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“You know she won’t believe me.”
“I know.” Chance grinned at him. “Why is that, partner?”
Quisto grinned back. “Never mind. What you don’t know—”
“—I can’t tell your mother, right?”
The grin widened. “Right.”
They watched as a truck pulled into the driveway, then looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
“I don’t get it,” Quisto said. “If he’s not going to open for another week, like the ad said, why is he having food delivered now?”
“I don’t know. Something private, maybe.”
Chance’s eyes were fastened on the reflected truck. It was food, all right. And perishable stuff at that, lettuce, vegetables, fruit. He shifted his gaze to Quisto, then his eyes shot back to the small mirror, searching.
She wasn’t there. He could have sworn he’d seen her somewhere in the background of the tiny scene the mirror held, but she was gone now. If she’d ever been there at all, he thought wearily.
He rubbed his forehead with one hand, remembering all the times over the past ten days when he’d jerked to attention, thinking he’d seen her somewhere in the distance, or turning a corner, or going through a doorway just far enough away that he couldn’t tell where exactly she was.
“Chance? You all right?”
He turned to find his partner’s bright dark eyes fastened on him curiously. He let out a long breath.
“Yeah.” He shook his head as if to clear it. “Maybe I do need that vacation you’re always on me about.”
Quisto’s gaze sharpened, the curiosity changing to concern. “Chance—”
“Forget it, will you? I’m fine.”
Just a minor delusion. Just a strange tendency to jump out of my skin anytime I see a dark-haired woman wearing red. Seeing one woman in particular every time I turn around. Oh, yeah, I’m just fine.
After a moment’s hesitation, Quisto accepted it, at least for now.
“Guess I’ll go see what I can find out, then.”
Although Chance had seen the transformation many times, it never ceased to amaze him. Off came the stylish jacket, and the cotton sweater beneath. Quisto reached behind the seat and tugged out a worn plaid shirt that he slid on over the plain white T-shirt he’d had on under the sweater. His hands went to his hair, pulling it down over his forehead, out of its usual smooth style.
His normally straight, proud carriage changed, slumped. His very features seemed to change, flatten somehow, and he was no longer the aristocratic young Cuban with the flashing dark eyes. He was every brown-skinned Latino day worker seen on the streets of California, the kind that the wealthy people in town looked arrogantly past as if they weren’t there.
“Pick me up around the corner,” Quisto said, and slipped out of the car. He leaned over to look in the window. “Hasta luego, amigo.”
“Yeah, later.”
With an amazed shake of his head, Chance started the car and pulled it away from the curb. Around the corner, as Quisto had indicated, and out of sight of Mendez’s building, he parked again. He picked up the portable radio from the seat, letting Jeff, who was still in the van back in front of the building, know what was going on, then settled down to wait.
It was an unseasonably warm January day, even for sunny-year-round California, and Chance found he had to work to keep his eyes open. He hadn’t been sleeping well lately, and it was starting to catch up with him. That it was because those gray eyes and that full, soft mouth had come too often to haunt his dreams was something he didn’t care to admit.
You’ve been a fool before, he told himself severely, but that doesn’t mean you have to spend so much time mooning over a woman you saw once, for all of three minutes, and will never see again. And it’s not like you to be mooning over a woman at all, he thought wryly now. You’re out of that market for good, remember?
He shifted in the driver’s seat, leaning his head back against the headrest. A mistake, he thought immediately, and tried to lift it. At least he thought he did. When he came awake with a start, he realized he hadn’t made it. Still leaning on the headrest, he let his head roll to the side, to check the rearview mirror for any sign of Quisto. Seeing none, he let his eyes drift closed again.
Like a video replaying in his head, he saw the scene in the mirror. The construction crews packing up, the food truck driving back the way it had come, the girl with the great legs walking past the driveway—
He jerked upright, his head snapping around. The narrow street was empty. His eyes flicked over both sidewalks— nothing. A long, compressed breath escaped him, and he let his head loll back on his shoulders, his eyes closed.
Of course, he told himself sourly, she’s a phantom, a hallucination, remember? Lord knows, it had happened before.
“Bang, you’re dead.”
Chance’s eyes snapped open, but he managed to keep himself from a startled jump as Quisto slid back into the car.
“Hey, man, you all right?”
Chance shrugged. “Sure.”
“You seem a little…distracted lately.”
“I’m fine,” Chance said firmly. “What’d you find out?”
“You were right. Private party. Big wheels only.” Quisto eyed his friend and partner for a moment. “You gonna tell me what’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
“Sarah?” Quisto’s voice was quiet, suddenly devoid of any of its usual glib slickness.
“No.”
For once he could say it and mean it. At least, he thought he could. Maybe this apparition that kept haunting him was no more real than that image had been. It had been nearly two years before Sarah had at last let him rest.
Two years of nightmares, of twisting pain, of reaching for her only to grasp emptiness. Two years of tortured nights spent staring into the dark, staving off sleep, and wondering if the dreams would ever stop. And at last, exhausted, sleeping, only to wake to the ever-present knowledge that he had killed her as certainly as if he had planted the bomb himself.
Chapter 2
“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.
