One Last Chance. Justine Davis
made his fingers curl oddly.
She did it again, as easily as before, reaching into his heart and soul and tying him up in knots with her words. She sang of love and loss, of pain and anger, of fear and mistrust, as if she’d known them all as deeply as he had. For Chance it was a constant battle between the heart that heard and believed every clear, shining note and the mind that knew better.
When she ended with an unexpected ballad, a song of anticipation and hope that she made soar as her strong, sweet voice soared, none of it seemed to matter anymore. For those minutes, she was everything she seemed to be, everything he wished was true.
He watched her as she came off the stage, unconsciously savoring her graceful movements. Those legs, he thought, were incredible. They’d be even more incredible wrapped around—
Damn! He barely kept the oath silent as he sat up sharply. He hadn’t reacted like this to a woman since…since when? Not even with Sarah had it been so quick, so hot.
Great, Buckner, the only thing worse than your timing is your choice of women. Where the hell was all this libido when there was a willing, unentangled woman around?
He didn’t want this, he thought fiercely. Not now, not ever. And especially not with this woman. But he had to deal with her. She was the best chance he had to get close to de Cortez, and if he was going to find out just what de Cortez was up to, he had to take that chance.
She was close now, and with a tremendous effort he forced his mind back to the business at hand. He would think about what he had to do, nothing else. You’ve had years of practice, Buckner. It’ll be easy.
Right, he muttered under his breath as he reached for the green florist’s paper and unrolled it.
He waited until the other members of the band had passed, until the moment she couldn’t avoid seeing him, then slowly stood up. Everything he’d thought of saying fled his mind the moment the gray eyes settled on him. He’d considered the clever lines he’d heard Quisto use and discarded them all, knowing he’d never be able to get one out with a straight face. Finally, as she paused beside the table, he said the only words that came to him.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes shone warmly, then widened as he held out the single flower he’d brought. It was a rose, a beautifully unfolding bud, as perfect and flawless as those on each table that were inevitably tossed to her after every song. But where those were a deep blood red, this one was a pure, immaculate white.
Her gaze lifted from the delicate bloom to his face, a soft smile curving her lips, an acknowledgment of his choice of color in her eyes that was almost a salute. In that moment he would have bet his life that she was for real, that what he saw was the truth. Then one of the tuxedos beside her moved, and he remembered with a dull ache that his life might really be the cost if he didn’t keep his head on straight.
She lifted a hand to capture the long stem in slender fingers. He didn’t release his grip on it but held it, as his eyes held hers. His fingers flexed slightly with an odd tingling sensation, as if the stem of the rose had suddenly developed the capacity to transmit electricity, a current that had begun the moment her fingers had touched it.
She looked momentarily startled, as if she felt it, too, but before she could speak, the tuxedo to her right did, gruffly.
“Let’s go, Miss Austin.”
Irritation flashed through the gray eyes. “In a minute,” she said without looking at the man.
“Maybe you’d better go,” Chance said, a tinge of rancor creeping into his voice despite himself.
“Oh?” She looked puzzled, either at his words or his tone.
“Now, Miss Austin,” the tuxedo said stiffly.
“I said in a minute.” Her voice was cool, her eyes icy as she shot a glaring look over her shoulder.
“You know the boss’s rules,” the man said.
“And we can’t break the boss’s rules, can we?” Chance’s emphasis on the word drew her gaze sharply back to him.
“He’s not my boss,” she began, ignoring the grip the tuxedo had taken on her elbow.
“So I’ve heard. He’s much more than that, isn’t he?” Chance reined in the irritation he couldn’t seem to control. He went on, but still kept his grip on the stem of the rose. “You’d better go. The master awaits.”
“Master?” Her delicate brows furrowed below the tousled fringe of bangs that swept forward from the thick mane of dark hair.
Chance shrugged. “He does own you, doesn’t he?”
He’d wanted to prod her, make her react, but he hadn’t counted on his own reaction to the sudden flare of anger and hurt in her eyes. Contrition flooded him, and before he could stop himself, he said softly, “I’m sorry.”
The tuxedo pulled at her arm, forcing her to move, but she hung back for one last moment. The hurt had faded, but not the anger, and as she at last yielded to the pressure of her escort, she yanked at the rose. It ripped free of Chance’s grasp, a thorn snagging and tearing at his thumb. He jerked his hand back at the sudden pain, shaking it sharply as blood welled to the surface.
When he lifted his head, she was gone, disappearing down the hallway with her solid wall of an attendant. He stared after her for a moment, then slowly sat down.
“It seems the lady has a temper.” Quisto was obviously smothering a grin as he held out a napkin from the table.
“Yeah.” Chance took the cloth and wrapped it around his bleeding thumb. De Cortez could afford it, he thought.
“Of course, you did rather…provoke her.” He looked at Chance consideringly. “Intentionally, I presume?”
“Of course.”
He waited, wondering if Quisto was going to comment on that involuntary apology that had escaped him. But either he hadn’t heard it or had decided not to bring it up. Chance gradually relaxed, dropping the guarded, defensive posture he’d assumed.
“You’re still bleeding.” Quisto eyed the now red-stained napkin. “Do you need—”
He broke off as one of the club’s waitresses, dressed in a short-skirted version of the men’s tuxedos, appeared at their table with a silver tray.
“From Ms. Austin,” she said, and lowered the tray in front of Chance.
Startled, Chance looked at the tray. He stared, then smiled. The smile widened into a grin, then a full-throated burst of laughter broke from him.
Quisto stared. In all the time he’d known him, he’d never heard Chance laugh like that. He shifted his bright gaze to the silver platter and suddenly understood. For there, grandly ensconced on an elegant white doily, sat a thumb-size bandage.
Chapter 3
“He must be on to us. That’s why he hasn’t made a move.”
“If he is,” Quisto muttered to Chance, “it’s thanks to Eaton.”
Eaton’s head snapped around, but they could tell by his expression that he hadn’t heard the actual words. Chance smothered a laugh.
“You have something to say, Detective Buckner?”
Chance raised an eyebrow. “No. I think you’re saying quite enough.”
Color suffused Eaton’s face. “If you can’t treat this with the seriousness it deserves, perhaps we should find someone who can.”
“Oh, I’m taking the case very seriously.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Was there a word in there you didn’t understand?” Chance’s tone was innocent.
Eaton sputtered,