ONE LAST CHANCE

by Justine Davis

  He found himself looking at every day as possibly the last, and therefore even more precious. He tried to stop short of clinging to her, but it was difficult when she made it so easy. She seemed as eager for him as he was for her, and when they came together the individual flames that never seemed to die joined to become an inferno.

  His hunger never eased, he could never seem to get enough of her, and yet he treasured equally the quiet moments when he just held her, soaking up the feel of her with the desperation of a man who knew the memories of this might be all he ever had.

  He caught her looking at him now and then with that expression of concern, and tried to assure her that he was all right. And congratulated himself bitterly for finding a woman so trusting that she believed his rather feeble lies. He'd awakened early this Thanksgiving morning, and lay holding her as she slept peacefully on. She'd mentioned her brother having a party at his house, but when he'd prodded she'd admitted she wasn't going.

  "They're not my kind of people," she'd said with a shrug. "I've always thought of Thanksgiving as a … family kind of thing, not an excuse for a party."

  That was when he'd decided to forego his usual trip to Quisto's family gathering; he wasn't about to leave her alone. Especially when their days together might be so numbered.

  Stop it, he said fiercely. He'd sworn he wasn't going to think about that, not today. One day at a time, wasn't that what they told alcoholics? Well, he was addicted to her as surely as an alcoholic to his drink, but the charm didn't seem to work for him.

  Just today, he told himself. They deserved this one day free of the clouds, free of the hovering shadow. He'd give it to her somehow, he'd bury the hell so deep inside she'd never know it was there. Like a knight putting on his armor, he soaked in the strength he gained from just having her there in his arms, using it to build a protective shell around them both. And later, when she began to stir, he woke her gently and made love to her so joyously that she cried out like the songbird he called her.

  "Mmm," she said dreamily as she snuggled up to him afterward. "I don't know what got into you this morning, but if I could bottle the way I feel right now, I'd be rich."

  He chuckled, a low rumble from deep in his chest, and with a teasing comment about knowing exactly what had gotten into her, proceeded to do it all over again.

  They lay in bed until after noon, savoring the new closeness his determined mood had engendered. Chance had succeeded in his goal, but had to smother a pang at how she responded to his new mood. She blossomed, giggling, laughing, until it was only too obvious how much his own strain had affected her. But when he began to make noises about getting up and she pressed him back against the pillows, catching his hips in the silken trap of her thighs while she cheerfully announced it wasn't quite time yet, he gave up thinking about anything except how good she was making him feel.

  He was half out of his mind, his hands raised and full of her breasts as, after teasing him unmercifully, she at last lowered her body and took him home, when the rapid knocking on the front door shattered the cocoon that had surrounded them. Shea jumped in startled surprise, looking over her shoulder toward the living room, and a heartfelt groan rose from Chance as he fell back on the pillows.

  "Maybe they'll go away," she whispered.

  "I wish," he groaned. "But it could only be my landlord or Quisto, and my landlord has a better sense of timing."

  "I guess I'd better let you move, then."

  "Yes." Then, as she began to leave him, "No!"

  He shuddered as he lost her warmth. She made a tiny sound of protest when he got up.

  "Damn," he muttered as the knocking came again. He grabbed the jeans he'd discarded in such haste last night, yanking them on. He reached for the zipper tab, letting out a muffled grunt as he tried to tug it past flesh that was still intent on the activity that had been so abruptly interrupted. He settled for getting it halfway and headed for the door. He jerked it open to glare at a grinning Quisto.

  "Your timing stinks," he snapped.

  Quisto eyed his bare chest and the barely fastened state of his jeans. "Oops," he said, undismayed. "Good thing I don't plan on staying long. Give me a hand, will you?"

  Chance eyed the two well-filled grocery bags warily. "With what?"

  "The other one of these that's down in my car. Where's Shea?"

  Chance didn't bother to deny she was here, he knew Quisto would know better anyway.

