ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  "Your brother is waiting for you. Go inside."

  Shea drew herself up, sudden anger radiating from her. "I don't take orders from you, or my brother, Pedro. And I will not stand here and listen to your foul mouth any longer. I didn't like it when you were a teenager, and I like it even less now that you're supposedly man enough to control your temper."

  Her gibe hit home, and Escobar straightened up stiffly. "If you please," he said with icy formality, "your brother would like to see you in his office."

  "Much better. Please tell him I'll be there in just a minute."

  Without a word Escobar turned on his heel and stalked off, rage evident in every step. Shea turned to look up at Chance.

  "I'm sorry. He's known my brother since they were children, and sometimes he gets this way."

  Chance only smiled. "Remind me not to ever get on your bad side."

  "You couldn't," she said earnestly.

  Chance felt the trap clamp shut tighter, tearing, at already lacerated emotions. Oh, I could, songbird. I will. I just hope to God you love me enough to forgive me.

  "Besides," she was saying, her expression a blend of shyness and teasing that he found irresistible, "I seem to remember you saying last night that I didn't have a bad side."

  "Yes, I did, didn't I?"

  He lifted his hands to cup her face, tilting it back for his kiss. It was warm and sweet and gentle, with nothing of passion and all of the love he'd come to feel for this woman who sang his soul. When at last he lifted his head and looked into her eyes, he knew that she had understood. The gray depths were full of an answering love and more than a touch of wonder.

  "What did you mean, you told your brother to back off?" he asked after a long moment. "Has he been giving you a hard time?"

  "No, not really."

  Color tinged her cheeks, and he wondered why on earth he had ever thought her capable of lying about anything.

  "You're a lousy fibber, songbird," he said softly. "He's been on you about me, hasn't he?"

  "Like I told you, Paul just gets … too protective sometimes."

  "And he wants to protect you from me," Chance said. It wasn't a question.

  "He just worries, that's all. It's not you, personally."

  It should be, Chance thought bitterly. God, it should be. He'd known in the moment he'd seen the pain in her eyes when she'd thought he'd left without a word that he had the power to hurt her terribly. And if he did his job, that's exactly what he'd end up doing. But if he didn't do his job, if he pulled out, the operation would still go on, with Eaton in charge and out for her blood, as well as de Cortez's. She'd be left in the middle, without him to at least try to keep her safe. And he'd have to disappear from her life, or tell her what he was, and the result would be the same anyway. The jaws of the trap were relentless, crushing, and the more he thrashed around trying to find the way out, the more damage it did.

  "Chance, what is it? My God, what's wrong? You look ill."

  "I … I'm fine. Too many donuts, I guess."

  "Do you want to come in—"

  "No. Really. I'm okay. I'll see you tonight, okay?"

  There was no sign of a tail, but Chance took a roundabout route anyway. He looked for anything, knowing that since they knew he'd made them, if they were going to stay on him they would at least change cars. At last, satisfied that if they were still tailing him they were using a multiple car tail so complex he wouldn't be able to spot it anyway, he parked the BMW in the lot of a small restaurant a few blocks from the station.

  He sat there for awhile, sipping a cup of coffee, looking once more through the files that were always with him except when he was with Shea. Thank God she had absolutely no snooping tendencies, he thought. If she found this pile in his apartment, it would all be over.

  He was sick of reading it. He'd read it so many times he was sure not much of it penetrated anymore. He could practically quote each line of the surveillance log line for line. It soured his stomach, which didn't help the coffee any. Not to mention that he really had gotten carried away with those damned donuts.

  But it had been worth it, he thought, especially when Shea had insisted on licking his sticky fingers. He, of course, then had to return the favor, but he hadn't stopped, at her fingers. He hadn't stopped, until she was crying out in shocked pleasure, her hips bucking in his hands as she lifted herself for his mouth.

  "Whatever you're thinking, man, judging from that smile, it's rated for adults only."

  Quisto slid into the booth across from him, grinning widely.

  "You're late," Chance said, ignoring the gibe.

