ONE LAST CHANCE Page 14

  "Well, well, the stranger's here. I didn't think you were going to make it."

  Chance glanced up to see Quisto leaning against the doorjamb, his quick, dark eyes bright with curiosity.

  "I had some things I needed to check out."

  "So where's the lady?"

  "She had a rehearsal this morning."

  Quisto came in, pulling the door of the small office closed after him. He tossed his jacket onto the back of his chair and raised one leg to sit on the edge of his desk. For a long moment, he just looked at his partner.

  "I sprout horns or something?"

  Quisto grinned suddenly. "Wings, maybe. You're flyin', partner."

  Yeah, Chance thought. Good word. But he shifted uneasily, not comfortable yet with this new feeling. "What? No lecture on professional ethics?"

  Quisto shrugged. "Nothing you don't already know about that, I'd guess." His expression was suddenly serious. "And if you ask me, bending the rules a little is a small price."

  "Price? For what?"

  "For getting that damned look out of your eyes."

  Chance sat back in his chair, staring at his partner. "What look?"

  "Like your heart gave up a long time ago and was just waiting for the rest of you to follow."

  Chance was shaken by the surprisingly evocative words. He stared at the young Cuban as if he'd never really seen him before.

  "Don't look in the mirror much, do you?" Quisto said softly.

  Chance felt as if he were waiting, but he didn't know what for. Then he realized it was for the shutting down of his emotions, which had become a habit whenever anyone probed into that sensitive area of his psyche. It didn't come. At last a small, reluctant smile curved his mouth.

  "Not until this morning," be said wryly, "and I didn't recognize who I saw."

  Quisto grinned. "I'll bet." Then, serious again, "It's not going to be easy, man."

  "I know."

  "Just remember … if it all breaks down at the crunch, I'm here, partner."

  Chance had to swallow before he could speak. "Thanks."

  "Anything I can do?"

  "No." He shook his head. "Yeah. You still got that little honey from the airline on a string?"

  "Me? Keep a lady on a string?"

  "You spread yourself any thinner," Chance said dryly, "and you'll be transparent."

  "I told you, I leave that one-man, one-woman stuff to the guys who can handle it. So what do you need?"

  "Just your charm, buddy, just your charm. For one tiny little bit of information."

  Quisto's brow furrowed when Chance told him what he needed. "Flight records for when?" He wrote it down. "You looking for someone in particular?"

  Chance shrugged. "Someone familiar."

  "You think it's— Never mind, I know, if you didn't think it was important, you wouldn't ask. I'll see what I can do."

  "And quick, huh?"

  "Of course."

  "I mean it. Somewhere I've rattled a cage. Somebody's been tailing me. Plates on the car aren't in the file."

  Quisto sat up, his eyes narrowing. "You get a look at him?"

  "Yeah. He looked like every third guy on the street." A ghost of a smile flickered across his face. "With a temper."

  "I gather you lost him?"

  "Yeah." He sighed. "But I don't know how long he's been on me. I didn't spot him until this morning, but—"

  "What?" Quisto asked when he broke off, brows furrowing.

  "I think he's been on me for days." The pictures had flipped through his mind rapidly—the times he'd felt the odd sensation of a presence near the club, and the car that had been hovering the night he'd gone after Shea. "I just didn't realize what was bothering me." He snorted in disgust. "Stupid idiot."

  "You've been … preoccupied."

  "Yeah. And if he'd had different orders, I'd have been dead."

  "You think it's de Cortez?"

  "Who else?"

  "Seems a little extreme."

  "I gather he's got some rather archaic ideas about the treatment of women."

  "Ah, the old machismo, huh? Women in their place, behaving properly and all that?"

  "Something like that."

  "So you figure he's checking up on little sister's new boyfriend?"

  Chance winced a little at the word, not sure he liked the casual connotation it held. "Maybe. Or maybe he just wants to be sure I'm not going to be a problem for him."

  Quisto paused, considering. "He can't have made you yet. He would have been down on you like a sea gull on a fish head."

