I see a bad moon rising

I see trouble on the way

I see earthquakes and lightnin’

I see bad times today

Creedence Clearwater Revival

The vacant beach stretched for a mile in the distance, with nobody and nothing in sight but Sport and the seagulls. He’d learned a new game…chasing shore birds…and played it with the exuberance of a pup as Cort and Blanche walked the hard-packed sand behind him.

Blanche shaded her eyes with one hand, let the freshening breeze blow her hair back. ‘It’s unbelievable that a man could own this,’ she thought, staring toward an outcrop of rock where waves crashed and sent spumes of foam high into the air. Fifty yards further on, there was a place where more rocks enclosed a tidal pool. Yesterday when they’d waded through its sun-warmed water, Cort had shown her starfish clinging to the rough volcanic surface, and she had been enthralled.

Her gaze snapped forward again when Cort said in amused wonder, "I’ll be a son of a bitch, he caught one…" then called sharply, "Sport! Drop it!"

Though he instantly obeyed, they could almost see the dog’s disappointment. The squawking gull righted itself and flew low out over the water, then skipped a landing to ride the waves and smooth its ruffled feathers. Sport stood at the edge of the surf and barked at his out of reach prey.

His tone full of admiration, Cort said, "By God, that’s one hell of a dog you have, Angel."

Blanche’s lips twisted in a wry smile. "My dog? He’s turning into your dog. He won’t even go out to pee unless you open the gate."

The way Sport had taken to him was a gratifying surprise. Cort moved behind her, wrapped his Angel up in arms that crossed under her breasts. Though he already knew what her answer would be, he asked the question anyway. "That bother you, darlin’?"

She shook her head and thought of Sport patiently waiting beside him at the table while Cort hand fed him choice scraps of meat. The way the dog’s intelligent eyes tracked him like radar until Cort said, "Come on, old boy," and Sport leapt up to follow him, dog-joy evident in the propeller-like wag of his tail. They’d already had some adventures together…a jaunt over Cort’s land in an old open jeep, a quick run into Rosarita to pick up a few things at the mercado. No doubt about it, Sport was a happy camper, and it was all due to Cort.

Blanche said positively, "Of course not. I’m glad he likes you…likes it here."

Cort’s nose nudged into her hair, his arms tightened across her ribs. "How about you, Angel? You like it here?"

‘How could anybody not?’ she wondered, leaning back to rest against his supporting chest. Blanche turned her face into his, kissed his bearded cheek, happier than she’d ever been in her life.

"I like it here just fine, baby," she murmured.

"We could stay, you know," he said quietly. "Right now I don’t give a damn if we ever go back to Vegas." His voice took on a considering tone. "Fact is, right now it wouldn’t take much convincing for me to chuck it all and live south of the border for the rest of our days." His eyes drifted to the dog still standing in the surf, and Cort asked a question he didn’t know the answer to. "Angel? Do you want to stay?"

She turned, raised her lips to be kissed. "I want to stay with you," she said against his mouth, "Where ever you are."

Cort smiled, just before his lips covered hers.

* * *

"That’s it darlin’…suck it."

His speech patterns, even his accent had taken on the color of his employer’s, though his words were coarse and rude. Paco Benning lay on his back, his arm folded behind his head, and watched in fascination while the whore blew him. He loved the way her cheeks hollowed, loved the wet sloppy noises, the powerful suction that made her mouth feel as good as a cunt. She was going to get him off in no time if he didn’t slow her down, but Jesus fucking Christ, she knew how to suck a dick.

"Hoh…fuck…yeah." The muscles in his thighs tensed as she cupped his balls, and he fisted her hair and pushed even farther into her throat. "Get down on it, girl…hoh yeah…"

He swore his dick bumped her tonsils. The ring of his phone muffled her gag, and cursing, he let go of her hair to reach for it. "Hold up a minute, baby," he commanded, and when she started to slide out of bed, he grabbed her wrist. "I said hold up, not leave." Paco roughly jerked her back down. She glared at him as he said curtly into the receiver: "Yeah?"

"Mr. Benning, this is Mark Spelling."

The lawyer. Fuckin’ asshole had shit timing. "Yeah. You got my package ready?"

Mark Spelling scowled. Paco Benning was a damn Neanderthal. For the life of him, the attorney couldn’t understand why a man like Cort Davis kept him around. Bouncing a pencil on its eraser, he kept the irritation out his voice with an effort.

"Mr. Davis’ package is here, yes. Will you be by to pick it up, or would you rather I sent it by messenger?"

