One Last Chance. Justine Davis

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СКАЧАТЬ reluctant smile curved her soft mouth, and he felt the knot in his gut unclench. It didn’t make any sense, she was what she was, but that smile still turned his frozen insides to glowing warmth.

      “How’s your thumb?” she asked, and he knew she’d accepted.

      He held up the wounded thumb with a grin. “Okay. Somebody sent me a Band-Aid.”

      Her smile widened into a grin, and the warmth became a rippling heat.

      They walked down the deserted street toward the beckoning light of the café’s window. Chance changed position and walked on the inside when he spotted someone pacing in front of the doors, keeping himself between her and the seemingly agitated young man.

      “Hey, man, got any change?”

      The words were quick, sharp, and punctuated by a swift swipe of one hand to what appeared to be a runny nose. The eyes that looked up at them were wide and dark, and even in the dim light the sheen of sweat on his forehead was visible.

      “Sorry,” Chance said shortly, guiding her past him and into the café.

      She looked back over her shoulder as the door swung shut after them.

      “Maybe he’s hungry—”

      “Save your money. He’d just use it to buy another pop.”

      “What?”

      “Meth, I’d guess. Crystal.”

      “Meth?” Her brows furrowed, then cleared. She stared at the man still pacing anxiously outside. “You mean drugs?”

      “That’s what methamphetamines are, yes,” he said more sharply than he’d intended. Damn, if he didn’t know, he’d swear she was shocked. She played the innocent perfectly, looking as if she had no idea what he was talking about.

      “What a waste.”

      He stared at her as they sat down in a booth in the small chrome-and-glass diner-style café. This didn’t make sense, either. Those soft words had been heated, almost angry. He glanced out the window again.

      “Him?”

      “Anyone. All the people who waste their lives, and destroy the lives of everyone around them.”

      He sat back in the upholstered booth, his mind racing. Was she testing him somehow? On de Cortez’s orders, perhaps? Or was that harsh, vehement tone for real? But how could it be, when she was involved with a man whose livelihood came from the source she was denouncing?

      “That sounded rather personal.” He probed carefully.

      “It is. Very personal.”

      She volunteered no more, and her expression told him clearly that he would get nothing by pushing right now. He let it drop, knowing that he had to go slowly, that he didn’t dare risk alienating what could be their most valuable source of information. And he reminded himself once more that that was how he had to look at her.

      The cups of steaming coffee were in front of them before he spoke again.

      “You are out pretty late,” he said, careful to keep his tone merely solicitous.

      “We were working late. Going over some new songs.”

      She gestured at the notebook she’d set down on the table. Only now did he notice that the paper sticking out from between the pasteboard covers was lined for music and covered with bold black notes.

      “Was that what you were humming?”

      “Was I?” She looked surprised. “Yes, I suppose I was. I get sort of…engrossed sometimes.”

      “It was beautiful. Kind of fragile.”

      Her eyes widened as she looked at him across the small table. Her voice was full of a surprised happiness that he had chosen the perfect word.

      “Yes,” she said softly. “That’s how it was meant to sound. Just like that.”

      “Who writes your songs?”

      She shrugged. “I do.”

      He stared at her. “All of them?”

      She nodded. “The boys just play, mostly, although Eric helps with the music sometimes.”

      “But the words…?” For some reason he was afraid of the answer he knew was coming. It came.

      “All mine. Such as they are.”

      It couldn’t be. How could someone who could do that, who could reach into his very soul with her lyrics, possibly be involved with the likes of de Cortez?

      “They’re…I…they…” He shook his head sharply, his mouth twisting into a wry grimace. “Apparently they leave me speechless.”

      She laughed lightly. “Since my ego is fairly secure, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

      “Do,” he said, recovering himself. “They’re wonderful. And you’re amazing.”

      “Thank you.” She accepted it simply.

      “Why aren’t you doing it professionally?”

      One dark, silky brow rose. “Last time I checked, I was. I do get paid, you know.”

      He couldn’t help grinning. “You know what I mean. Records, concerts, that stuff.”

      “Not for me.”

      “Why?”

      She made a rueful face. “You may find this hard to believe, but I really don’t like performing live. I’m not at all how people seem to perceive me. I’m really just a song writer, not a performer, and a little shy, and it’s very hard for me to do it. The idea of doing it for a living…” She shook her head.

      “But you’d be a big hit. A celebrity. And rich.”

      “And poor in what matters to me most.”

      “Such as?”

      “Privacy, for one thing.”

      “Ouch.” He winced. “Was that a hint?”

      She looked genuinely startled. “What?”

      “I got the feeling you meant that rather pointedly. I didn’t mean to pry.”

      “You weren’t,” she said quickly, smiling at him with a warmth that sent an inverse chill rippling down his spine. “I just meant that I have no desire to subject myself to that kind of exposure.”

      Of course, dummy, he thought as it hit him at last. The last thing someone like de Cortez needed was a high-profile girlfriend. His kind of work was done best in the dark, not in a spotlight.

      “Oh,” СКАЧАТЬ