  "Thanks for the analogy," Chance said dryly. "I don't recall ever being compared to a fish head before."

  A teasing, bantering light appeared in Quisto's eyes. "But I'll bet you've been compared to a lot of other things in the last couple of days."

  To his amazement, Chance blushed. Quisto saw heat flare in the depths of the blue eyes, saw him swallow tightly, and thanked the Lord that he, Quisto, was immune. It must be frightening for a woman to have so much power over you.

  "Well, you'd better stay clear of here unless you're sure you've lost him. If he burns you, the whole house of cards could collapse on us."

  Chance went cold inside. That's what he was living in, a dream world, a house of cards, liable to crumble at the slightest breeze. And when it happened, he would lose Shea as completely, as permanently as he had lost Sarah.

  "I'm sorry, buddy," Quisto said. "I didn't think."

  "Not your fault," he said gruffly. "I'm the one who lost sight of the line, I'm the one who's got to live with it."

  Quisto started to speak, then stopped; there wasn't really anything to say. He glanced at his watch. "You ready for our weekly dose of Eaton-salts?"

  "No. But I don't have much choice, do I?"

  * * *

  Tuning out the drone of the federal agent, Chance went through the files again. He leaned forward and picked up the surveillance log, now a two-inch-thick sheaf of detailed entries, every call made to and from the club, every person in and out.

  He read them, then read them again, unable to get rid of the same feeling that there was something here, something he wasn't seeing. Sighing, he flipped back to page one. He was halfway down the worn sheet of paper when something Eaton was saying got through to him. His head snapped up.

  "—soon as we get approval."

  "What?" Chance fixed the man with a narrow stare.

  "Oh, decided to join us, did you?"

  Chance ignored the sarcasm. "What did you say?"

  "If you'd been bothering to pay attention—"

  "So I wasn't. Say it again."

  "I said, I'm tired of waiting. We're going to make a move."

  A chill rippled down Chance's spine. "Being in a hurry," he said carefully, "is what blew you out of the water in Miami."

  An odd, almost malevolent gleam came into Eaton's small eyes. "If you're worried about your jurisdiction, don't be." His voice was a shade too casual. "In the, ah, spirit of interagency cooperation, we're more than happy to let you handle the inside work. Especially since you have developed such an excellent … contact." The word dripped with sarcasm. "All you have to do is use her to get in to see her brother."

  Use her. A wave of nausea, so sudden and fierce it made his head start to spin, swept Chance. He knew in that moment, when he heard the words he'd thought himself so often, spoken in that oily, repugnant voice, just how hopeless it was. She would see it this way, as a cold, calculating decision made by cold, calculating men, a decision reducing her to a mere pawn in an ugly game. And she would never believe that wasn't exactly what he was.

  Chance's expression didn't change, but Quisto had been looking at a pair of dead blue eyes for two years now, and he didn't miss the flicker of anguish that dimmed the renewed life in them.

  "And you've cleared this with your brass?" Quisto responded quickly.

  Eaton hesitated then shrugged. "Not yet. But that's only a formality." His pudgy face set into stubborn lines. "I'm going a
head with this."

  "And just how," Quisto said sarcastically, "do you propose we approach a man who is, to all appearances, a law-abiding and upstanding local businessman with your 'offer'? Shall we just stroll up and say, 'Nice place you've got here, got any coke stashed in the back room?' "

  "You'll just say someone in Miami sent you to see him—"

  "You think he won't check that? That he'll just take our word for it?"

  "I've thought of that," Eaton said smugly. "If he does call, one of my men in Miami will intercept it. He'll tell him what he wants to hear."

  Quisto laughed. "He made all your people in Miami, remember? That's why you came crawling to us."

  "Listen, you little—"

  "You listen, pendejo!"

  Quisto's voice was icy as he cut Eaton off with the insult. Chance had asked him once what it meant and gotten Quisto's patented grin. "No Anglo meaning, compadre. But 'bastard' comes close." And it was clear Quisto's tone had told Eaton all he needed to know about the meaning of the word; Eaton's face reddened as the young Cuban faced him down.