Paco didn’t want to get his ass out of bed and make a run to Spelling’s office…the whore was too good. He was tempted to tell Spelling to send it, but the boss’ warning still rang in his ears: ‘Don’t fuck this up…’

Much as he didn’t want to admit to it, Paco was afraid of Davis. He’d seen him handle a gun, knew the man was a dead shot. The fucker had quick hands…he could pull his piece, aim, and fire it faster than anyone Paco had ever seen, like some gunfighter out of the old west. Davis had a short temper, too…and he didn’t like it when things went wrong. Paco had learned the best thing to do was follow his instructions to the letter. And the boss had explicitly said to pick up the package and bring it to him in San Diego.

His eyes went to the whore lying naked beside him, her face near his still hard cock. She was breathing hard, still recovering from having his rod halfway down her throat. Shit-fire, he could feel her breath on the wet head, tickling his pubes...

Fuck it. He probably couldn’t get a flight out today anyway.

"I’ll be there to get it first thing in the morning," Paco said, and clicked off without giving the lawyer a chance to say another word. He tossed his phone onto the bedside table and grabbed his cock, stroked a few times to show off.

"Back to work, darlin’…" he drawled, and offered her his dick like it was a roll of candy. ‘A sucker...’ he thought, and grinned.

Mark Spellman looked at the phone as if it were Benning himself and his face twisted into a grimace of dislike. "Fucking crude asshole," he muttered, and slammed it down. "No couth at all." He pressed the intercom button and barked, "Janine, will you come in here?" then thought of Paco Benning and added, "Please."

* * *

The manila envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL sat on his desk. Andreen had dropped it off a little later than expected, explaining that additional problems with his car had kept him out of town. Said he’d hoped to talk to Cort Davis himself, but since that wasn’t possible, could he ask the attorney a few questions?

Mark felt like Andreen was grilling him. He asked several probing, almost rude questions, and at the end of the session, he said bluntly, "Mr. Spelling, sounds to me like you handle lots of business for Mr. Davis. But this isn’t business, it’s personal stuff. So I’d appreciate it if you’d have your secretary tape that envelope securely closed right now, while I can see her do it. And I’d like a direct phone number for Mr. Davis, if you don’t mind. Not a contact…his personal phone number."

What Andreen didn’t mention was that he’d coded some of the information and arranged a failsafe that would indicate if the papers had been tampered with since he’d put them in the envelope. He wanted to call Davis himself, tell him what to look for. The report contained some pretty sensitive material about Blanche Donovan, and it was obvious Cort Davis had a more than cursory interest in her.

Maybe he was being overly careful, but Spelling himself had warned him that Davis didn’t like sloppy work. Besides, Andreen figured the man deserved a little extra for that bonus…the ten grand had come in handy. The old Buick was gonzo, there would be a new one in his parking space before the week was out, courtesy of Cort Davis and his deep pockets.

Across the desk, Spelling was shaking his head. "I’m sorry, Ray. I’m not authorized to give you his number. But I’ll call him myself and ask him to contact you. I’ll try right now if you need to talk to him."

Deceptively relaxed, Andreen leaned back in his chair. "Works for me, Mr. Spelling," his eyes drilled the attorney’s, "as long as I can talk to him in private." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a pack of Kools. Eyeing the cigar crushed in a basalt ashtray, he said, "Mind if I smoke?"

Spelling did mind, but he shook his head. Ray Andreen fired up a cigarette and blew a menthol scented cloud toward the ceiling, then said to the attorney, "How about getting your secretary in here now? I want to make sure that envelope is sealed up tight before I talk to Cort Davis."

Mark stabbed the intercom, his eyes on the private investigator. "Janine? Can you come in here, please? And bring the red tape with you."

"The red tape, Mr. Spelling?"

"Yes. The stuff we use for pleadings."

"Be right there."

When she walked into his office, Janine carried a roll of dark red binding tape and a pair of scissors. "Okay, whose mouth are we taping?" she joked.

"Cute." Spelling looked at the PI. "Show her how you want it done, Ray. I’ll call Mr. Davis." He picked up the handset and, shielding the panel, punched in the numbers.

Ray Andreen winked at him then smiled up at the secretary. "Just tape it all over, honey. Every seam, each flap. Lock it up nice and tight."

He watched her until Spelling said, "No answer. It’s going to voice mail."

"Leave him my number, tell him it’s important." Andreen stubbed his cigarette out as Janine double-sealed his envelope in dark red legal tape. He put out a hand. "Hold up, honey."