  "Hey, I just got your message." He chuckled. "One of those fine ladies from the Del Mar Club was introducing me to the intricacies of chess last night."

  "Chess?"

  "A new version. Each captured piece has a … special meaning. And the penalty for losing is—" he rolled his eyes expressively "—amazing."

  "So that's why your mind's in the gutter this morning." Quisto grinned, undaunted. "Nope. That's why I recognized where your mind was. Aren't you eating?"

  Chance's stomach gave a warning lurch. "No."

  "Well, I'm starved."

  When the waitress had taken his huge breakfast order, Quisto glanced out the window to where the BMW was parked.

  "Any sign of your caboose today?"

  "No." A smiled tugged at the corners of his mouth. "At least, not anymore."

  "Anymore?"

  Chance told him of this morning's encounter. Quisto laughed uproariously.

  "I'll bet he about went through the roof when you snuck up on him!"

  "I think he was more upset about the chocolate."

  "Damn, I would have loved to have seen his face! Speaking of which, I suppose it was no one you knew."

  "No…"

  "No, what?"

  "Nothing. Nothing I can hang a name on, anyway."

  "Come on, give. I know that clever little mind of yours is working on something."

  Chance shrugged. "He just didn't strike me as the kind of guy de Cortez would have working for him. He was too…" He shrugged again, unable to find a word that fit. "Told you it was nothing concrete. Just a feeling, a gut-level reaction."

  "Long before I became your partner, my friend, I beard about your gut-level reactions. Don't shine it on."

  "Maybe."

  His breakfast arrived, and Quisto pulled some folded papers out of his pocket as he began to eat.

  "Here are those reports you ordered. And I should have those names from the flight records you wanted by the end of the week. I hope you appreciate the sacrifice I'm going to have to make to pay for them."

  "Some sacrifice. As I recall, she's tall, blond, built and just silly enough to believe all those lines you throw around."

  "I'm wounded, my friend." Quisto's try at an expression of hurt failed completely. "Anyway, this came for you, too." He handed over a small stack of papers. "Pretty rotten, about her father. But at least they got two of them."

  "But not the triggerman."

  Quisto shrugged. "Sometimes that's the way it goes. She's had it rough, hasn't she? First her father murdered, then her mother committing suicide. That report's in there, too, by the way. Take a look at the note. It's kind of odd."

  Chance dug out the report, forcing himself to put out of his mind that this cold, factual report was about the woman who had been Shea's mother. They'd found her, it said, in the bedroom of the house where she'd lived with Shea's father. A neighbor, coming over to chat, had become concerned when she found the door open but no sign of Elena Austin.

  There was a final line that indicated that next of kin, daughter Shea Austin of Zephyr Cove, Nevada, had been notified by local authorities. He wondered with a qualm how it had been done. He'd always hated death notifications and knew that he'd probably been a less-than-kind bearer of bad news on occasion. He hoped that whoever had told Shea had had more compassion than the average cop sent on a distasteful assignment.

  He
flipped the page and found a copy of the note Quisto had referred to. It was odd, he thought. The wording was odd, and it appeared to be on a torn scrap of paper.

  "Lab report says they figure she wrote it after she took the pills," Quisto said. "That's why it's kind of incoherent and fades out at the end."

  Chance nodded, forehead creasing as he studied the note. "I don't get it," he said after a minute. " 'I can't bear the guilt. It was my fault, just as the demonio is my fault.' " He looked at Quisto.

  "It means 'demon'." He shrugged. "Didn't make any sense to me, either. There's no record that she'd been haying any psychiatric problems, hadn't seen a doctor or anything." He looked at Chance curiously. "Shea hasn't said anything?"

  "Just that her mother died a few months ago."

  "Any more on de Cortez?"

  "He tries to order her around. And he didn't get along with her father. They rarely heard from him between the time he left home and her father's death."

  Chance's voice had gone flat, expressionless. Quisto's look softened, went warm with sympathy. "I'm sorry, Chance."

  "Not your fault."

  "I don't envy you, my friend. You've picked a very rough path to follow."

  "You don't know the half of it, partner."

