One Last Chance. Justine Davis

He’s stupid.”

      The door handle rattled, and they heard a muffled voice. “Come on, Buckner! I know you’re in there!”

      With a snarled curse, Chance braced himself against the roof of the van and reached for the door. With a swift movement he threw it open, reached through with one leanly muscled arm and yanked the startled Eaton into the van. Despite his bulk, the man flew through the opening as if catapulted, and Jeff Webster stared in awe.

      “What do you think you’re—”

      “Why the hell don’t you just hang out a sign?” Chance snapped, cutting off Eaton’s protest.

      “Get off it, hotshot! Mendez left here an hour ago.”

      “And just where do you suppose his right-hand man is right now?” Chance bit out. “He’s inside and, unless we’re luckier than you deserve, calling Mendez to tell him there’s a government car sitting in front of his new business. Which means he’ll be looking for one at home. Congratulations, Eaton, you may have burned two stakeouts at once.”

      He opened the door again and practically threw the agent from the van. Chance followed him and shoved the man into the plain gray car that stood out like a sore thumb. “Now get the hell out of here!”

      Eaton was furious, but something in Chance’s eyes made him stamp down on the accelerator. Staring in disgust as the car sped away, Chance called lowly to Jeff through the door of the van.

      “I’m going to see if I can tell if they made us.”

      The tap from the inside told him Jeff had heard him. He turned on his heel and strode off, still fuming. He’d go to the building next door, he thought. It was a large office building, and they’d discovered a spot on its roof that gave a bird’s-eye view of what was apparently being converted into an office.

      Damn, he thought, I should have grabbed the binoculars from the van. But I was so damned mad, I didn’t even think of it. God, I hate working with the feds. The troops are good, but the generals are just—

      “Ouch!”

      Chance barely kept himself from going down; he didn’t know how the person he’d just crashed into had stayed upright. He flushed as, muttering an apology, he knelt to pick up the book that had bitten the dust—or the concrete sidewalk, in this case.

      Poetry, he noted as he lifted the thick volume. He dusted it off and began to straighten up to give it back. And stopped dead before he’d moved an inch.

      There before him were the most beautiful legs he’d ever seen. Small feet were encased in short, bright red socks and pristine white tennis shoes, the ankles were slender and delicate, the calves bare, smooth and shapely. Even the knees were lovely, and the thighs…

      He gulped, aware that he seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Where the reality of that long stretch of golden leg ended at the edge of a short white skirt, his imagination had kept right on going.

      After a long moment he managed to make his reluctant muscles respond and bring him upright by telling them that it was safe; the rest couldn’t possibly match those legs.

      He was wrong. He knew it the moment his eyes slipped over the white skirt to the fluffy, bright red sweater that topped it. The soft plushness did little to disguise the full, feminine curves beneath the cheerful color, and Chance found himself gulping again. He didn’t want to look any further, but he wasn’t sure if it was because he was afraid the rest wouldn’t be as incredible, or afraid that it would.

      He looked anyway. It was.

      He didn’t realize it at first. Her face was shadowed by the brim of the cheerful red-and-white cap she wore, covering what appeared to be dark silky hair. Then she tilted her head and took his breath away again.

      Her mouth was a little wide by classic standards, but her lower lip was so full and soft he barely noticed. Her nose was small and pert, her skin creamy and smooth, but once he saw her eyes he forgot everything else. They were huge, framed by thick dark lashes, and deep, smoky gray. And at the moment, those eyes were looking at him with a mixture of wariness and amusement.

      “Uh, sorry,” he mumbled again, still staring.

      “I hope you’re coming from and not going to.”

      He blinked. “Huh?” Oh, brilliant, Buckner. But damn, what a voice. Husky. Silky. Sexy.

      “Whatever turned you into the original raging bull.”

      He flushed again, then wondered what the hell was wrong with him. “Whoever,” he said hastily.

      “A whoever I don’t envy.”

      Amusement was winning in the gray eyes, and Chance felt himself responding with a speed that startled him.

      “I promised myself I’d wait until tomorrow to kill him. If he’s lucky, I won’t want to by then.”

      She looked him up and down consideringly. Contrary to Quisto’s earlier comments, he wasn’t at all sure the total she came up with was favorable. What he was even less sure of was why he cared.

      “Why am I not sure you’re kidding?”

      His mouth twisted wryly. “Maybe because I’m not sure.”

      She smiled suddenly, and took his breath away for the third time. The wide, full mouth started a pulse beating somewhere deep inside him, and the sparkle that had turned her eyes to a glittering silver made it begin to race.

      “I’ll have to remember not to read a paper tomorrow,” she said in the silky voice that was a feather up his spine, “in case he’s not lucky.”

      “Maybe I’m not so mad at him after all,” Chance said slowly, fascinated by the silver gleam that had lit the gray eyes when she smiled. What would those eyes look like when she laughed? What would they look like hot with passion?

      He jerked himself upright and backed up a step hastily. What the hell was he doing?

      “Uh, here’s your book.”

      He held it out with an uncharacteristically choppy motion. She reached for it, her hand narrow and graceful, her fingers long and slender. Her nails were gleaming red, but a neat, attractive length and shape instead of the daggers he saw so often in this expensive town—nails that made him think of the old mandarins who had thought long nails a status symbol, an indication that they were wealthy enough not to have to do menial work with their hands.

      He realized suddenly that he hadn’t released the book and that she was looking at him rather oddly. He let go hastily, pulling his hand back as if the embossed leather cover had burned him.

      “Thank you.”

      He nodded, wondering what had gone wrong with his coordination that made every move he made seem awkward. He decided the answer was not to move at all, and he didn’t as she replaced the thick volume in the crook of her arm.

      “You…like poetry?”

      “You get an ‘A’ for deductive reasoning,” she said. Chance suddenly felt as if he’d blushed more in the past five minutes than he had in his entire thirty years. Yet there hadn’t been any real sarcasm in the husky voice, merely the sound of an amusement, matching that in her eyes.

      Quisto wouldn’t believe this, he thought ruefully. He’d figure the real reason I ignore all those woman is because if I try to talk, I’ll make a fool out of myself. Hell, maybe he’d be right. “He always is,” he muttered.

      “What?” She was looking at him quizzically.

      He grimaced. “Just trying to remember back to when I could carry on a conversation.”

      “Maybe you knocked something loose here.”

      Again there was no sarcasm in her voice, just a touch of the amusement that had been there since he’d first met her eyes. I wish it was only that, he thought, suddenly afraid something