
Stop it! she ordered herself, whirling away to devote the rest of the song to the other side of the room. Only two more numbers, she thought wearily, and the set—and the long, long night—would be over. Tomorrow was the one night she got off per week, and she was looking gratefully forward to it. She needed time to hole up and lick her wounds, she thought, like the deer she had sheltered last spring. She should be thankful it wasn't worse, she told herself sternly. Somehow it didn't help.
She accepted the applause of the audience with a silent apology. They had not had her best and she knew it. Although performing live was not her favorite thing to do, she tried to give it an honest effort. She had failed miserably tonight. Her mood was dark and obvious. Even the bookends kept their distance, sensing that when she told them to leave her alone, they'd better listen or find out if she had her brother's fiery temper.
They'd tell Paul, but she couldn't seem to care. When at last she walked outside into the rain that had lingered halfheartedly all week, her slender shoulders were slumped wearily and her steps a little shaky. As soon as she cleared the canopy that sheltered the front door of the club, the rain began in earnest. Figures, she thought sourly. She'd be soaked by the time she got home.
She turned up the collar of her jacket and huddled into it as she headed down the wet sidewalk. When a dark, broad figure loomed suddenly out of the shadows, she jumped back with a startled little cry. Strong arms shot out to catch her, steady her, and she knew instantly.
"Chance." It took the last of her breath, and she could only stare at him. Then memory flooded back, and she tried to pull away.
"I know," he said softly, "but please, don't. Let me take you home."
"No, thank you." Her voice was flat, impeccably polite. Chance winced.
"Shea—"
"I didn't care for what happened last time, thank you."
"I want to talk about that, but if we just stand here you'll freeze."
"I never get frozen twice in one week," she said, her flippancy not hiding the pain behind it. The reference to the night he'd left her made him want to cringe, but he held his ground, knowing he deserved it, from her viewpoint.
"At least come sit in the car for a minute. I'll turn on the heater and you can get warm."
"Before the freeze?"
"Shea, listen. I know you're upset, and you have every right to be, but will you at least listen to me?"
"Give Chance a chance?" Her voice broke, robbing the quip of any humor.
"Please?"
She found herself, much to her dismay, unable to resist the quiet plea. She chastised herself as she let him lead her through the parking lot. When he stopped before an elegant Jaguar sedan, she barely smothered a groan.
"Another loaner?"
There was a touch of bitterness in her tone that made him look at her intently. "Sort of."
"Sort of. What is that, the standard Buckner answer to any question he doesn't want to answer?"
"Just get in," he said, a little gruffly. "I brought it because it's got more room and a better heater."
"How thoughtful."
"Shea, please." He held the passenger door for her. "Just listen to me for a minute. Then, if it's what you want, I'll leave."
Rather woodenly she got in. He hurried around the car, as if afraid she were going to jump out. Not a bad idea, she thought. When the driver's door opened and he didn't get in, she glanced that way. He seemed to be staring into the darkness behind them, although at what she couldn't guess. After a moment he rubbed the back of his neck in an odd little movement and got into the car.
He turned to look at her, lifting a hand to slick back his wet hair. She knew her own was nearly as wet, could feel it clinging to her neck. She ignored it.
Now that he'd gotten her here, he seemed to have forgotten why. He just stared at her, something akin to pain or resignation in his eyes, not quite either one but a combination of both.
"I tried to stay away," he whispered finally.
To have it confirmed that he had truly done it intentionally lacerated her already raw nerves. "Perhaps you should have," she said coolly.
He drew back. "Do you … mean that?"
"I think I do."
Pain flashed in his eyes, and she stared at him in amazement. It had been he who had bolted from her, who had avoided her for days, wasn't this what he wanted?
"Because of … the other night?"
His voice was taut, hoarse, and she felt an incongruous, unwelcome need to ease his distress. She smothered it adamantly.
"Partly."
"I know it was rotten, but I…"
&nb
sp; "You what? Came to your senses? Regained your better judgment? I'd rather not hear it, if you don't mind. I've been a big enough fool already."
He stared at her. "You've been a fool?"
She smiled, a wintry smile that didn't reach her gray eyes. "I've made some big mistakes in my life, but failing for you would seem to be the topper."
He gaped at her then. "I… Falling for me?"
She looked away in irritation, staring at the rich wood of the dash. "Were you under the impression that I react that way with any man who happens to kiss me?"
"No, but—"
"Look," she said, her voice suddenly fierce. "I may not have much experience in these things, but I do have a little pride, and I'd like to salvage what's left. I think I'd better go."
"Shea, wait. Listen, I—"
"Listen? To what? You never tell me anything that isn't ancient history. Anytime I ask about what you do, you just avoid answering, or give me some glib remark…"
She stopped, running her fingers over the smooth wood of the dash as if she found comfort in its polished surface. She felt something give beneath her fingers, and gave a startled jump as a glove compartment she hadn't even known was there fell open in front of her. She stared for a long moment before a muffled, protesting moan broke from her.
"Oh, God."
"Shea—,,
"I knew it. Deep down I knew it." Her eyes, glistening with tears of disillusionment, were fastened on his face. "This just proves it."
"Shea," he began again, reaching for her.
"No!"
She scrambled out of the car, leaving the door open as she dashed through the parking lot.
"Shea!"
With startling speed he grabbed the gun she'd found and started after her, stuffing it into his waistband at the small of his back. He left the door of the Jaguar open, not caring, as he tried to catch up to her.
"Shea, wait, damn it!"
He saw her through the heavy rain, a few yards ahead. She was running in high heels, and the sidewalk was so slick he expected to see her go down any second. The thought lent speed to his feet, and he caught up with her just as she reached the corner.
ONE LAST CHANCE Page 10