  "And I hope I never do. This is tearing you apart, buddy."

  Chance stared at the papers on the table without seeing them. "I know," he whispered finally.

  "You want to bail? I'll take it. I can keep Eaton in line."

  "It won't make any difference, not in the long run. I'd rather be there. Just in case."

  "You think she might get caught in the cross fire?"

  "Eaton still thinks she knows."

  "Eaton's an idiot."

  Chance's head came up, a new warmth in his eyes. "Thanks."

  "Sure. So you're still in?"

  Chance nodded.

  "Okay. I'll tell the lieutenant."

  "He … knows?"

  "I don't know how much," Quisto said, "but it wouldn't take a genius to figure out something's going on. Especially somebody who's known you before."

  Chance hesitated a moment before asking softly, "Have I changed that much?"

  "Night and day, partner. I just hope…"

  "I know. So do I."

  Chance sat silently for a while as Quisto finished his meal. Then, with sudden decisiveness, he gathered up his files, added the new items Quisto had brought and slapped them shut. His partner looked at him curiously.

  "I think," Chance said, "it's time for me to go face-to-face with the headliner in this little game."

  Quisto stared, his last forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth. Slowly he set it down.

  "You want to explain that? Didn't we just go high and to the right and threaten Eaton with dire bodily harm over the same thing?"

  "Relax. I didn't mean like that."

  "How did you mean it?"

  "He's been riding Shea pretty hard about me. I'm just going to be legitimately angry about it." Because I am, he thought sourly.

  "Why?"

  "Because I want to see him close up. Listen to him, see how he moves, see if I can find a clue to what he's up to by how he reacts."

  "I meant why has he been on Shea?"

  Chance's mouth quirked. "She wouldn't say, but from a little meeting we had with Escobar this morning in which the words 'damned gringo' popped up a couple of times, I would guess it's my sad lack of your noble Latin heritage."

  Quisto grinned. "Can't blame him for that."

  "So adopt me."

  "Not me. Check with my mother. She'd take you in a Cuban minute."

  "I know. She told me she'd trade you for me any day." Quisto took a swipe at him as Chance got up from the table, glanced out the window, then back at his partner.

  "Watch my back when I leave, okay?"

  Quisto nodded. "I hope they've quit tailing you. I need another cup of coffee, not a chase at this hour."

  Chance grinned at him, buoyed by the thought of finally confronting the man who'd been the center of this. When he put the files back in their hiding place beneath the carpet m the trunk of the BMW, he glanced around quickly. Nothing.

  When he got to the club, there was a truck making a delivery through one of the side doors, so he followed a tray of bread inside. He smiled when he heard the music; his grin widened when he heard the words in an impatient male voice.

  "Jeez, Shea! How many times are we going to do this?"

  "Only till it's right," she answered sweetly, to a chorus of groans.

  "The way we're going, we'll be here all day. If we—" Eric stopped, looking across the empty room from the stage. "Don't look now, guys, but we may get a break after all."

  Puzzled, Shea turned to see what Eric was talking about. When she saw Chance, she blushed furiously.

  "What are you doing here?" she asked a little breathlessly when he got there. "You said you had things to do today."

  "I do. I just added seeing your brother to the list, that's all."

  "Paul? Why?" Distress widened her eyes suddenly. "Oh, no, not because of what I said? Chance, no, really, it hasn't been that bad—"

  "Hush, songbird. I just think it's time he and I came to an understanding, that's all. Is he here?"

  She tried to protest, but Eric answered helpfully, "He's in the office, down the hall and up the stairs."

  "Eric!"

  "He's right, Shea. Paul's been on your case something fierce." A glint of admiration shone in eyes half-hidden by a mop of shaggy hair. "And if your man here's got the guts to call him on it, then I'm all for it."

  "Thanks," Chance said with a nod. Shea's eyes were on him, still troubled, and he grinned crookedly at her. "Easy, songbird. I'm just going to talk to him, not beat him up. I'll be back in a minute."

