One Last Chance

Chance never made it to the first door in the narrow hall. He wasn’t sure if the two men who seemed to appear out of nowhere were the same two who had followed her or not. All of the formally dressed attendants seemed to be about the same size. Fifty-two extra-brawny, he thought wryly. At two inches over six feet and a solid two hundred pounds he was hardly tiny, but these guys made him feel inferior.

“Sorry, sir,” one of the bow-tied walls said with impeccable politeness, “no guests allowed beyond this point.”

“Oh?” Chance tried to look surprised; actually he hadn’t expected to get this far. Meanwhile, his eyes were scouring the hallway, noting each door and the barely visible stairway at the end.

“No, sir.” They were closing in, subtly urging him back toward the crowded main room.

“Wait,” he said, grasping at a reason he told himself was only a cover. “I just wanted to see the lady, tell her how much I enjoyed her singing.”

“Visitors aren’t allowed, sir.”

“But I only wanted to see her—”

“She sees no one, sir.”

“No one?”

“No one.”

Chance shrugged, as if he were nothing more than a frustrated fan. “I guess I’ll just wait until she’s done, then.”

“I wouldn’t bother, sir. She won’t see you then, either.”

This was starting to irritate him. “Oh? Why not?”

“She sees no one, sir,” the left bookend repeated. “Boss’s orders.”

Something cold crept down Chance’s spine. “The boss?”

“Mr. de Cortez.”

“Does he own her, or what?” The chill had settled into a frosty knot in the pit of his stomach.

“You might say that. He’s put her…shall we say, off-limits?”

The “sir,” Chance noticed, was gone.

“I’d say that’s for her to decide, isn’t it?”

“She does,” the right bookend said warningly, “what Mr. de Cortez tells her to do.”

That cold lump shifted, changed, spreading out with creeping tentacles, making him fight off a wave of nausea. That lovely vision with the huge eyes and the voice that could melt the most frozen of souls was involved with slime like Mendez?

Get real, Buckner, he told himself fiercely. After all these years, you should know that the most innocent, most beautiful of exteriors often hides the darkest of hearts.

“I suggest you return to your table.”

Suggest? Chance almost laughed. He would have, if he hadn’t been reasonably certain it would get his arm broken. Realizing that any normal patron would have disappeared long ago, he shrugged and managed a careless grin.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?”

The bookends relaxed a little. “No, sir.”

“You guys here every night?” he asked in a joking tone.

“Yes, sir. Every night.”

With an exaggerated sigh of surrender, Chance shrugged again. Then he turned and walked casually back into the room, wandering here and there, looking around, until the two wardens apparently decided he was harmless, and disappeared. Only then did he go back to the table.

“So,” Quisto said as he sat down, “what’s her name?”

“I was checking the hallway,” Chance answered in automatic protest.

“Sure. What’s her name?”

Chance’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “I never got that far. Two of the those tuxedoed linebackers stopped me.”

Quisto’s brow furrowed. “They hit you or something? You look a little green.”

“No.” It was short, clipped. He wasn’t about to admit that the thought of the woman who had haunted him for days being connected—intimately—with someone like Mendez made him sick.

“So what’s the story? Why’d they stop you?”

He took in a steadying breath. “I gather she’s…private property.”

Quisto’s brows shot up. “Oh? De Cortez?”

“So it seems.”

Chance could almost see Quisto’s quick brain working, reassessing, placing the vibrant gray-eyed woman in a new niche. A niche that was on the wrong side of the line that he had been walking for the past two years, and Chance for four. Four years that seemed like four centuries.

“A shame,” Quisto said quietly.

“Yeah.” There was a world of bitterness in the single syllable, and Quisto stared at him.

“Chance—”

“Three doors in the hallway,” he said abruptly, cutting his partner off. “Two on the left, one on the right. One’s got to be a dressing room of some kind. She disappeared too quickly to have made it to the stairs.” At least he knew she was real now. “Nothing’s labeled, but we know the office is upstairs. There’s a door at the bottom of the staircase. From the layout, I’d guess it opens into the alley.”

“Lock?”

“Not too tricky, but it’s rigged to the fire alarm. Have to take it out first.”

“I’ll check it out. Just in case.”

Chance nodded. “How many men you figure?”

“Twenty, tonight. Let’s hope that’s just for the big opening. I wouldn’t want to have to deal with all of those clowns through this whole thing.”

“I’d guess the two I ran into are permanent. I’ll check the pictures we got on Mendez—de Cortez’s crew from Florida, see if I can spot them.”

Quisto nodded. He shifted in his chair to look around the room again, then turned back. For a moment he watched his partner, who sat staring at the roses on the table.

“Red roses,” Quisto heard Chance mutter as he reached out and plucked a petal from one of the blooms.

“I’m sorry about the lady, partner.”

