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One Last Chance
Justine Davis
Chance Buckner: A tough-as-nails undercover cop dangerously close to the edge.Shea Austin: A sultry nightclub singer with a big heart and shady connections.Long ago, undercover narcotics cop Chance Buckner paid the ultimate price for his work. Now there was nothing inside of him but slow-boiling rage. His anger would help him destroy the drug dealer he was after…and keep him from falling for Shea Austin, whose voice threatened to heal his soul. And even if she was guilty as sin, Chance would protect her. Because he knew what could happen to delicate songbirds….
One Last Chance
Justine Davis
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
JUSTINE DAVIS
lives on Puget Sound in Washington. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course.
Justine says that years ago, during her career in law enforcement, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was at the time occupied only by men. “I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods of Washington State, saying he’d never forgotten me and would I please marry him. With that history, how could I write anything but romance?”
Para Elia de la Cova, mi preciosa suegra— who with a heart so beautiful took in a loner and made her feel loved.
Yo te amo, mamacita.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Epilogue
Chapter 1
“Am I boring you?”
Chance Buckner’s hands stilled, and he looked casually sideways at the man in the gray suit who stood before him, hands on where his hips would be if they were detectable.
“You would be,” he said lazily, “if I was listening.”
Unconcernedly he went back to the informational sheet the speaker had handed out. Almost right, he thought, holding it up for a sighting, then lowering his hand to make a minor adjustment to one of the wings of the paper airplane.
Out of the corner of one eye he saw the livid flush rising above the older man’s collar, and had to smother a grin. He heard a cough but didn’t dare look at his partner. He knew that if he locked eyes with him, his laugh would break loose; he and Quisto had a way of communicating without words that got them into trouble nearly as often as it saved them.
“Perhaps you can explain to me, Detective Buckner,” the man said in barely suppressed fury, “just why you are here?”
In one smooth, fluid movement, Chance levered his lean, muscled body away from the wall he’d been leaning against. He drew himself up to his full six-foot-two height, topping the shorter, older man by at least six inches.
“I’m here,” he said with slow emphasis, “because you guys blew it. I’m here because you guys can’t find your butts with a map. I’m here because you guys couldn’t make a case on a guy you had under your thumb for two damned years.”
“You son of a—”
The man broke off, sputtering. He whirled toward the fourth man who had been sitting at the head of the long table that sat in the center of the conference room, quietly observing.
“If this is an example of this department’s discipline,” he spat out, “then we haven’t got a chance of nailing Mendez!”
“You had your chance, in Miami.”
The man’s red face snapped around to glare at Chance’s partner, the source of the comment, a compact, wiry, dark-haired young man with flashing brown eyes who was seated at the other end of the table. Quisto looked back, totally untroubled. The gray-suited man spun back toward the man at the head of the table.
“I was told we would have complete cooperation, Lieutenant!”
A pair of dark eyebrows rose over an inscrutable pair of brown eyes. “I was told,” the lieutenant said mildly, “to listen to what you had to say, and do whatever you asked. I don’t recall you asking me to maintain order for you.”
Chance managed to convert his burst of laughter to an apparent fit of coughing, but at a warning glance from Lieutenant Morgan he stifled even that. Quisto wasn’t quite so lucky, and drew another furious glare.
“If you can’t control your own men—”
“I have no problem with my men, Mr. Eaton. They know their job, and they do it well. But perhaps we can speed things up by setting down some basics. As a result of your office’s investigation—”
“We chased Mendez right out of Miami,” Eaton said smugly.
“Yeah,” Chance said caustically. “He was so scared he barely had time to pack up his whole operation and move it here.”
“Listen, pretty boy—”
“Gentlemen,” Lieutenant Morgan interrupted, in a tone his men had come to know meant they were pushing the limits of his considerable patience. “Let’s get on with this. As I was saying, as a result of the federal investigation, Paolo Mendez has taken up residence in Marina del Mar. So regardless of how or why, he is now our problem. As is—” he paused and opened the file folder in front of him on the table “—the establishment he intends to open.”
Eaton looked blank. “Establishment?”
“He’s taken out a lease on an empty building on Marina Boulevard. He’s already remodeling. Word is he intends to open a club of some sort.”
Lieutenant Morgan handed out a sheet of paper to Eaton, whose crimson face did not fade a bit as he read the report.
When he had finished, he cleared his throat and spoke reluctantly. “Well, er, yes. Good information.”
“Thank Detective Buckner. He had it within twenty-four hours of Mendez’s arrival, despite the fact that he is using the name Paul de Cortez.”
Eaton’s expression told everyone in the room exactly what he thought of the idea of thanking Chance Buckner for anything, short of dropping dead. Quisto smothered a snigger, and got a third glare.
“This is obviously going to be his cover for his drug activities.” Eaton slapped the report down on the table. “We will begin the surveillance immediately, of course. We already have the necessary court orders.”
“You mean we will,” Chance muttered, knowing all too well that it was unlikely that the federal agents would be the ones doing most of the tedious stakeout work.
“You have a problem, Detective Buckner?”
“Yeah. Something’s making me sick.” The look Eaton gave him made his glance at Quisto seem like a loving gaze. Chance waited just long enough to make it obvious what—or who— his problem was, then said easily, “Must have been that burrito at lunch. It was too…heavy.”
Eaton’s color deepened, but Chance’s innocent expression never wavered, and Eaton had to let it pass.
“Why don’t you tell us what you have in mind for the stakeout?” Jim Morgan threw Chance another warning glance as he spoke to Eaton. Chance shrugged and, pulling a chair from the table and placing it against the wall, sat down.