  "You," Quisto spat out, "and your crew of idiots do nothing without us."

  "We'll do what we damned well please! And I guarantee you that we'll take down that bitch just as hard as her brother. And you'd better watch your mouth, punk. Your lieutenant isn't here to save your butt now."

  "No, he's not here, is he?"

  Chance's voice was soft yet somehow deadly in its very flatness. Eaton's nostrils flared with unease, and his face wore the expression of a man who had disdainfully kicked a wolf he'd thought safely dead, only to have it lunge for his throat.

  "He's not here," Chance repeated. He shifted his gaze to the two other agents who had accompanied Eaton—brought, Chance was certain, to give the man some borrowed feeling of authority. His eyes flicked to the door, then back to the men. They took the cue, and without a backward glance at their boss, they scrambled out.

  Eaton started to squeak an angry protest at the desertion, but it subsided when Chance got to his feet and closed in on him. Chance glanced at Quisto, silently offering him the same out, and got a sour look in return as his partner made his intentions clear by taking a seat on the edge of the table. Chance nodded in acceptance and understanding.

  "It's just you and us now, Eaton. So I'll tell you exactly what will happen if you take one tiny step without clearing it through us. I'm going to send de Cortez an autographed picture of you, and I'll make damned sure it's nice and clear so his muscle will recognize you when he sends them after you."

  "You wouldn't do that," Eaton blustered, but the unease in his eyes shifted to fear.

  "Wouldn't I?"

  "You're a cop. You want de Cortez."

  "When he's done with you, I'll have plenty of time."

  Eaton tried to muster his bravado. "I'll have your badge for this, Buckner! You're out of law enforcement for good!"

  "For what?" Quisto said innocently. "I didn't hear anything."

  "And I didn't say anything." Chance stared him down until, with a muttered oath, the man waddled out as fast as he could manage.

  "All right!" Quisto crowed. "Nice move, partner! Put that little weasel right in line."

  "Yeah."

  Quisto turned toward him. "You don't look very happy about it."

  "I know."

  Chance gathered up the papers he had spread on the desk. He left the conference room without another word, still struggling to deal with the realization that had hit him during Eaton's threatening tirade. Faced with a choice between Shea and this man who was supposedly one of his own, he hadn't the slightest doubt of what choice he would make.

  * * *

  Chance drummed his fingers restlessly on the table, waiting. He'd spoken to Shea on the phone this afternoon but hadn't seen her since he'd taken her home, and if he hadn't been so anxious he would have been ruefully amazed at how much he missed her.

  His entire afternoon had been a running battle with all the myriad possibilities for disaster that were whirling in his mind. And with a conscience that was sitting none too easily. If de Cortez had put the tail on him, why? To check him out, or to protect his sister? He grudgingly admitted the man seemed capable at least of that much concern for her.

  If it hadn't been de Cortez…

  No, it had to be. Nothing else made sense. And, he tried to reassure himself, Quisto was right. If the tail had made him for a cop, he would have known by now. Paul de Cortez would have made some kind of a move.

  Some kind of a move. Eaton's plans nagged at him. He knew that if nothing broke, they were going to have to do something. Even Jim Morgan had mentioned having to do a little prodding eventually. He didn't want it to happen that way. He knew it was cowardly, but he didn't want to have to be the catalyst. It would be bad enough just picking up the pieces if de Cortez made a mistake big enough to nail him for, but to go in and force it, especially knowing that to do it he'd have to lie to her again, a huge, horrendous lie…

  Quit kidding yourself, Buckner. There are no degrees in this. She'll hate you just as much. Sure, de Cortez is dirty, but it isn't going to make any difference in the long run. He's still her brother. She believed you when you told her you didn't deal or deal with dealers, but if you have to go in as just that, there's not a chance in hell she'll ever believe you again.

