ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  "Mmm."

  He caught a yellow fleck with his tongue as it fell from the fork, wondering why being fed by hand, an act that was so humiliating when it was necessary, could become so erotic when it was voluntary. With the right person.

  She watched the flick of his tongue, a swirling heat rising in her as she remembered what that tongue had done to her last night. Chance glanced up at her as he reached for the glass of milk that sat on the tray. His hand fell back to the bed.

  "God, Shea, don't look at me like that."

  She blushed. "I can't help it."

  "Damn," he said hoarsely. "It's like I'm always on the edge around you."

  "I didn't know … it's so…" She lowered her eyes. "It almost frightens me, it happens so fast."

  He suppressed a shiver. "I know." He tried to get himself under control, making his tone light. "Do I need to buy a shotgun? I'm not poaching on some Tahoe mountain man's territory, am I?"

  She blushed again. "No."

  "Why?"

  "I moved there because I love it, and for the privacy to work away from the phoniness of Hollywood, not to go looking for a man."

  "Are they all deaf and blind, or what?"

  "No. A few … tried. I wasn't interested." She met his eyes steadily. "I guess I was waiting for you."

  He couldn't control the rippling response to her words this time. "Lord, songbird, you are good for a guy's ego."

  "You don't hurt a lady's, either."

  "Thanks." He grinned at her, and popped a slice of orange from the tray into her mouth.

  "Mmm. I'm glad I don't have to sing tonight."

  "Me, too." His grin spread. "Unless you want to sing for me, of course."

  "I thought I had been."

  Her cheeks flamed even as she said it, and Chance burst into a delighted laugh. He set aside the tray and reached for her, pulling her into his arms as he propped himself up on the pillows against the headboard of his bed. He felt the stirring of the desire that was never far from the surface around her, but he tried to ignore it.

  "Tell me about your place in Tahoe."

  She sighed. "It's so beautiful! It's about halfway up a mountain, with hundreds of trees, and a view of part of the lake. My father built it years ago, before they put all the restrictions on development." A flicker of pain crossed her face. "He wanted to retire there."

  Chance hugged her close. "I'm sorry, Shea."

  "God, it was such a stupid thing to happen."

  "Was it an accident?"

  She made a choking little sound, and a shudder went through her. He tightened his arms around her.

  "No," she said at last. "It was a horrible case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He got a call that there were some people trespassing on one of his construction sites." She smiled briefly. "Dad was very … accountable. He always took things like that very seriously."

  "So he went there."

  She nodded. "And walked in on a drug deal."

  Chance went utterly still. Shea shuddered again at the appalling memories.

  "They shot him," she whispered. "Over and over. The police said they kept on even after … it didn't matter anymore."

  "Baby, I'm so sorry."

  If he'd needed any further proof that she knew nothing about her brother's activities, he had it now. He held her while she shook against him.

  "It's been twelve years, but sometimes…"

  "It seems like yesterday. I know, songbird."

  She seemed to go taut in his grasp, and then she lifted troubled eyes to his. "Oh, God, I'm sorry, Chance. You do know, don't you? I didn't mean to make you remember."

  "It's all right." He didn't want to talk about himself, he wanted to ease the pain in her eyes. "Did they ever find them?"

  "Two of them. Charlie Hill and Mickey Lopez." She said the names as if they were etched in acid in her mind. "They never caught the one who did the actual shooting."

  "The two they got wouldn't roll?"

  She looked at him quizzically. "That's the word the investigators kept saying, that they wouldn't roll over."

  Oops, Chance thought. Watch it, Buckner. But she went on as if she'd dismissed his slip.

  "They were just kids, they should have been scared enough to, but they wouldn't talk."

  "Kids?"

  "They were only seventeen."

  And more scared of the shooter than the cops, Chance mused. He'd have to pull the report—no, it was probably already in that envelope he'd shoved into the desk drawer.

  And suddenly it was there again, the line he'd crossed—leaped over joyously—last night. The job had loomed up between them once more, and he was seized with a desperate need to tell her everything, to end the deception, to give her the honesty she deserved, the honesty she'd given him.

  "I was almost surprised," she was saying quietly, "when Paul came home for Dad's funeral. He'd been gone more than seven years, and he and Dad had never really gotten along well, anyway."

  She'd done it herself, he thought numbly. She'd brought up the subject he'd always been probing at, digging for any crumb she might drop. She'd brought it up, and now he didn't want to hear it. But he couldn't just ignore her, not when she was opening herself up to him like this.

  It was ripping at him, the knowledge that he should take this opportunity and milk it for all it was worth, and the realization that the thought of using her like that made him sick. He wanted to tell her to stop, that he didn't want to hear a damned word about Paul de Cortez.

  And then what? The feds weren't going to give this up. Eventually they were going to nail de Cortez. And there was no way Chance would be able to conceal his part in it from her. And there wasn't a hope in hell that she'd believe he hadn't been using her, hadn't been lying about everything. She would hate him, and at the moment he wasn't sure it wasn't exactly what he deserved.

  "Chance?"

  "Sorry." He took a breath and made himself ask. "Why didn't they get along?"

