Читать книгу One Last Chance - Justine Davis - Страница 7

“You ready?”

Chance eyed his partner critically. “That depends. Do I have to go in with you?”

“Afraid you’re underdressed?”

Chance grinned. “Everything’s relative, I guess.”

Quisto was looking rather resplendent in a dark, shiny silk double-breasted suit. If he worried about things like that, Chance would have definitely felt underdressed. As it was he was comfortable in the black lightweight wool slacks and thick black-and-tan sweater he had on, which were several steps above his usual worn jeans.

“Let’s hit it, partner,” Quisto said. “Party time.”

They left Quisto’s modern apartment that overlooked the marina, heading for the parked BMW. Tonight was the official public grand opening of the Del Mar Club, and they were off to make a survey of the territory.

They’d spent a useless week running every license plate that had showed up at Mendez’s—de Cortez, Chance reminded himself again—private party. The man was bent on showing everyone how legitimate he was. The guests ranged from the head of the local chamber of commerce to the councilman for the district. Not a single dirt bag in sight, Chance had muttered after two hours hunched over the computer readouts. Except for the ones running the place, he had amended wryly. And, he wondered as he scanned the crowd, any of those local community leaders de Cortez might have managed to stuff in his pocket….

If the number of cars in the lot and on the street was an indication, de Cortez had a hit on his hands. Chance and Quisto scanned the crowd, looking for any familiar faces. Other than a few of the better known local high rollers, they came up empty.

They joined the throng at the door, Chance idly looking at the sign on the wall just inside. Cash only, he mused. De Cortez must be pretty sure of his own success to run a cash-only operation. Then they were inside, going with the flow of humanity that was pouring into the club.

“Nice,” Quisto murmured as he looked around.

Although places like this usually left him cold, Chance had to agree. Through the construction of different levels, and clever, careful lighting, the huge room gave the appearance of private, even intimate alcoves. Yet each was angled in such a way as to give a view of the brightly lit stage, where a four-piece band was hammering out a rock number.

He glanced at them—nothing unusual there, just the expected jeans and slightly unkempt hair. Look who’s talking, he muttered to himself, running a hand through the blond-streaked hair that brushed the top of his shoulders.

Continuing their inspection of the clientele, they made their way around the nearly full room, checking the layout of the place. Chance spotted the hallway just to the rear and the left of the stage that appeared to lead to the stairway up to the office, and marked its location on the mental diagram he was making.

He would have preferred to sit somewhere on the outskirts of the room for a better view of the crowd, but when one of the tuxedo-clad ushers led them rather grandly to a table next to the stage, Chance knew they couldn’t refuse without drawing attention, and it was too early in the game to risk that. He noticed that the music had changed, softened just a bit, although still hardly tame. He glanced over his shoulder at the band, who had changed position, as he sat down.

The table was small, covered with a spotless white linen cloth. The ashtray was cut crystal, as was the elegant vase that held three red roses.

“Whew.” Quisto let out a low whistle. “Three roses per table. That’s a lot of change.”

Chance grinned wryly. “I wouldn’t know. You’re the one who has the standing order for three dozen a week.”

“Hey, I have ladies to keep happy.”

“Rough life.”

“You should try it sometime.”

They’d been through this routine before, too, and Quisto waited for the standard “No, thanks.” His eyebrows rose as he looked at Chance, who had gone suddenly still. The customary answer didn’t come; all Quisto heard was the singer who had joined the band.

It had been all Chance had heard since the first clear, crystal notes had begun, more than a match for the now less boisterous backup band. Pure, sweet and powerful, the words washed over him. He couldn’t seem to move, not even to turn to look, all he could hear was that voice. And the words…

“You wonder when the dreams will stop

Or if they ever will

You wonder if you’re doomed to spend

Your life this way until

You end the dreams…or you”

A shiver ran through him, an eerie sensation of violation, as if his very soul had been invaded, as if the woman whose voice was sending ripples up his spine had climbed inside his mind and read his darkest thoughts.

It was with a sense of trepidation he hadn’t felt in years that he made himself turn. He’d faced armed criminals with less apprehension than he felt when he twisted around in the chair to look at the woman who’d stolen his soul.