  He couldn't deny the adrenaline rush that shot through him as he went up the stairs. The man had existed only on paper, only in distant glimpses and the words of his sister for weeks now. At last he was going to see the reality. He stopped at the door at the top of the stairs, schooling himself to the role of angry … angry what? Boyfriend? Suitor? Lover?

  All of them, he decided firmly and rapped on the door. The murmur of voices he'd heard but had been unable to make out stopped abruptly. The door swung open, and without waiting for an invitation, Chance took one long step inside.

  Immediately, the man who had opened the door and his near twin closed in on him. He recognized the bookends and grinned at them.

  "Ah, together again at last, I see."

  "You son of a—"

  "—wonderfully charming lady who hates it when I bruise people. But if you insist…"

  "Leave us. Both of you."

  The command snapped from across the room, and was obeyed instantly. One bookend tightened his grip on the briefcase he'd never let go of, and the other led the way. Whatever Paul de Cortez was, he had those two apes under his thumb. Holding the door for the two with exaggerated politeness. Chance bowed them out. Then he closed the door and turned to face the man he'd never met. And found the coldest pair of eyes he'd ever seen.

  The impression was gone as quickly as it had registered, replaced by a bland, unreadable mask. But Chance knew he'd seen it, the chill that was as cold as death. Indeed, he'd seen dead eyes with more warmth than had been in that reptilian glance.

  "Mr. Buckner, I presume?"

  The words were polite, but the voice held a wealth of leashed anger and power.

  "Of course," Chance agreed easily. "But then I'm sure you already know that."

  Something flickered in the near-black eyes. "Yes. I do. Shall I tell you what else I know?"

  "Certainly. I'm ready to be impressed."

  Chance felt reasonably secure. When he'd begun undercover work, his connections with the department had been buried so deep it would take a miracle to uncover them. And even with all his power and wealth, Paul de Cortez couldn't order up one of those.

  "You are thirty years old. You do occasional work for
your landlord, Peter Hagan, of PLH, Incorporated. Beyond that, you do nothing, preferring to live off the healthy insurance money left to you by the death of your wife four years ago."

  It was the official line, the slightly distorted facts that had been planted for anyone who bothered to look. Just enough truth to make it believable, just enough left out to protect his cover. Chance had never liked the bit about the insurance, but he knew it worked.

  "In short," de Cortez was saying coldly, "hardly the kind of man I would approve of for my sister."

  Chance was unmoved by the thinly veiled insult. "Neither your sister nor I need or want your approval," he returned, his voice equally cool. "The only thing I want from you is to get off her back. Whatever choices she makes, whatever she does, has nothing to do with you."

  "She is my sister. That means nothing to your kind, but we take our family responsibilities seriously."

  "She's her own woman," Chance said, "and the sooner you realize that, the better."

  "Are you threatening me?" He was incredulous.

  "Let's call it a promise. You have a problem with me, you bring it to me, not her." On a hunch, he decided on a pointed jab. "Unless, of course, you prefer to hide behind a woman."

  Ah, Chance thought as de Cortez came up out of his chair, the chink in the armor. That misguided machismo would bring him down, someday. A man with too much pride always made a mistake in the long run, somewhere.

  "Get out," de Cortez spat.

  "Sure," Chance said equably. "Just one more thing. You say one more thing to her, and I'll have the whole town buzzing about how the great Paul de Cortez yells at his sister because he's afraid to take on a 'damned gringo' man to man. And you sic those two matched hounds of yours on me, and I'll do the same thing. It's either you and me, or nothing." He turned and went to the door. De Cortez was furious, he could see it his face.

  "You just let me know," Chance tossed over his shoulder, then closed the door behind him.

  Chance half expected a rain of gunfire to splinter the door, but it didn't happen. Then he heard a resounding crash from the office he'd just left, and he couldn't help grinning. He'd prodded the rattler in his cage, giving him one more thing to think about. It might be the one thing too many that made him trip up.

  It had gone pretty well, he decided, considering he hadn't really thought it out beforehand. When he hit the bottom of the stairs and again heard Shea's voice, he knew why it had—he'd meant every word of it.