  "Dad didn't like some of the kids he was hanging out with. He was always on him about it. He said that's why he left, but…"

  "But?" He hated this, knowing he was listening to every innocent, open confidence for any clue that might help them break Paul de Cortez.

  "I don't think he ever forgave my mother for getting married again. I guess she was supposed to stay in mourning for his father forever. And he resented that she wanted to put that part of her life behind her. She didn't want to be reminded of any of it. I don't know much about that time, but I don't think she was very happy."

  "But he didn't … take it out on you?"

  "No." She wrinkled her nose. "I love my brother, don't get me wrong, but he's awfully … old school. I don't think he considers women important enough to expend much energy on."

  He couldn't do it anymore. He had to stop this. The choice he'd made last night was irrevocable. She was no longer a source of information, she'd become so much more. He'd find another way. And when it was over he would pray that she would believe, that he hadn't destroyed a bond that was incredibly strong yet so very, very fragile.

  "I can't think of anything better to expend energy on than a woman. The right woman."

  She caught her breath at the look in his eyes. "I'm glad you decided I'm the right woman," she whispered.

  "I had no choice." He swallowed heavily. "I think it was decided for me the first time I saw you."

  "Oh, Chance," she murmured, slipping her arms around his neck. "I feel like I've been waiting all my life for you."

  "I gave up hoping for this a long time ago," he answered softly. "I didn't think it was possible. Especially for me."

  "I love you."

  It sent a little ripple of pleasure down his spine, and set up a tiny knot of fear in his stomach.

  "I love you, too, Shea."

  He said it with a fierceness that startled her, but then he was kissing her and she couldn't think of anything but the joy building in her again.

  * * *

&nbs
p; Chapter 8

  «^»

  Chance tightened the last lug nut, then let the Jeep down on its newly repaired tire. He wondered if it would even start, it had been neglected for so long, but it turned over at the first twist of the key.

  That chore done, he double-checked to make certain he had all the papers he'd taken from the desk, and pulled out of the garage and down the driveway. It was a brisk winter day, but he'd left the soft top off the Jeep anyway, and enjoyed the fresh chill in the air as it blew over him, tangling his hair.

  He'd taken Shea home in the Jag, reluctantly parting from her so she could get to a morning rehearsal she had scheduled with the band. They'd spent the last day and night together, sharing feelings and intimacies that left them both breathless. He told her things he'd not talked of for years, even about Sarah when she asked.

  "I did love her, Shea."

  "I know that. You always will."

  He hugged her for her understanding.

  "How did she die, Chance? She must have been so young."

  "She was … in my car," he said carefully, hoping she would assume it was a traffic accident even as he hated himself for being so devious. He knew he couldn't tell her the whole truth without opening up a line of questions he couldn't answer. "She was only twenty-four. She was … so happy. About the baby." He shuddered, unable to go on.

  Her quiet sympathy was somehow more soothing than any of the platitudes that had been poured over him since Sarah's death. He clung to these precious hours with her, shoving the hovering cloud out of sight at least for a while. And when at last he'd had to surrender her back to the world this morning, he'd done it so grudgingly she'd laughed. Then he'd gone back home and spent the afternoon poring over the stack of papers from the desk.

  He couldn't shake the feeling that there was something here, some clue that would give them the break they needed. In his more sour moments, when he was missing Shea the most, he told himself he was just grabbing at straws, desperate to find something that would save him from having to use her any longer.

  He laughed, a bitter, ironic sound. Here he was searching for some way to wind up this case so he could come clean with her, all the time knowing that if he found it, it would no doubt mean the end of whatever trust she had in him.

  When he'd been holding her, it had been easy to convince himself that they would work it out somehow. But now, in this empty place that had never really been a home to him until she had warmed it with her presence, the truth ate at him. He would be the man who put away her brother, the man who had used her to do it. She wouldn't care that he hadn't wanted to, that the moment he realized how deeply he felt about her, he had stopped, she would only know she'd been used in the worst way, and she would hate him for it.

  He was two miles from the station when the thing that had been flitting around the edges of his consciousness finally worked its way through his preoccupation. A series of images played back in his mind one after the other, the tiny scenes in his rearview mirror for the past several minutes.

  His eyes flicked to the reflecting square once more. The edges changed, trees, buildings, all sliding past in a constant flow of motion, but the center remained the same, now and in all the images that unreeled in his mind. He made a quick, unsignaled right turn, his eyes flicking back to the mirror the second the maneuver was finished. When the long, dark fender of the sedan plowed into sight, tires letting out a protesting squeal as they took the strain of the hasty turn, he knew he'd been right.

  "Figures," he muttered, giving voice to his first instinctive thought. I had to pick today to leave the horsepower at home.

  Possibilities raced through his mind, the who, the why, but he shoved them aside. What mattered now was losing the extra appendage he'd acquired. Instincts honed by intensive training kicked in, and he began to plan. He'd been a street cop long before he'd been assigned to detectives, and he knew this town down to every twist and turn. And in seconds he knew where he was going.

  He upped the speed of the Jeep a little; the sedan clung like a burr. He slowed and made a few made more turns, obligingly signaling each time. As he'd hoped, the sedan dropped back a little.