Somewhere in the depths of that plundered soul he must have known, because when the slender gray-eyed girl with the wild mane of dark silken hair turned his way, he felt no surprise.

She was in red and white again, this time tight white jeans of some sleek, shiny fabric that molded every taut, trim curve, and a short, bright red leather jacket that came to two points in front where it nipped inward to fit her slim waist. She had on red high-heeled pumps, curving her legs beautifully and emphasizing the delicate ankles. He stared, barely breathing.

The song went on, the words digging deeper, the voice holding every ounce of feeling, every bit of the torture he’d lived with for so long. He was spellbound, completely unaware of Quisto’s gaze fastened on him, as she moved around the brightly lit stage with supple grace.

The tempo changed, the driving beat eased, and she slid into the next song with barely a pause. Slower now, husky with a note of longing and pain so real it was almost tangible, that voice enveloped him, plucked at feelings buried so deeply inside him that he’d been able to deny their existence for a long time.

He tried to turn away, tried to tear his eyes from the personification of the phantom that had haunted him since that day on the street. He couldn’t do it. He could only stare at her as she was lit by a soft spotlight, as she explored his soul with her sweet, poignant song. Only when the third number began, and she drifted back out of the spotlight to let one of the male band members take over the singing, did the spell release him, allow him to move, to suck in a long, deep breath.

“She’s good.”

Quisto’s voice was loud enough to be heard over the music, and Chance’s head snapped around as if he’d forgotten he wasn’t alone. He stared at his partner, fighting the lingering haze that seemed to have surrounded him from the moment he’d first heard that voice, those words. From the moment he’d seen her on the street, he thought wryly.

“Chance?” Quisto was looking at him with an expression that changed from curious to speculative as Chance just looked at him, not speaking. “You all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Chance let out a short, compressed breath. “If you only knew,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Quisto’s brows shot up. “You know the lady?”

“Yes.” He grimaced. “No.”

Quisto’s brows lowered in a hurry. Indecisiveness was not a trait he’d ever seen in his rather taciturn partner. Chance saw the look and shrugged. He couldn’t explain, not here, not now, maybe not at all. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself.

At least now he knew how she had disappeared, where she had vanished to so quickly. Crazy, he thought. All those hours sitting outside, thinking about her, thinking he’d seen her. Hell, maybe he hadn’t been hallucinating, he probably had seen her. She’d apparently been here all the time.

And then she was singing again, a powerful, angry lyric, tearing away at the unnecessary, useless pain of life, shouting fiercely at the darkness. Chance knew that darkness, knew it too well. He wished he’d had her words to help him fight it then.

He hadn’t even realized he’d turned, hadn’t realized the sound of her voice had drawn him as surely as a magnet drew steel. He watched and listened, mesmerized. Each song held words that seemed to reach for something inside him, and her voice held a tremulous note that made his mind, his heart, say yes, that’s how it is, how it was.

She moved to one side, toward them, as the lead guitarist moved to center stage for the bridge between verses. The closer she came, the more Chance held his breath. If she came to the edge of the stage, she would be barely two feet away—

A loud wolf whistle from somewhere behind them broke the spell, and its source tossed something at the stage. Chance tensed, every instinct screaming as the object flew past his head. He ducked, hand outstretched reflexively to grab for the gun strapped to his ankle. Then he heard a small sound and caught a flash of movement from the corner of his eye. His rigid muscles slackened, and he let out a rueful breath when he realized the whistler had tossed a rose from the table to the stage.

Then all realization fled, along with most of the rest of his breath, as he began to straighten up. He found himself looking straight into a pair of beautiful gray eyes.

She had bent to pick up the rose, but when their eyes met, bare inches apart, she seemed to go suddenly still. She had begun to smile, the smooth, professional smile of the entertainer, but it stopped abruptly. The gray eyes narrowed, then widened in recognition. When the smile came again, it was soft and warm and real, and it started Chance’s heart on a crazy effort to beat its way out of his chest.

The driving sound of the lead guitar ended, and so did the frozen moment in time. She straightened, whirled and was back into the song without missing a beat. More roses hit the stage and Chance leaned back in his chair, wondering why he was having to think so hard about breathing. All he wanted to think about was that split second when something had seemed to crackle between them.