“Yeah.” The petal disappeared, crushed in a tightening fist. “Me, too.”

Then, as if realizing what he’d admitted by that answer, by even acknowledging that he knew what Quisto meant, he shut down. His face became stiff and impassive, his voice cool.

“Your turn. Why don’t you check for any other exits, or unexplained doors?”

Reluctantly, Quisto went. He knew there wasn’t any point in arguing when Chance got like that. When he closed himself off, there was no getting through to him. He wandered around the bustling room, scanning every foot of it as he wondered what had happened, what connection there had been between Chance and the sweet-voiced singer before tonight.

He was still wondering by the next night, when it came time to go back to the club. They planned to establish themselves as regulars, become familiar enough to be overlooked, but as he thought about Chance’s reaction the night before, he offered to go it alone, figuring he could check it out and wait and see what happened. Chance only gave him a cool look and asked politely if he was ready to go.

He realized something was up when Chance pulled the car to a stop in front of a small shopping center. Saying only he wanted to get something, he got out of the car. He was back in minutes, empty-handed.

“Closed,” he muttered, and stopped again a few blocks farther on. Again he came back empty-handed. Quisto lifted a brow at him. “They were out,” he explained cryptically. Quisto rolled his eyes in expressive silence, but when Chance stopped once more, in front of a small row of shops, he finally broke.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What the hell are you looking for?”

“The right color.”

Quisto blinked. “Of course. I should have known.”

Chance shrugged noncommittally and got out of the car. When he came back this time, he had something long and slim wrapped in green florist’s paper.

“I thought you didn’t buy flowers.” Quisto’s tone was mild, but his eyes were intently curious.

“It’s Election Day.”

Quisto stared. “It’s not an election year.”

“If it was, this would be.”

Without another word he started the car and pulled away from the curb. Quisto opened his mouth then shut it again, reminding himself that there was no use prodding Chance when he got like this, he just clammed up more.

There were even more people than there had been last night, and the club was crowded to capacity. They worked their way through the milling groups, Quisto following Chance, who appeared to have a definite destination in mind. They moved slowly, eyes searching the crowd. Neither spoke, so they could hear the bits of conversation around them.

“—bringing Sam here tomorrow—”

“—was here last night. The singer is really good—”

“—sexy as hell—”

“—I heard she signed a record contract—”

“—she turned it down—”

“—a knockout. Great body, and she can really sing—”

“—could eat crackers in my bed anytime—”

By the time Chance came to a stop beside an empty table, his jaw was rigidly set. He’d spent a long time last night determinedly shoving the vision that had haunted him into the category of merely a possible way to get to de Cortez. Unless, he thought grimly, she was doing more than just playing house with that piece of slime.

It came back to him then, the picture he’d built last night. He’d had to, to keep his perspective. He’d made himself think about it, made himself picture them together. The crime boss who thought nothing of ordering a murder along with dinner, and the wide-eyed, crystal-voiced woman who had seemed to slice open his soul with her songs.

It was just an image, he told himself again, as he had countless times last night. It was a front, a facade. Part of the big picture de Cortez was building in his new home, the veneer of respectability he was trying to paint over his activities.

He had to accept, no matter how rotten it made him feel, that she knew what de Cortez was, perhaps even helped him. The only alternative was that she was too naive to realize it; he found that more impossible to believe than her connection with the man.

She was a way in, that’s all. A way that might or might not work. Just one facet of a complex investigation. He silently ordered himself to remember that one more time as he tossed the long, slim cylinder of green paper down onto the pristine white cloth covering the table.

“Planning an ambush?”

Quisto had noted immediately the location of the table Chance had chosen. It was farther from the stage, but was exactly where the singer had passed last night on her way to the hallway.

“Sort of.”

“Good luck.”

Chance shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, you’re on next. Maybe she likes the machismo type.”

Quisto lifted a brow in elegant disbelief. “After the way she looked at you last night?” The brow came down in sudden puzzlement. “Besides, I got the idea you were…interested yourself.”

Chance made a low, grunting sound that could have meant anything. “She’s part of the job.”

“So why do I get the feeling you knew her before we came in here last night?”

Chance had had time now to marshal his defenses. “I ran into her on the street a couple of days ago. I was surprised when she showed up here, that’s all.”

Quisto backed off, but he wasn’t convinced. In the two years he’d worked with this man he’d come to admire and respect, he’d never seen Chance react the way he had last night. Quisto leaned back in his chair, occasionally scanning the room, but just as often watching his partner.

She moved so quietly as she opened the first door on the left in the hallway that she was almost even with their table before they saw her. The other members of the band were both in front of and behind her. Still, she paused for a barely measurable moment when she saw Chance. The smile she gave him seemed so warm, so genuine, that he was already smiling back before he realized. Then she was gone, headed for the stage, and he sank back in his chair as he called himself seventeen kinds of a fool.