  "Hiding from you, no doubt."

  "Have to fix that," Quisto returned cheerfully. "Get that bag, will you?"

  Chance went, grinning as he heard Quisto holler, "Oh, Ms. Austin! It's your favorite Thanksgiving turkey! Come out and say hi."

  When Chance returned, she was coming hesitantly out of the bedroom, wearing the pair of jeans and bulky sweater that had, along with several other items, found their way here. The sweater fell off one shoulder in a way he found incredibly sexy, but she had pulled her hair back in a ponytail that made her look about sixteen. The contrast set up a ridiculous conflict in him. He didn't know whether to rip the sweater off her and take her back to bed, or turn himself in for cradle robbing.

  Shea followed him into the kitchen, holding back a little when she saw Quisto was still here. She looked at him a little doubtfully, but he merely set down the dish he'd been holding and threw his arms around her. Shea looked a little stunned when he planted a wet kiss on her cheek. They had met a few more times since the first night in the club, but never had he been so teasingly friendly before.

  "There. That's from my mother. Actually, the hug was for him—" he jerked a thumb at Chance "—but I refused to hug that lug, so you get them both."

  "Your … mother?" She looked around at the various wrapped plates and covered dishes. "She … sent this?"

  Quisto chuckled. "You don't come to the dinner, the dinner comes to you. She sent a little of everything. Good thing we eat early." He glanced at his watch. "Oops, got to go. She made me promise to be back in an hour. 'My boy doesn't need you intruding,' is how it went, I think. See ya."

  "My boy?" Shea stared after him, bemused.

  Chance grinned. "I told you she wants to adopt me. It's not enough that she has five of her own, she keeps taking in more.

  "Are there others? Besides you?"

  He laughed. "Not now. I'm the only extra one, currently. She says I take all her concentration."

  She smiled. "Why?"

  "She worries a lot, that's all."

  I understand how you feel, Mrs. Romero, she thought silently. I worry about him, too. Her eyes were troubled when she looked up at him again.

  "You would have gone there, wouldn't you, if it hadn't been for me?"

  Chance hesitated as the truth he'd been determined to deny all day hovered darkly over him again, then settled on at least a part of the truth.

  "They invited you, too. But I didn't want to share you just yet." He grimaced. "Quisto's family is … a little overwhelming."

  She seemed to accept it, but her curiosity was piqued. "Are there a lot of them?"

  "I lost count at twenty-five. And that's just brothers and sisters and their kids."

  "They're all married?"

  "Yep. Quisto's the last holdout, much to his mother's dismay."

  She looked around at all the food, sniffing the blending odors appreciatively. "She sounds wonderful."

  "She is. Not to mention a great cook. You've never had Thanksgiving dinner until you've had a Romero one. It's the craziest combination of Cuban and American I've ever seen." He lifted a bottle out of the last bag. "Including, it seems this time, champagne."

  She discovered what he meant as they set out the food, most of which was still warm. He chuckled when her stomach growled audibly.

  "Work up an appetite, songbird?"

  "Yes," she said simply. "And I think it was awfully kind of Mrs. Romero to send all this."

  "And you'd better eat everything, or she'll be on me for weeks." He popped the bottle and got two glasses.


  Shea studied him for a moment. "You like her, don't you?"

  He smiled. "She's quite a lady."

  "Have you always gone there for Thanksgiving?"

  "Only since I've known Quisto. Couple of years."

  Not with his wife then, Shea thought, and looked down at her plate before he could read the realization in her eyes. When she was sure it was gone, she looked at him again.

  "Do you go there for Christmas, too, or do you go see your folks?"

  His hand froze in midair as he lifted a glass to fill it. He set it down instead and poured the bubbling wine into it, then filled the second glass. He handed one to her, then sat down, never meeting her gaze.

  "Chance?"

