One Last Chance. Justine Davis

he said, careful to keep his tone merely solicitous.

      “We were working late. Going over some new songs.”

      She gestured at the notebook she’d set down on the table. Only now did he notice that the paper sticking out from between the pasteboard covers was lined for music and covered with bold black notes.

      “Was that what you were humming?”

      “Was I?” She looked surprised. “Yes, I suppose I was. I get sort of…engrossed sometimes.”

      “It was beautiful. Kind of fragile.”

      Her eyes widened as she looked at him across the small table. Her voice was full of a surprised happiness that he had chosen the perfect word.

      “Yes,” she said softly. “That’s how it was meant to sound. Just like that.”

      “Who writes your songs?”

      She shrugged. “I do.”

      He stared at her. “All of them?”

      She nodded. “The boys just play, mostly, although Eric helps with the music sometimes.”

      “But the words…?” For some reason he was afraid of the answer he knew was coming. It came.

      “All mine. Such as they are.”

      It couldn’t be. How could someone who could do that, who could reach into his very soul with her lyrics, possibly be involved with the likes of de Cortez?

      “They’re…I…they…” He shook his head sharply, his mouth twisting into a wry grimace. “Apparently they leave me speechless.”

      She laughed lightly. “Since my ego is fairly secure, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

      “Do,” he said, recovering himself. “They’re wonderful. And you’re amazing.”

      “Thank you.” She accepted it simply.

      “Why aren’t you doing it professionally?”

      One dark, silky brow rose. “Last time I checked, I was. I do get paid, you know.”

      He couldn’t help grinning. “You know what I mean. Records, concerts, that stuff.”

      “Not for me.”

      “Why?”

      She made a rueful face. “You may find this hard to believe, but I really don’t like performing live. I’m not at all how people seem to perceive me. I’m really just a song writer, not a performer, and a little shy, and it’s very hard for me to do it. The idea of doing it for a living…” She shook her head.

      “But you’d be a big hit. A celebrity. And rich.”

      “And poor in what matters to me most.”

      “Such as?”

      “Privacy, for one thing.”

      “Ouch.” He winced. “Was that a hint?”

      She looked genuinely startled. “What?”

      “I got the feeling you meant that rather pointedly. I didn’t mean to pry.”

      “You weren’t,” she said quickly, smiling at him with a warmth that sent an inverse chill rippling down his spine. “I just meant that I have no desire to subject myself to that kind of exposure.”

      Of course, dummy, he thought as it hit him at last. The last thing someone like de Cortez needed was a high-profile girlfriend. His kind of work was done best in the dark, not in a spotlight.

      “Oh,” he said, barely aware that the biting tone had crept back into his voice. “I should have known.”

      “What?” The warmth faded at that sharp note.

      “A man like your…boss wouldn’t want anyone looking too close, would he?”

      “What is that supposed to mean?”

      He knew that he was out of line and out of control, that he was risking blowing the whole investigation, but that image had settled vividly in his mind, of her in de Cortez’s bed, and he couldn’t stop himself.

      “Just that I know what de Cortez is.”

      Her coffee cup hit the saucer with a clatter. She stood up, her eyes wide and bright, angry. Her delicate jaw was set, her voice icy.

      “I don’t know what your problem is, but I’ve had about enough of it.”

      Chance knew he’d made a major mistake and tried hastily to backtrack. He scrambled to his feet.

      “Look, I didn’t mean—”

      “I don’t care what you meant. I’m not going to sit here any longer and listen to you bad-mouth someone I happen to care for a great deal.”

      Chance winced. Somehow, hearing her say it made it worse. His shoulders slumped. Maybe he should just let it go. There were other ways, and he didn’t think he could take this anymore.

      “I know you…care for him,” he said, in a tone so weary that, despite her anger, she looked at him intently. When she spoke again, her voice was oddly quiet.

      “What is it with you, anyway? You don’t even know my brother.”

      Brother? He stared at her, stunned and utterly speechless.

      Chapter 4

      “Your…brother?”

      “Yes,” she said rather acidly. “You remember, the guy you’ve been bashing off and on ever since I met you?”

      “He’s…your brother?”

      Her forehead creased. “What?”

      Chance stared at her across the table, his jaw slack with astonishment. His dazed brain couldn’t take it in. He barely managed to make himself use the right name.

      “Paul de Cortez is your brother?” He enunciated each word with careful precision, as if his life depended on perfect communication.

      She nodded slowly. “What did you think he was?”

      He took a deep breath, and his eyes flicked away from hers. He stared down at the table.

      “I thought he…that you were…”

      His voice trailed off, and at last he lifted his head to look at her. She was staring at him.

      “Were what?”

      “They said he put you ‘off-limits.’ I thought…”

      One arched brow rose. “You thought we were…lovers?”

      He nodded, still shaken.

      An odd look came into her eyes. “That’s why you were down on him so hard?”

      Slowly he nodded again. At the moment, with all else chased from his mind by this unexpected revelation, it was the truth, and he was too astounded to realize what he was revealing by that admission.

      She sank onto the booth’s seat, two spots of color staining her cheeks.

      “I suppose I should be flattered.”

      Something in her voice, a kind of shy pleasure, caused a burst of heat inside him. He stared at her, at the becoming blush, at the innocent gray eyes. It was the innocence that brought him back to reality with a snap. And with that reality came a sinking realization. He sat down abruptly.

      “Your name,” he said slowly, “they said it was Austin.” Was she married, he thought, to somebody else?

      “It is. Paul is my half brother, really.”

      “Then de Cortez is…?”

      She sighed. “It’s kind of complicated. That’s our mother’s