  Spotting a busy convenience store with one empty parking spot, he pulled in, leaving the tail stranded on the busy street. He grinned to himself when he heard the blare of horns on the street, guessing that the sedan was wreaking havoc trying not to lose sight of him.

  He went through it in his head as he went inside, calculating the time it would take for the car to circle the block. Of course he could be wrong, the guy might be smarter than he thought, he mused, but if he was, he would never have spotted him in the first place.

  Of course, you've been out in the ozone for so long, Buckner, he could have been dogging you for days and you never would have noticed. Something tickled at the recesses of his mind, but he didn't have time to think about it now. He grabbed a couple of items, paid for them and headed for the door.

  He sauntered casually back out to the Jeep, a soda in one hand and a bag of potato chips in the other. He took a long swallow of the cold drink, then climbed leisurely into the Jeep as if he had all the time in the world.

  Just as he started the engine, the sedan came into view down the street. Chance nodded to himself, the mental equivalent of a check mark. He hadn't doubted the sedan was truly following him, he'd only wanted to see how inventive the driver was.

  Not very, he thought. Had it been him, he would have pulled into the next driveway, which happened to be a fast-food restaurant, with a drive-through that would have let him keep a visual on both the Jeep and the back door of the convenience store. Instead, the blue car had circled the block, leaving Chance more than enough time to be gone by the time he came back around.

  "Okay, mister," Chance muttered as he started the Jeep, "let's start the party."

  He began decorously enough, driving at the standard five miles over the speed limit. The sedan's driver seemed sure of him now, apparently convinced that he hadn't been burned after all. He kept a careful two car-lengths back. When Chance reached the intersection he'd been looking for, he pulled into the left-turn lane and waited for the light to change.

  A glance in the mirror told him the sedan was holding back, inching along, not wanting to make the obvious move of pulling into the left-turn pocket right behind him. Chance yawned widely, raising his arms for an exaggerated stretch, knowing that in the open Jeep his movements would be clearly visible.

  For a moment, just one, sweet second in time, he let the memory of the past two days—and nights—slip into his mind. The memory of Shea, innocent and stunned by the extent of what they'd found together, and later confident, abandoned, and eager for more. God, he loved her—

  The green arrow flipped on, piercing the bubble of reverie. For one crazy second Chance was tempted to just sit there. What would the guy do, honk at him? Chuckling inwardly at his follower's imagined dilemma, he made the turn. As he went, he slipped one hand into his jacket pocket, and fingered through the keys there. He went past the key to the office, his locker key, and the small key to his file cabinet. Then came the distinctively shaped key that unlocked his terminal of the department computer system, which told him that the one he wanted was next. He isolated it and moved it to his left hand.

  Two blocks up, after a careful check of traffic to gauge the space and timing, he changed to the number two lane, leaving his signal on for a right turn. The instant he saw the sedan creep out from behind a small station wagon, committed to a duplicate lane change, he wrenched the wheel left and dived across the road into a narrow side street. He sent the Jeep flying up the hill, and at the top darted into a driveway and ducked between two long, narrow buildings, each a row of small businesses.

  The Jeep slid to a halt at the end of the left-hand building. Chance leaped out, knowing he had only seconds. The key slid neatly into the control of the door opener on the outside wall, and the metal roll-up door began to open. He raced back to the still-running
Jeep. He was inside, with the door rumbling back into place, in less than twenty seconds.

  He looked around the cavernous room, lit only by a shaft of winter sunlight from a skylight. The name on the lease for the place was an innocuous "Frank Jones," but in reality the huge garage was used by the police department for searching and investigating vehicles impounded for criminal reasons. It was empty now.

  He went back to the door, to a panel that consisted of several glowing lights and a numbered keypad. He quickly punched in a number, and one of the lights blinked out. He ran back to the Jeep, swung into it and then up on top of the roil bar. Balancing carefully, he gathered himself and jumped.

  His hands locked around the metal cross beam of one rafter. He pulled himself up in one smooth movement, and in less than a minute was through the skylight and onto the roof.

  He ran the length of the building until he reached the point where his height would make him visible from the street, then crouched down and worked his way to the edge. He was just in time to see the dark blue sedan cruise slowly down the hill back toward the main street. It made a U-turn at the bottom, came back, reached the dead end and turned again. This time, as it went by, the driver slammed the wheel with his fist in frustration. Chance grinned.

  At last the car pulled away, tires barking out the driver's anger. Chance waited awhile to make sure he'd really gone, then made his way back to the garage and his Jeep.

  As he drove, he kept the questions that were spinning in his mind on a back burner, letting them percolate for a while. When he got to the station, he closeted himself with the department computer and the stack of files and papers he'd brought. He ran the plate of the blue sedan first, somehow not surprised when it came back not in the Department of Motor Vehicles files.

  He switched back to the department system. After a half hour of inquiries, cross-references and old case numbers, he shut it down, staring at the blank screen for a few seconds. Then he reached for the phone and made a couple of calls, cashing in on some long-owed favors. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, or whether it would do any good, but something was nagging at him so insistently that he couldn't stop himself.