  He looked at her then, and saw a shadow of the worry he'd tried so hard to banish today. He closed his eyes, steadied himself and at last answered her.

  "No. Neither. There's a place up the coast a few miles. Avila Beach. Near San Luis Obispo. A little house on the beach. My parents still own it. I go there."

  The words were choppy, oddly tense. She looked at him in concern, but when he turned the question around and asked her what she did for the holidays, she let him. She told him about the small party she and some friends had at a large warehouse every year.

  "When the snow is high, there are always some stranded tourists, so we invite them, too. We always have some extra toys on hand for the kids who get stuck because their parents didn't believe the weather reports."

  Chance smiled, and she couldn't rid herself of the idea that it was totally without joy.

  "A white Christmas, huh?" he said almost wistfully.

  "Generally." She eyed him curiously. "Don't tell me. You're a California beachboy who's never seen a white Christmas?"

  He shrugged, as if uncomfortable with the subject. "It's not a big deal for me. I prefer to be alone."

  "Oh."

  He caught the flicker of disappointment mixed with hurt in her eyes before she looked away and said with forced cheer, "Well, I'm starved. Let's eat."

  He'd done it again. He'd hurt her, when it was the last thing he wanted to do, and she was determined not to show it. She's got a hell of a lot more guts than you have, he thought. If you weren't so damned selfish you would have dropped out of her life the first minute you saw what was happening.

  He smothered a sigh. You're going to tear her to pieces in the end anyway, Buckner, do you have to start now? Is she going to hate you any more for having a few more dreams shattered?

  "Shea?"

  "What?" She didn't look up.

  "Do you think a beach bum like me would like a white Christmas?"

  Her head came up then, but her eyes were guarded. He hated that look, and knowing he'd put it there.

  "You'll never know until you try," she said carefully.

  "Know where I might find one this year?"

  Shea stared at him, knowing somehow that there was much more to this than a simple peace offering. This was terribly hard for him for some reason. She could almost feel the effort it took him to speak those words. Gradually the guarded look faded from her eyes.

  "I think I might know where to find you a beautiful white Christmas," she said softly.

  The meal was, as he'd promised, a fascinating combination of two cultures. The turkey was traditional American, but the side dishes were varied and delicious. Bread and tortillas, mashed potatoes and spicy beans, pumpkin pie and a sweet, flaky, light-as-air fried pastry Chance had to admit he'd forgotten the name of.

  "Don't you know?" he asked her.

  "No. I'm afraid I know very little of my Cuban background, other than the language. I only know that because Paul always spoke it at home, and my mother would slip now and then."

  "Slip?"

  She shrugged. "My mother rarely acknowledged that side of her life. I think that's another reason Paul ran away. He was determined to hang on to what traditions and memories he could, because of his father, while my mother was determined to bury them."

  "What about your father?"

  "He never asked her to, if that's what you mean. In fact, he was the one who wanted to use her name in mine." She picked at the last remnants of the pie she hadn't been able to finish. "Paul's father was … cruel, I think. He was Colombian, and always threatened to take her there. When she married my father she was determined to become completely American. I think she wanted to put it all behind her, and Paul felt she was betraying his father's memory."

  "Did they ever make up?"

  "No." A touch of bitterness rang in her voice. "She died before he came back. He never saw her."

  An image of the routine report flashed through his mind. For the first time he realized that he had listened to her without a single thought about how what she was telling him might relate to the case. He had listened because he loved her, because he wanted to know everything about her, not for any other reason. He was pondering that realization when her quiet words caught him off guard.

  "She killed herself, Chance. Pills. And I've never understood why."

  "Oh, God, Shea," he whispered, reaching across the table to take her hands. He was stunned that she'd trusted him with this, this deeply personal tragedy. Knowing it long before she'd said it did nothing to lessen its impact. Several moments passed before he could look at the gray eyes that were shimmering with unshed tears, and several more before he could speak.

