"You don’t mind, I’m gonna make a quick stop here, Maureen. Won’t take me long."

She was surprised when Cort pulled into a strip mall on their way out of San Diego. Rather than wait alone in the truck, Maureen went along into the PetSmart. She walked the aisles beside him as he filled a cart with twenty-five pounds of gourmet food, a huge wicker dog basket with a cedar shavings mattress that looked comfortable enough for people, and a selection of rawhide chew bones. And she hid a grin behind her hand when he sheepishly asked the teenage sales clerk if there were any dog toys that looked like a seagull. The best the kid could come up with was a yellow rubber duck that quacked when he squeezed it.

He bought the duck too. His check-out total came to just short of two hundred dollars, and Maureen thought it was hilarious that he’d stopped to buy presents for a dog and not his lover. While he loaded the stuff in the bed of the Avalanche, she got in the passenger side and fastened her seat belt. Maureen raised her face to the sun streaming in the open window. It was warm...even hot...for March in SoCal, but it felt good after the endless dragging months of a Pennsylvania winter. From the corner of her eye, she saw Cort in the side mirror. He pulled his cell and made a call, a call that apparently didn’t go through since he almost immediately closed the phone with an impatient snap.

During the fifteen mile drive to Tijuana, Cort was quiet and seemed to be concentrating on the heavy traffic. At first Maureen thought his silence could be attributed to shyness, but after watching him, she realized it wasn’t that or the traffic. Cort wasn’t shy. His mind was somewhere else, on something more important than her. A trifle insulted by his indifference, she wondered if she was that boring after Blanche. Was he so crazy about her sister that another woman held no interest at all, not even to talk to?

She couldn’t believe that. Maybe it was something else, something to do with his business. Whatever it was that kept him so quiet, she decided she wasn’t about to force him to talk. It would have been nice if they could have got those all important first moves toward friendship over with, but sometimes a man needed space and quiet. Looked like this was one of those times, and so Maureen contented herself with looking out of the window at the passing scenery, only occasionally casting a glance at Cort Davis’ handsome profile.

Despite the traffic, the drive went quickly. In only twenty minutes they were waiting in silence behind a line of vehicles at the Tijuana crossing. And where before, Cort had appeared simply preoccupied, now he was tense and irritated.

‘We need an icebreaker,’ Maureen thought. ‘A little distracting conversation.’ She threw him a generic opener: "So...Blanche says you’re a businessman."

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes flickering to the dash clock. "That what she said?"

His curt reply set her teeth on edge…he could make a little effort. "Yes," she said, her tone clipped. "Why? Aren’t you a businessman?"

"You practicing your cross-examination technique now?" Cort threw her an amused glance. "Yes, counselor…I’m a businessman. But she said she told you I was a, uh...I guess bad boy is what she said." He grinned and she couldn’t tell if he was deliberately attempting to charm her, or making an admission.

"Oh, well…" Maureen shrugged delicate shoulders and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, refusing to be charmed. "That’s her type, you know. Blanche loves the bad boys, always has."

"Uh huh. I figured that out." His eyes strayed to the Mexican border patrol agents ahead. "Well, she can handle us, that’s for sure," he said absently. An agent waved him on; Cort pulled up and slid the window down. "Afternoon, officer."

"Your passports señor, por favor."

Maureen had hers ready, held it out to him. Cort took it and handed both documents over. The black-clad border guard thumbed through them both, his eyes going from the photos to their faces.

"What is in the back?" he asked.

"Luggage. Some stuff for my dog."

"Any guns, drugs, contraband to declare?"

Teasing, Cort glanced at Maureen. "You have any of that stuff tucked away in your unmentionables, honey?"

"Nope. Not even aspirin."

The guard didn’t find them amusing. Hard black eyes like polished obsidian stared holes into Cort’s for a long moment. His gaze unflinching, Cort changed his tone and said softly, "We have nothing to declare, officer."

Abruptly, the Mexican stepped back from the door. "Will you get out of the vehicle, señor?"

‘Fuck!’ Cort swore under his breath. The last thing he wanted was the Mex policia searching his damn truck. A glance at Maureen’s round eyes told him she was worried, maybe even scared. Jesus, did she have something in her luggage besides clothes? Outside the window, the guard made an impatient sound. There was nothing else to do...Cort knew better than to argue with the man. They could end up on the road back to San Diego, leaving Blanche stuck at home alone, and he was already worried. He’d tried to call her and she hadn’t answered.

He took a breath, shrugged. "Whatever you say, officer." Cort pressed the release on his seat belt and opened the door.

"Please accompany me to the rear of the vehicle."

They walked to the back of his truck and the guard instructed him to fold back the tonneau cover. "Give me a hand," Cort said, grasping the bar and pulling the velcro free. "Just roll it...yeah, that’s it."

Together they folded the cover back, and Cort dropped the tailgate.

"Open that case, señor." The Mexican pointed to the biggest one.

Cort grasped the handle and dragged the red canvas suitcase to the tailgate. The zipper closing was locked with a tiny brass padlock. He looked toward the front of the truck at Maureen’s worried face peering through the window. "Mo? I need your key for the lock."

She nodded, ducked her head to search in her voluminous bag. Cort walked to the passenger door and waited until she came up with a miniscule brass key.

"This opens all of them." Under her breath she hissed, "What’s the matter? Why is he suspicious?"

Cort shrugged and took the key. "Damned if I know. Maybe it’s that bad boy thing I got going on, huh?" He dropped his voice to an indistinct murmur, "You sure there’s nothing illegal in your luggage, Mo?"