Hadn’t it? Or had it just been his imagination that had been so overactive lately? But it hadn’t been his imagination, not really. She did exist, she was here, she’d been here all along. But had that moment of electricity really happened? Had her smile been that genuine, that full of what seemed like an intimate warmth?

Then, as that number ended and she turned toward the guitarist before he struck a few softer, slower notes, Chance knew it had been real, that moment had been real. She turned back, the gray eyes searching past the lights until she found him, and the smile came again. When she began to sing, everything in her smile was in the warm velvet of her voice, and the new sweetness of her words.

“It doesn’t happen often

You can’t let it slip away

So when that moment happens

Remember what they say—You’ve got to seize the day”

With one driving chord the lead guitarist slammed the song into high gear, but all Chance heard was the soft, silky introduction. His eyes were fastened on her, on every graceful move, as if there were an invisible bond between them. She seemed to feel it, too. Her eyes found him often and he felt, absurdly, as though he were the only one in the smoky room.

“Well, well, that should make things easier.”

“Yeah.”

Chance hadn’t really heard a word of what Quisto said, he was too intent on watching the vision in red and white until she disappeared down the hall he’d seen earlier. Just before she went out of sight, he saw two tuxedo-clad men close in behind her.

He was on his feet before he even realized he’d made the decision. His eyes were fastened on the hallway as he muttered to Quisto that he was going to check it out, so he didn’t see the gleam that came into his partner’s eyes.

“You do that,” Quisto said, a smile quirking his mouth as he watched Chance’s progress. The men gave way before his broad-shouldered approach; the women, as usual, were slower to move, as if hoping he would decide to stop. And as usual, it was as if Chance never even saw them.

Except, Quisto thought speculatively, for the lady with the big eyes and the bigger voice. He’d certainly seen her. And had reacted more than he had to anyone in all the time Quisto had known him. His eyes were still fastened on the dimly lit hallway as the tall figure in the black-and-tan sweater went out of sight.

Chance never made it to the first door in the narrow hall. He wasn’t sure if the two men who seemed to appear out of nowhere were the same two who had followed her or not. All of the formally dressed attendants seemed to be about the same size. Fifty-two extra-brawny, he thought wryly. At two inches over six feet and a solid two hundred pounds he was hardly tiny, but these guys made him feel inferior.

“Sorry, sir,” one of the bow-tied walls said with impeccable politeness, “no guests allowed beyond this point.”

“Oh?” Chance tried to look surprised; actually he hadn’t expected to get this far. Meanwhile, his eyes were scouring the hallway, noting each door and the barely visible stairway at the end.

“No, sir.” They were closing in, subtly urging him back toward the crowded main room.

“Wait,” he said, grasping at a reason he told himself was only a cover. “I just wanted to see the lady, tell her how much I enjoyed her singing.”

“Visitors aren’t allowed, sir.”

“But I only wanted to see her—”

“She sees no one, sir.”

“No one?”

“No one.”

Chance shrugged, as if he were nothing more than a frustrated fan. “I guess I’ll just wait until she’s done, then.”

“I wouldn’t bother, sir. She won’t see you then, either.”

This was starting to irritate him. “Oh? Why not?”

“She sees no one, sir,” the left bookend repeated. “Boss’s orders.”

Something cold crept down Chance’s spine. “The boss?”

“Mr. de Cortez.”

“Does he own her, or what?” The chill had settled into a frosty knot in the pit of his stomach.

“You might say that. He’s put her…shall we say, off-limits?”

The “sir,” Chance noticed, was gone.

“I’d say that’s for her to decide, isn’t it?”

“She does,” the right bookend said warningly, “what Mr. de Cortez tells her to do.”

That cold lump shifted, changed, spreading out with creeping tentacles, making him fight off a wave of nausea. That lovely vision with the huge eyes and the voice that could melt the most frozen of souls was involved with slime like Mendez?

Get real, Buckner, he told himself fiercely. After all these years, you should know that the most innocent, most beautiful of exteriors often hides the darkest of hearts.

“I suggest you return to your table.”

