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