One Last Chance. Justine Davis

      When she did, it was as if the light had merely been waiting for her presence to come to life. It seemed to dance around her, gleaming on the sleek fall of her hair, glinting in the huge gray eyes.

      She was wrapped in a thick red sweater that came almost to her knees, over a white turtleneck sweater, slacks and boots. Her hair was brushed to a smooth sheen, unlike the dramatic, tossed mane she wore onstage. She was carrying what looked like some kind of a notebook in the crook of her arm, and she looked lost in contemplation. Like a butterfly adrift on a puff of air, he could hear her humming a soft, airy melody. It seemed incredible that the power of that voice could be harnessed to anything so fragile, so delicate.

      Not a butterfly, he thought suddenly. An eagle maybe. The essence of restrained power. Able to glide effortlessly on the breeze with the most delicate adjustment of feathers, yet in the blink of an eye able to soar and plummet with dynamic grace.

      She walked on, into the shadows, and the streetlight’s glow once more became merely a circle of light on an empty street. She crossed the street, mere yards away. Chance stepped out of the shadows. She jumped back, every muscle in her slender body tensed to flee.

      “At least I didn’t knock you sideways this time,” he said quietly.

      Her gaze flew to his face, and he saw the tension drain away as she recognized him. Still, she looked at him warily, as if too aware of the late hour and the empty street.

      “I’m sorry,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

      “You just startled me.” She looked at him for a moment. “I didn’t see you tonight.”

      She’d noticed. He couldn’t help the silly feeling of pleasure that gave him. He tried to smother it. “I…couldn’t make it.” His mouth quirked. “Where are the bookends?”

      She looked puzzled, then a grin curved her mouth and put a sparkle in the gray eyes. “Shh,” she whispered conspiratorially, “I gave them the slip.”

      He grinned back. She looked at him rather oddly, then shrugged. “I needed to get away. I told them I was taking a cab home.”

      His brow furrowed. “Why didn’t you? You shouldn’t be out here alone at this hour.”

      “I know, but I wanted to walk. And better now than an hour ago, when they were pouring all the drunks out the door.” She wrinkled her nose expressively.

      Something twisted inside him. She didn’t like drunks, but she was de Cortez’s girlfriend? A man who dealt in substances that made alcohol look like Kool-Aid?

      “Does the boss know you’re out?”

      She drew back at the sudden acid in his tone. “I did my shows,” she said carefully.

      Except for the one that comes later. In de Cortez’s bed. His stomach knotted at the image that again flashed through his mind. His voice was as sour as the taste in his mouth.

      “I’m surprised he let you out of his sight.”

      “Look,” she said in exasperation, “if all you stopped me for was to have somebody to snipe at, forget it. I’ve got better things to do.”

      “I’ll bet. I’m sure de Cortez sees to that.”

      Suddenly the exasperation became anger. “What is your problem? You don’t even know him!”

      I know him, lady. Better than you could ever guess. “I know his type.”

      “I don’t care what you think you know. He’s been good to me, and I don’t care to continue this conversation!”

      She walked stiffly past him. His gaze followed her automatically, noting her angry stride. He’s been good to me. God, the words alone made him sick. He could imagine just how he’d been good to her.

      Snap out of it, Buckner, he ordered himself. She’s part of this job, and you’d damn well better do it, and now—you’ll never have a better chance! Just keep thinking about what she is, about her and de Cortez together. That ugly thought gave him a steadying jolt, and he made himself go after her.

      “Wait,” he said as he caught up with her. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. I’m sorry.”

      She eyed him skeptically, anger still flickering in her eyes. “But you’re not sorry about what you said.”

      She wasn’t going to let it slide. He took a deep breath. “I… Sometimes I form an opinion before I know all the facts.” Like I did with you, he added grimly, after that day on the street. “And sometimes I’m wrong.” Very wrong. So wrong it hurt. He waited.

      She read it as he’d intended, thinking he’d meant de Cortez. After a moment she nodded. “All right.”

      He breathed a sigh of relief. “There’s a café a couple of blocks down that’s open all night. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

      She hesitated.

      “Please?” He held up his hands. “No sniping, I promise.”

      A reluctant smile curved her soft mouth, and he felt the knot in his gut unclench. It didn’t make any sense, she was what she was, but that smile still turned his frozen insides to glowing warmth.

      “How’s your thumb?” she asked, and he knew she’d accepted.

      He held up the wounded thumb with a grin. “Okay. Somebody sent me a Band-Aid.”

      Her smile widened into a grin, and the warmth became a rippling heat.

      They walked down the deserted street toward the beckoning light of the café’s window. Chance changed position and walked on the inside when he spotted someone pacing in front of the doors, keeping himself between her and the seemingly agitated young man.

      “Hey, man, got any change?”

      The words were quick, sharp, and punctuated by a swift swipe of one hand to what appeared to be a runny nose. The eyes that looked up at them were wide and dark, and even in the dim light the sheen of sweat on his forehead was visible.

      “Sorry,” Chance said shortly, guiding her past him and into the café.

      She looked back over her shoulder as the door swung shut after them.

      “Maybe he’s hungry—”

      “Save your money. He’d just use it to buy another pop.”

      “What?”

      “Meth, I’d guess. Crystal.”

      “Meth?” Her brows furrowed, then cleared. She stared at the man still pacing anxiously outside. “You mean drugs?”

      “That’s what methamphetamines are, yes,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. Damn, if he didn’t know, he’d swear she was shocked. She played the innocent perfectly, looking as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

      “What a waste.”

      He stared at her as they sat down in a booth in the small chrome-and-glass diner-style café. This didn’t make sense, either. Those soft words had been heated, almost angry. He glanced out the window again.

      “Him?”

      “Anyone. All the people who waste their lives, and destroy the lives of everyone around them.”

      He sat back in the upholstered booth, his mind racing. Was she testing him somehow? On de Cortez’s orders, perhaps? Or was that harsh, vehement tone for real? But how could it be, when she was involved with a man whose livelihood came from the source she was denouncing?

      “That sounded rather personal.” He probed carefully.

      “It is. Very personal.”

      She volunteered no more, and her expression told him clearly that he would get nothing by pushing right now. He let it drop, knowing that he had to go slowly, that