  "I had a … friend once. I worked with him for three years. One day he walked out on the beach south of town and put a gun to his head and fired it."

  She sucked in a short breath, and her fingers curled beneath his as he went on.

  "I knew every reason why he did it. I'd felt a few of them myself. I understood exactly how he felt. It didn't help."

  "I keep telling myself that. That it doesn't make any difference why, only that she … she did it. But it still hurts so."

  He couldn't stand it. He got up, lifted her and sat back down with her in his arms.

  "I know, songbird. I wish I could tell you it will go away. I can't. It won't ever go away. But it will hurt less and less. All you can do is remember that she loved you."

  "I … I know she did. But why didn't she love me enough to stay?"

  Her words were a white-hot lance in a wound already lacerated. Would he be saying that mere days from now? Would she be asking how he could have done this do her if he loved her? He held her close, hanging on desperately.

  "I wish I had all the answers, songbird," he whispered hoarsely. "All I know is that sometimes people have to do things even when it hurts the ones they love the most."

  Those words came back to haunt him with vivid, vicious clarity in the early hours of dawn when, after a night full of Shea's sweet, giving love, the phone rang.

  "Yeah," he mumbled into the receiver after grabbing it before it could ring again and wake her.

  "Quisto. Sorry man, but things are starting to happen."

  He was instantly awake. "What?"

  "Got a call from the airport watch. Three very big names in the gray money business have arrived in the last twelve hours."

  "Damn."

  "They checked into the Mar Vista, the Beachfront, and the Marina View Hotels. Under aliases, of course. And those are only the ones we spotted. We probably wouldn't have spotted them at all if we'd still been looking for a snowfall to come down the pipe. Nice work, partner."

  "Yeah, great."

  "Anyway, that's just act one."

  "What's act two?"

  "Every one of them called Paul de Cortez."

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  «^»

  It had to be, Shea thought, something in the water. Everybody was on edge. Chance had been acting like a caged tiger ever since Thanksgiving. Paul had been worse. Even one of the usually unctuous bookends had snapped at her this morning. The only sane person she knew was Eric, who never seemed to let any of it bother him.

  "How do you stay so calm," she finally asked him, "when everybody around you
has gone Looney Tunes?"

  "You haven't."

  "You know what I mean."

  Eric shrugged. "Everybody's got their own set of problems. Just because I don't see the reasons for what they do doesn't mean they're not there."

  Shea shook her head. "You amaze me sometimes. How do you stay in this performing business and stay sane?"

  He shrugged again. "You keep out of it because it would take over your life. You're that good, it would just happen. I'm in it, and I'm good, but it's not my whole life." He grinned. "I'm just waiting for the right lady to come along and take me away from all this."

  "Someday my princess will come?"

  "Something like that." He played a couple of bars of the appropriate song and Shea laughed. "Why should you be the only lucky one?"

  Lucky. Shea turned back to the sheet music that was spread over her keyboard. Sometimes she truly felt that way. Most of the time. She'd never felt anything like she felt for Chance. She'd never known she could. She'd known him for such a short time, but already he was so much a part of her life, of the very fabric of her existence, so much a part of her that it frightened her even as it thrilled her. Never had she known what it was like to be cradled in warmth, cosseted with such tender care.

  But sometimes she woke in the night in such a shivering, shaking panic that it was all she could to do keep from waking Chance and making him tell her all the things he hadn't. Whether he wouldn't or couldn't tell her didn't matter at those times, all that mattered was the reassurance she was so desperate for.

  When he did wake, it came in the form of whispered words of love and the sweet, hot pulse of his body, but she knew in her heart that he'd only staved off the feelings until the next time. Something was eating away at the man she loved, and she seemed helpless either to stop it or ease his pain.

  There was so much she didn't know. She wondered what Eric would say if she told him she didn't even know where Chance went when he left her here in the mornings. That she didn't even know where he worked, or really anything about his work, except that he shared it with Quisto.