Suggest? Chance almost laughed. He would have, if he hadn’t been reasonably certain it would get his arm broken. Realizing that any normal patron would have disappeared long ago, he shrugged and managed a careless grin.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying, can you?”

The bookends relaxed a little. “No, sir.”

“You guys here every night?” he asked in a joking tone.

“Yes, sir. Every night.”

With an exaggerated sigh of surrender, Chance shrugged again. Then he turned and walked casually back into the room, wandering here and there, looking around, until the two wardens apparently decided he was harmless, and disappeared. Only then did he go back to the table.

“So,” Quisto said as he sat down, “what’s her name?”

“I was checking the hallway,” Chance answered in automatic protest.

“Sure. What’s her name?”

Chance’s mouth twisted in a wry grin. “I never got that far. Two of the those tuxedoed linebackers stopped me.”

Quisto’s brow furrowed. “They hit you or something? You look a little green.”

“No.” It was short, clipped. He wasn’t about to admit that the thought of the woman who had haunted him for days being connected—intimately—with someone like Mendez made him sick.

“So what’s the story? Why’d they stop you?”

He took in a steadying breath. “I gather she’s…private property.”

Quisto’s brows shot up. “Oh? De Cortez?”

“So it seems.”

Chance could almost see Quisto’s quick brain working, reassessing, placing the vibrant gray-eyed woman in a new niche. A niche that was on the wrong side of the line that he had been walking for the past two years, and Chance for four. Four years that seemed like four centuries.

“A shame,” Quisto said quietly.

“Yeah.” There was a world of bitterness in the single syllable, and Quisto stared at him.

“Chance—”

“Three doors in the hallway,” he said abruptly, cutting his partner off. “Two on the left, one on the right. One’s got to be a dressing room of some kind. She disappeared too quickly to have made it to the stairs.” At least he knew she was real now. “Nothing’s labeled, but we know the office is upstairs. There’s a door at the bottom of the staircase. From the layout, I’d guess it opens into the alley.”

“Lock?”

“Not too tricky, but it’s rigged to the fire alarm. Have to take it out first.”

“I’ll check it out. Just in case.”

Chance nodded. “How many men you figure?”

“Twenty, tonight. Let’s hope that’s just for the big opening. I wouldn’t want to have to deal with all of those clowns through this whole thing.”

“I’d guess the two I ran into are permanent. I’ll check the pictures we got on Mendez—de Cortez’s crew from Florida, see if I can spot them.”

Quisto nodded. He shifted in his chair to look 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 out of him. Above the skirt was a shimmering white blouse that draped over her body in a demure cowl neck in front, hinting at the full, feminine curves beneath, then plunged into a deep V in the back, baring a stretch of silken skin that made his fingers curl oddly.

She did it again, as easily as before, reaching into his heart and soul and tying him up in knots with her words. She sang of love and loss, of pain and anger, of fear and mistrust, as if she’d known them all as deeply as he had. For Chance it was a constant battle between the heart that heard and believed every clear, shining note and the mind that knew better.

When she ended with an unexpected ballad, a song of anticipation and hope that she made soar as her strong, sweet voice soared, none of it seemed to matter anymore. For those minutes, she was everything she seemed to be, everything he wished was true.

He watched her as she came off the stage, unconsciously savoring her graceful movements. Those legs, he thought, were incredible. They’d be even more incredible wrapped around—

Damn! He barely kept the oath silent as he sat up sharply. He hadn’t reacted like this to a woman since…since when? Not even with Sarah had it been so quick, so hot.

Great, Buckner, the only thing worse than your timing is your choice of women. Where the hell was all this libido when there was a willing, unentangled woman around?

He didn’t want this, he thought fiercely. Not now, not ever. And especially not with this woman. But he had to deal with her. She was the best chance he had to get close to de Cortez, and if he was going to find out just what de Cortez was up to, he had to take that chance.

She was close now, and with a tremendous effort he forced his mind back to the business at hand. He would think about what he had to do, nothing else. You’ve had years of practice, Buckner. It’ll be easy.

Right, he muttered under his breath as he reached for the green florist’s paper and unrolled it.