“Whatever game she’s playing, she’s good,” he muttered, hardly aware of saying it aloud.

“Didn’t seem like a game to me,” Quisto observed mildly.

“It has to be. She belongs to de Cortez, remember?”

“For now.”

Chance’s eyes narrowed as he stared at his partner. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Quisto shrugged as if he’d meant nothing by the comment. “Just that we need to put the heat on without burning ourselves, and I can’t think of any better way to give de Cortez one more thing to worry about than messing with his woman.”

His woman. Chance’s stomach churned. “Yeah,” he muttered, and sank into his seat. He turned toward the stage as the beat began, glad when the houselights went down and the spotlight came up, encircling the slender figure on the stage.

She was in red and white again. This time in a short red leather skirt that reminded him sharply and immediately of the first time he’d seen her, and those long, graceful legs that had knocked the breath out of him. Above the skirt was a shimmering white blouse that draped over her body in a demure cowl neck in front, hinting at the full, feminine curves beneath, then plunged into a deep V in the back, baring a stretch of silken skin that 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, but no recognizable words came out.

“All right, gentlemen,” Jim Morgan interjected sternly, “let’s get on with it. What do we have so far?”

“I talked to one of the doormen last night,” Quisto said. “He said that about half the crew was hired for this opening week only. That leaves about ten or fifteen that are probably de Cortez’s own men.”

“Most of them are from his organization in Miami,” Chance added. “We spotted them in the photos they sent out.”

Morgan scanned the papers on the table in front of him. “It seems he brought only those with clean sheets. No serious charges against any of them in Florida or anywhere else. His right-hand man, Escobar, has a local juvenile record, but as far as we can tell, nothing as an adult.”

“Yep,” Quisto drawled, “just a pack of Boy Scouts.”

“Can we get on with this?” Eaton dropped down on to a chair that creaked ominously under his bulk.

Morgan’s eyes flicked to the federal agent, then back to the papers he held without comment. “We’ve gotten nothing on the wiretaps,” he went on as if the man hadn’t spoken. “Only normal business calls, nothing unusual.”

“Unless it’s in code.”

Morgan nodded at Chance’s comment. “Yes. But so far every call has proven legitimate. Every call to a supplier has resulted in a delivery of what was ordered. No unscheduled deliveries have been made. No unaccounted-for appointments.”

“And no unknown visitors to the house,” Quisto put in. “Only the men we already know about.” His eyes flicked to Chance. “And the singer from the club.”

Chance’s face remained impassive as Morgan read from a page of the surveillance log. “The other members of the band are fairly clean. Local. No connections. A couple of arrests on traffic warrants, but no felonies. One marijuana cite, a couple of years ago. Less than an ounce.”

“They may be clean, but the bimbo’s dirty as hell.” Eaton’s voice was almost avid in its luridness.

Chance didn’t visibly stiffen, but Quisto had come to know his partner rather well over the past two years. He looked from Chance’s face back to the agent’s.

“You’ve got proof of that?”

“Proof? If he’d just wanted someone to sing in his club, he would have hired local talent, instead of bringing her in. What more do you need?”

“She’s not from Miami,” Quisto argued. “Our sources say she came in from Reno. And de Cortez has no known contacts there.”

“He obviously has one,” Eaton snapped. “Her. He must have stashed her there when we made it too hot for him in Miami.”

“Then why isn’t she in the file on his known associates? She’s not in any of the surveillance photos, either.” Quisto gestured at the pile of black-and-white pictures.

“Look,” Eaton snarled, “she’s shacked up with de Cortez, isn’t she?”

“She comes and goes from the house. Doesn’t mean she lives there,” Quisto said.

“She doesn’t have to live there to give Mendez what he wants,” Eaton suggested with a leer.

“That doesn’t mean she’s part of it.” The words broke from Chance as if against his will, and Eaton turned to stare at him.

“She’s screwing him, she’s got to know. Even if she isn’t involved in his operation, she has to know what’s going on. Dirt by association is still dirt.”

Chance sat up sharply, but when Eaton’s beady brown eyes narrowed with a gleam of interest, Chance made himself sit back. He stared at his hands, his eyes fastened on the adhesive bandage that was wrapped around his thumb.

“We can’t assume she’s involved,” Quisto put in quickly. “She may be with de Cortez, but that doesn’t mean she knows the details we need.”

“She could be the weak link,” Morgan said slowly. “Can you work her?” He looked at Quisto.

“Er…” Quisto jerked a thumb toward Chance. “He’s already started.”

“I’ll bet,” Eaton sneered. “You pretty boys are all alike.”

Quisto moved as if to stop Chance, then stopped himself when his partner never moved, never even reacted, only lifted a finger to run it lightly over the flesh-colored bandage. His dark brows furrowed.