  Unless you tell her you're a cop. She'd believe it then, if you showed her the evidence. She'd believe, when it was there in front of her … and hate you anyway. For how you did it, for using her. And she'd think everything else you told her was a lie, too. Especially about loving her. She'd think it was just part of the game. And you couldn't think of anything more cruel, more capable of destruction.

  He had to stall. He had to have more time. Every minute with her was one more minute of faith-building between them. One more tiny bit of armor against the chaos to come. One more fragile little hope that, when it was over and the pain had eased a little, she might remember, might believe.

  The lights came up on the stage, and the chatter in the room stopped. She might not like to perform, he thought, but she had this place in the palm of her hand before she even stepped onstage. The crowd seemed bigger each night, with faces he'd seen frequently mixed among the others in the rapt audience. Some of those regulars cast sideways glances at him, recognizing the man she sat with between shows, the only person in the place she made the exception for.

  The music began, a slow, pulsing beat that was new to him, the chords from the guitar an oddly delicate counterpoint. His eyes searched the stage for her. Was this what they'd rehearsed this morning? It was intriguing, whatever it was. But where was she? The spotlight was on center stage, but it was empty.

  He noticed people leaning forward as the beat subtly altered, quickened, building anticipation on a level that was almost imperceptible. Eric's fingers flew over the strings, dancing, sending waves of sensuous melody through the air. Chance felt his heart pounding, and himself on the edge of his seat.

  A brilliant red flame rose from behind the stage, an incredible vision that shimmered as it moved, as it seemed to float toward the spotlight. The sweep of red grew brighter as it approached, glittering with each step, until the spotlight caught it and sent red sparks flying.

  Chance couldn't stop the gut-level gasp of pleasure that escaped him at the sight of her, but it didn't matter—the rest of room seemed to have done the same. She looked radiant, transported, and she took his breath away. And when she began to sing, her voice was a husky, sexy sound that made him groan as he remembered the last time he'd heard her sound like that, when she'd cried out his name as he drove deep inside her.

  "Never believed the dreamers

  When they told me how it could be

  Never believed the cryers

  When they told me how it was.

  Got no choice now,

  Don't know what's come over me

  My head don't understand

  But my crazy heart does

  It m
ust be love."

  Chance felt something shift, then break inside him. Some last, hardened part of his heart, numbed from too many blows, from too many bitter memories, unknotted and let go at last. The determination he'd lost when she'd been out of his sight came flooding back. There had to be a way. He would find it, somehow.

  A relentless, throbbing ache settled deep inside him, hardening his body to an urgent thrust as he watched the slim figure in the incredible dress move around the stage. The fabric seemed shot with light itself, sending crimson sparks out in a shower that seemed to linger even after she had moved sinuously away. It clung to her, the glitter painting her every curve. Dancing, sparkling ruby earrings, strands of red spots of light, dangled from her ears. Her hair was a wild mane, thick and tousled, looking as it had this morning, tangled from his hands.

  His hands drew up tightly into fists as he tried to fight down the tide of insistent, urgent need. He wanted to grab her and run to the first private place he could find, strip that tantalizing dress off her and drive his aching flesh into the slick, wet softness that had welcomed him like a long-missed part of herself.

  It was some cruel joke, he thought. After years of numbness, to find the one woman who aroused him to the point of pain, the one woman to whom he would hand over his heart and soul without a second thought, and it had to be like this. He felt like a wild animal caught in the jaws of a vicious trap, with the only hope of survival the gnawing off of a part of his own body.

  No, damn it. He wasn't going to let it happen. Not again. Losing Sarah and their unborn child had nearly killed him; he wasn't going to give up Shea without a fight.

  When the set was over and the vision in red began to move toward him, the ache became an agonizing need he wasn't at all sure he could control. When she paused by the table, he didn't dare stand up; only the draping of the white cloth hid his problem from the world. She didn't even speak, just nodded slightly toward the door of her dressing room and kept going.

  After a moment of the fiercest effort he'd ever had to make in his life, he was able to rise and follow her. He was met at the entry to the hallway by one of the bookends. The other was nowhere in sight.