He waited until the other members of the band had passed, until the moment she couldn’t avoid seeing him, then slowly stood up. Everything he’d thought of saying fled his mind the moment the gray eyes settled on him. He’d considered the clever lines he’d heard Quisto use and discarded them all, knowing he’d never be able to get one out with a straight face. Finally, as she paused beside the table, he said the only words that came to him.

“Thank you.”

Her eyes shone warmly, then widened as he held out the single flower he’d brought. It was a rose, a beautifully unfolding bud, as perfect and flawless as those on each table that were inevitably tossed to her after every song. But where those were a deep blood red, this one was a pure, immaculate white.

Her gaze lifted from the delicate bloom to his face, a soft smile curving her lips, an acknowledgment of his choice of color in her eyes that was almost a salute. In that moment he would have bet his life that she was for real, that what he saw was the truth. Then one of the tuxedos beside her moved, and he remembered with a dull ache that his life might really be the cost if he didn’t keep his head on straight.

She lifted a hand to capture the long stem in slender fingers. He didn’t release his grip on it but held it, as his eyes held hers. His fingers flexed slightly with an odd tingling sensation, as if the stem of the rose had suddenly developed the capacity to transmit electricity, a current that had begun the moment her fingers had touched it.

She looked momentarily startled, as if she felt it, too, but before she could speak, the tuxedo to her right did, gruffly.

“Let’s go, Miss Austin.”

Irritation flashed through the gray eyes. “In a minute,” she said without looking at the man.

“Maybe you’d better go,” Chance said, a tinge of rancor creeping into his voice despite himself.

“Oh?” She looked puzzled, either at his words or his tone.

“Now, Miss Austin,” the tuxedo said stiffly.

“I said in a minute.” Her voice was cool, her eyes icy as she shot a glaring look over her shoulder.

“You know the boss’s rules,” the man said.

“And we can’t break the boss’s rules, can we?” Chance’s emphasis on the word drew her gaze sharply back to him.

“He’s not my boss,” she began, ignoring the grip the tuxedo had taken on her elbow.

“So I’ve heard. He’s much more than that, isn’t he?” Chance reined in the irritation he couldn’t seem to control. He went on, but still kept his grip on the stem of the rose. “You’d better go. The master awaits.”

“Master?” Her delicate brows furrowed below the tousled fringe of bangs that swept forward from the thick mane of dark hair.

Chance shrugged. “He does own you, doesn’t he?”

He’d wanted to prod her, make her react, but he hadn’t counted on his own reaction to the sudden flare of anger and hurt in her eyes. Contrition flooded him, and before he could stop himself, he said softly, “I’m sorry.”

The tuxedo pulled at her arm, forcing her to move, but she hung back for one last moment. The hurt had faded, but not the anger, and as she at last yielded to the pressure of her escort, she yanked at the rose. It ripped free of Chance’s grasp, a thorn snagging and tearing at his thumb. He jerked his hand back at the sudden pain, shaking it sharply as blood welled to the surface.

When he lifted his head, she was gone, disappearing down the hallway with her solid wall of an attendant. He stared after her for a moment, then slowly sat down.

“It seems the lady has a temper.” Quisto was obviously smothering a grin as he held out a napkin from the table.

“Yeah.” Chance took the cloth and wrapped it around his bleeding thumb. De Cortez could afford it, he thought.

“Of course, you did rather…provoke her.” He looked at Chance consideringly. “Intentionally, I presume?”

“Of course.”

He waited, wondering if Quisto was going to comment on that involuntary apology that had escaped him. But either he hadn’t heard it or had decided not to bring it up. Chance gradually relaxed, dropping the guarded, defensive posture he’d assumed.

“You’re still bleeding.” Quisto eyed the now red-stained napkin. “Do you need—”

He broke off as one of the club’s waitresses, dressed in a short-skirted version of the men’s tuxedos, appeared at their table with a silver tray.

“From Ms. Austin,” she said, and lowered the tray in front of Chance.

Startled, Chance looked at the tray. He stared, then smiled. The smile widened into a grin, then a full-throated burst of laughter broke from him.

Quisto stared. In all the time he’d known him, he’d never heard Chance laugh like that. He shifted his bright gaze to the silver platter and suddenly understood. For there, grandly ensconced on an elegant white doily, sat a thumb-size bandage.