Pulling a single gray hair from his head, he carefully stuck it to the last piece of tape. "Make sure that goes over this end flap," he pointed, "right here."

Janine and Mark Spelling exchanged a look. Ray Andreen caught it and flashed a sly grin. "In my business, you can never be too careful," he said.

* * *

Blanche couldn’t stifle a tiny frown, wondering if after several days of constant togetherness, her lover felt the need to get away on his own. But it didn’t feel that way. Cort didn’t seem at all anxious to leave her.

"Shouldn’t take long, Angel. Hell, it’s only half an hour to San Diego unless the traffic’s bad at Tijuana. It’s just some business, something I can’t put off," he told her as they lounged in bed. Their good morning kiss had turned into a long session of tender lovemaking. "You’d be bored."

"Maybe," Blanche conceded. "But without you, I might be bored here, too."

Cort hesitated. He couldn’t take her, he didn’t want Paco to learn Blanche was with him in Mexico, and he didn’t want Blanche to know why. His eyes snared hers, silently asking her not to question his judgment. "Angel, I have my reasons for wanting you to stay here," he said soberly. "I’m asking you to trust me on this, okay?"

She read his face for a long moment and Cort thought for sure she was going to balk. But she gave a tiny shrug, said, "Okay," and rested her head on his chest.

Cort’s fingers slid into her hair and played in its softness. "That’s my girl," he murmured approvingly. He lay naked in the center of his bed with Blanche curled next to him, and lazily traced a finger over her forehead as if he could smooth away all her worries, all her doubts. And just like he’d done every blessed day since they’d met, he thought of how much he wanted to keep her there. Safe by his side. Safe in his bed. In his life. If he were still a praying man, he’d beg God to grant him just this one indulgence. It would be enough, Cort thought, to last him the rest of his life.

"You still in that ‘no promises’ frame of mind, darlin’?" he asked abruptly.

Blanche weighed the question. No, she wasn’t interested in ‘no promises’ anymore. Hadn’t been since the day she’d told Cort she loved him, and she was pretty sure he felt the same. When you love someone, she’d learned, it changed everything. Even the pain of the past.

She rolled to her back and stretched languidly. "I believe I’m way over the ‘no promises’ thing. Why? Do you want me to promise something?"

His eyes crawled over the body he’d just loved for a long slow hour. "I might," he grinned, and leaning over her face, dropped a quick kiss on her nose. "Just testin’ out the ground first."

With the sudden energy of a man fifteen years younger, he jumped out of bed. His naked body golden in the sunlight that streamed through the windows, Cort grabbed her by the ankles. Startled by the sudden activity, Sport scrambled up from his blanket and barked when Cort jerked a surprised and giggling Blanche to the edge of the bed.

"Get up woman!" he growled in a mock-threatening drawl. "Daylight’s burnin’. Malena will be comin’ with the coffee in a minute, and here you are, still lollygaggin’ in bed." He looked around the bedroom, muttering under his breath, "Now where’s my damn pants?"

"Where they always are...on the floor in the corner." Blanche scratched Sport’s ears in a good morning caress and rose from the edge of the mattress. "Make sure you shake them first," she warned as he picked them up from the tiled floor. She’d seen a few scorpions scuttling across the patio outside and had become very cautious. "What time are you leaving?"

"Right after breakfast." He slid into his jeans, as usual leaving the top two buttons undone, and went to the French door. Whistling through his teeth, Cort said, "Come on, old boy. Time to water the bushes and chase some birds."

Blanche watched them jog down the stairs and then turned for the bathroom and the luxurious walk in shower. As deliciously hot water sprayed from all directions to massage her body, she thought of how radically her life had changed. It was wonderful...no, it was miraculous. Cortland Davis was everything she’d ever hoped for and she was happy...finally, truly, ecstatically happy, for the first time in years. And it was all because of the man who had stolen first her heart, and then her dog. The old Midnight Rider himself, she thought, her lips curving in a private smile.

She couldn’t wait to introduce him to Maureen, couldn’t wait to tell her all about him. And Mo would see how happy her sister was, and be happy for her.

"Two more days," Blanche said aloud, and bent her head under the spray.

It took an hour to run up to San Diego, but he still had plenty of time. Cort was waiting near the escalator when Paco rode down, and even though his eyes were covered by his Ray Bans, Cort could tell from the constant swivel of his head that Paco still hadn’t seen him.

"Jackass," he muttered under his breath and stepped closer until Paco finally saw him and nodded.