The agent’s voice hadn’t improved since he’d begun. It still had the annoying, buzzing timbre of the fly trapped in the upper corner of the office window. The hum of the insect seemed infinitely more interesting as the man elaborated on procedures any first-year cop would know. And it had been a long time since Chance Buckner had been a first-year cop.
He glanced at Quisto, who rolled his eyes. Restraining a grin, Chance sat back in the chair, fiddling with the rubber band he’d found on the floor. He wound it around his fingers, snapped it a couple of times, and was just wondering how close he could get to that fly when another, much more tempting target presented itself.
Eaton had walked between Chance and the table, inadvertently exposing his considerable backside to attack. Chance drew back the elastic band until it refused to go any further, and zeroed in on the broad expanse of gray.
Quisto suddenly tapped the table in an odd rhythm. Chance glanced up to see his partner’s gaze fastened on Lieutenant Morgan, who was looking at Chance pointedly. With a sheepish grin, Chance eased off the tension on the tiny weapon, and with exaggerated conspicuousness dropped it to the floor. Only then did he catch Eaton’s last words.
“—expect an improved attitude from your detectives, Lieutenant.”
“I’m sure we can handle this investigation in a spirit of mutual cooperation.”
Lieutenant Morgan rose, closing the file folder. Seeing the signal they’d been waiting for, both Chance and Quisto got rapidly to their feet and headed for the door.
“Detective Buckner.” The lieutenant’s words forced Chance to turn back. “My office.”
Chance smothered a sigh, then nodded. He heard an odd sound, and turned to see Eaton’s face wearing a satisfied smirk. He throttled the urge to deck the man with a well-placed fist, and with an elaborate bow, held the door open.
“So what did he say?” Quisto asked.
“I’m fired.”
“Gimme a break, Buckner. The jerk had it coming. What did he want you for?”
“A startling revelation. Eaton doesn’t like me.”
“Well, that’s understandable.”
“Thanks a lot.” Chance took a swipe at his partner, who dodged agilely away. Quisto grinned.
“Hey, if I looked like him, instead of my classic macho, Latin self, I wouldn’t like you, either.”
“If his ego was as secure as yours, he wouldn’t care,” Chance said dryly.
“And who else but someone with a secure ego could work with you? I mean, it gets kind of old, my man, watching all those ladies throwing themselves at you all the time.”
“They don’t throw themselves at me,” Chance muttered, although he supposed there was something in what the young Cuban said. He would never understand what there was in the arrangement of his features, in the aligning of the parts that made up Chance Buckner, that made women look twice. He only knew that, to his embarrassment, they did. And often came back for a third look.
“It’s those piercing blue eyes,” Quisto said dramatically, “and all that sun-bleached California hair.”
“My hair’s from Iowa, just like the rest of me.”
His answer was automatic. They’d been through this teasing routine many times. So was the gesture of his hand as he ran it through the tangled mass of the gold-streaked brown hair. He would be grateful for that if nothing else when he left this assignment to narcotics, he thought. He hadn’t had his hair off the back of his neck in four years.
“Besides what are you complaining about? I send ’em all to you anyway.”
“Ah, yes, and I teach them that every wonderful thing they’ve always heard about Latin lovers is true. But you, my friend, don’t you think you’re carrying this solitude bit a little far?”
“You worried about my social life, Quisto?”
“I’m worried,” the younger man said frankly, abandoning the formal tones, “about your libido. You haven’t even had a date since Sarah died, let alone anything more…strenuous.”
Chance’s face closed up in silent warning, but the wiry young man kept on.
“You walk around looking like the poster boy for the wrong side of the tracks, women drool on themselves trying to get to you, and you ignore them all.”
“Quisto.” His tone was the equivalent of the look that had shuttered his face.
“And you’re going to volunteer for all the night shifts on the stakeout, aren’t you? Just like last time. Damn it, Chance, when are you going to—”
“Not now.”
Chance had stopped dead, turning to fix his partner with a steady, forbidding gaze. Quisto shrugged and gave it up.
“Okay, amigo. I was just worried about you.” He grinned suddenly, a brilliant flash of white teeth against perfect olive skin. “Hey, maybe that’s the secret. Ignore ’em, and they flock to you. I’ll have to try it.”
“You, ignore women?” Chance accepted the unspoken apology easily. “That’ll be the day.”
Chance thought of Quisto’s words again that evening as he sat in the surveillance van outside the building Mendez had leased. He had been wary of the effusive young Cuban at first, especially after the quiet, laid-back man who had been his partner for his first three years in the division.
But Marty Thompson was gone now, the unruffled exterior having hidden the ravages of burnout that had surfaced abruptly and finally one day beneath the brilliant California sun. That funeral had frightened him as no other, filling him with the eerie sensation that he was looking at himself, and he wondered if someday, somewhere down the hard, sometimes dirty road, he too would walk out onto the golden sand of this paradise and blow his brains out. It was a question he’d always been able to say no to, until Marty. And Sarah.
“All set, Chance?”
He glanced at Jeff Webster, the detective who was monitoring the equipment. The redhead nodded, and Chance looked up at the man who had turned around in the driver’s seat of the van.
“Yeah, Todd. Go ahead.”
With a nod, the other man turned, slid out of the van and shut the door, locking it from the outside. He would, Chance knew, walk casually toward an expensive shopping area two blocks down, linger there long enough to be sure he hadn’t been followed, then pick up the car that was parked in the lot and return to the station. In about four hours he would be back to do it all in reverse, while a few miles away, the driver of a nondescript panel truck that was parked near Mendez’s house would be doing the same. The two vehicles would trade places, and then it would begin again.
