One Last Chance. Justine Davis

around the room again, then turned back. For a moment he watched his partner, who sat staring at the roses on the table.

      “Red roses,” Quisto heard Chance mutter as he reached out and plucked a petal from one of the blooms.

      “I’m sorry about the lady, partner.”

      “Yeah.” The petal disappeared, crushed in a tightening fist. “Me, too.”

      Then, as if realizing what he’d admitted by that answer, by even acknowledging that he knew what Quisto meant, he shut down. His face became stiff and impassive, his voice cool.

      “Your turn. Why don’t you check for any other exits, or unexplained doors?”

      Reluctantly, Quisto went. He knew there wasn’t any point in arguing when Chance got like that. When he closed himself off, there was no getting through to him. He wandered around the bustling room, scanning every foot of it as he wondered what had happened, what connection there had been between Chance and the sweet-voiced singer before tonight.

      He was still wondering by the next night, when it came time to go back to the club. They planned to establish themselves as regulars, become familiar enough to be overlooked, but as he thought about Chance’s reaction the night before, he offered to go it alone, figuring he could check it out and wait and see what happened. Chance only gave him a cool look and asked politely if he was ready to go.

      He realized something was up when Chance pulled the car to a stop in front of a small shopping center. Saying only he wanted to get something, he got out of the car. He was back in minutes, empty-handed.

      “Closed,” he muttered, and stopped again a few blocks farther on. Again he came back empty-handed. Quisto lifted a brow at him. “They were out,” he explained cryptically. Quisto rolled his eyes in expressive silence, but when Chance stopped once more, in front of a small row of shops, he finally broke.

      “Okay, I’ll bite. What the hell are you looking for?”

      “The right color.”

      Quisto blinked. “Of course. I should have known.”

      Chance shrugged noncommittally and got out of the car. When he came back this time, he had something long and slim wrapped in green florist’s paper.

      “I thought you didn’t buy flowers.” Quisto’s tone was mild, but his eyes were intently curious.

      “It’s Election Day.”

      Quisto stared. “It’s not an election year.”

      “If it was, this would be.”

      Without another word he started the car and pulled away from the curb. Quisto opened his mouth then shut it again, reminding himself that there was no use prodding Chance when he got like this, he just clammed up more.

      There were even more people than there had been last night, and the club was crowded to capacity. They worked their way through the milling groups, Quisto following Chance, who appeared to have a definite destination in mind. They moved slowly, eyes searching the crowd. Neither spoke, so they could hear the bits of conversation around them.

      “—bringing Sam here tomorrow—”

      “—was here last night. The singer is really good—”

      “—sexy as hell—”

      “—I heard she signed a record contract—”

      “—she turned it down—”

      “—a knockout. Great body, and she can really sing—”

      “—could eat crackers in my bed anytime—”

      By the time Chance came to a stop beside an empty table, his jaw was rigidly set. He’d spent a long time last night determinedly shoving the vision that had haunted him into the category of merely a possible way to get to de Cortez. Unless, he thought grimly, she was doing more than just playing house with that piece of slime.

      It came back to him then, the picture he’d built last night. He’d had to, to keep his perspective. He’d made himself think about it, made himself picture them together. The crime boss who thought nothing of ordering a murder along with dinner, and the wide-eyed, crystal-voiced woman who had seemed to slice open his soul with her songs.

      It was just an image, he told himself again, as he had countless times last night. It was a front, a facade. Part of the big picture de Cortez was building in his new home, the veneer of respectability he was trying to paint over his activities.

      He had to accept, no matter how rotten it made him feel, that she knew what de Cortez was, perhaps even helped him. The only alternative was that she was too naive to realize it; he found that more impossible to believe than her connection with the man.

      She was a way in, that’s all. A way that might or might not work. Just one facet of a complex investigation. He silently ordered himself to remember that one more time as he tossed the long, slim cylinder of green paper down onto the pristine white cloth covering the table.

      “Planning an ambush?”

      Quisto had noted immediately the location of the table Chance had chosen. It was farther from the stage, but was exactly where the singer had passed last night on her way to the hallway.

      “Sort of.”

      “Good luck.”

      Chance shrugged. “If it doesn’t work, you’re on next. Maybe she likes the machismo type.”

      Quisto lifted a brow in elegant disbelief. “After the way she looked at you last night?” The brow came down in sudden puzzlement. “Besides, I got the idea you were…interested yourself.”

      Chance made a low, grunting sound that could have meant anything. “She’s part of the job.”

      “So why do I get the feeling you knew her before we came in here last night?”

      Chance had had time now to marshal his defenses. “I ran into her on the street a couple of days ago. I was surprised when she showed up here, that’s all.”

      Quisto backed off, but he wasn’t convinced. In the two years he’d worked with this man he’d come to admire and respect, he’d never seen Chance react the way he had last night. Quisto leaned back in his chair, occasionally scanning the room, but just as often watching his partner.

      She moved so quietly as she opened the first door on the left in the hallway that she was almost even with their table before they saw her. The other members of the band were both in front of and behind her. Still, she paused for a barely measurable moment when she saw Chance. The smile she gave him seemed so warm, so genuine, that he was already smiling back before he realized. Then she was gone, headed for the stage, and he sank back in his chair as he called himself seventeen kinds of a fool.

      “Whatever game she’s playing, she’s good,” he muttered, hardly aware of saying it aloud.

      “Didn’t seem like a game to me,” Quisto observed mildly.

      “It has to be. She belongs to de Cortez, remember?”

      “For now.”

      Chance’s eyes narrowed as he stared at his partner. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

      Quisto shrugged as if he’d meant nothing by the comment. “Just that we need to put the heat on without burning ourselves, and I can’t think of any better way to give de Cortez one more thing to worry about than messing with his woman.”

      His woman. Chance’s stomach churned. “Yeah,” he muttered, and sank into his seat. He turned toward the stage as the beat began, glad when the houselights went down and the spotlight came up, encircling the slender figure on the stage.

      She was in red and white again. This time in a short red leather skirt that reminded him sharply and immediately of the first time he’d seen her, and those long, graceful legs that had knocked the breath