She bristled at his implication. "Of course I’m sure. He’s barking up the wrong tree."

"Good enough. This shouldn’t take long then." He winked to reassure her that there was nothing to worry about, then walked back to the agent as if he wasn’t pissed off enough to shoot him where he stood.

* * *

Paco talked the redhead into a drink at the Top Gun bar. He sat at the same table near the window, called the same waitress over to serve them. The redhead...he’d already forgotten her name...ordered a Mai Tai, he stuck with Jack Daniels. They made small talk until the drinks came, aimless, meaningless bullshit just to fill up the time. As the waitress set the drinks down and turned away, Paco lit a cigarette, blew smoke in a thin stream through his nostrils, and gave it to her straight. He didn’t have time for moonlight and roses.

"My plane leaves in..." he looked at his watch, "....an hour and a half, and there’s a Hyatt just across the boulevard. You interested?"

The redhead lifted her glass and sipped her Mai Tai. "My price is five hundred an hour," she said, gazing at him over the rim. She set her drink down carefully, raised amused eyes to his stunned face. "The question now is, are you interested?"

Behind his Ray Bans, Paco’s eyes were wide. "You’re a pro? Jesus fucking Christ...I thought you were a businesswoman." he marveled.

"I am." She smiled and he stared at her mouth, her perfectly painted lips. "I just came back from a trip to San Francisco where I made a very lucrative deal with the CEO of a major corporation. Two hourly sessions a month at a thousand per, plus expenses. I’d call that good business, wouldn’t you?"

Paco’s lips stretched into a grin. "Yeah, I’d say two large for a couple of hours work is good business. How come I get a discount?"

"Because," she said, pausing to sip her Mai Tai, "I don’t have to wear a rubber cat suit while I chain you up and whip your ass with a leather quirt."

The mentals were too much. His cock twitched in his jeans, and he looked at her with hot eyes. "Five hundred, huh?" he mused, rubbing his chin. He didn’t have anywhere near that in his pocket, but he had the company card and there were ATMs all over the fucking airport. This kind of expense wasn’t authorized, but Cort Davis could go fuck himself. Paco picked up his glass, knocked back the rest of his Jack. "Let’s go."

* * *

The customs agent had been a prick, forced him to open every case and wait while he searched through a shitload of clothes and even scanned the fucking dog bed with some kind of a hand-held gadget. It took the best part of an hour and then, pushing the Avalanche to make up time, he’d had a flat on the road to Rosarito. The blowout had the truck swerving all over the damn highway while Cort fought for control and Maureen screamed ‘Oh my God!’ beside him. By the time he pulled up on the shoulder of the road, his heart was pounding hard in his chest from the adrenaline rush. And then it was everything out of the back again to get to the fucking spare.

Swearing, sweating in the heat, Cort changed the tire while Maureen stood on the side of the road and watched. There was nothing she could have done to help him, but it pissed him off anyway that she just stood there with a sour expression on her face. He tossed her his phone, abruptly told her to try Blanche again. She caught it clumsily, her eyes glaring at his attitude. When she closed the phone and said coolly, "I’m getting the out of service message," he swore out loud and ignored her raised eyebrows.

It was almost seven when Cort pulled the Avalanche up to the front of the villa. With relief he saw Blanche waiting on the wooden bench near the door, Sport beside her on the flagstone pórtico. The dog leapt to his feet and bounded to the driver’s side door, his tail going a mile a minute, and tried to lick Cort’s face through the open window. Blanche ran to the passenger side and had her arms around Maureen before her feet touched the ground.

Her eyes were shiny with unshed tears as she held her sister close. "I am so glad to see you, Mo!" She hugged her tighter, and over Maureen’s shoulder, her eyes caught Cort’s. "And I’m glad to see you too. I was worried...what took so long?"

"Get down, old boy...hush." Cort pushed Sport away and cracked, "If you’d ever answer your damn phone, you’d know." At her blank look, he raised an eyebrow. "Forget to turn it back on?"

She put a hand to her mouth and said, "Oh hell. I think I forgot to turn it off. It’s still on the bed where I left it after I talked to you. Probably ran the battery down." She leaned to kiss him as he came around the truck, Sport dogging his heels. "Sorry, honey."

"No harm done." Like water out of a bathtub, his tension drained away now that he’d seen her. All day he’d had the feeling things were slipping off kilter somehow, and talking to Paco hadn’t helped. But he was home and Blanche was here, fine as ever. And Paco was long gone, back to Vegas where he belonged.

While Maureen watched them, her expression cool-eyed and keenly observant, Cort kissed Blanche again, then lifted his head and called, "Tomas! Come and help me with this stuff.

"Darlin’," he caught her hand and pulled Blanche away from Maureen, "I think your sister’s moving in. Never saw so much damn fancy stuff in my life." He looked at Maureen as he wrapped Blanche up in his arms and rested his cheek against hers. "And believe me, I saw it. Every damn bit of it."

"And just how did you?" Blanche glanced at Maureen, who shrugged. "What happened?" she asked. "I expected you two back hours ago…why are you so late?"

"Long story, Angel. I’ll tell you over a drink and dinner," Cort promised, straightening when Tomas and Malena came out of the house with welcoming smiles. "Hola, amigo," Cort said as his handyman approached the truck. "Time to work. You take this case upstairs and I’ll get the other. The girls will have to handle the little ones."

Blanche looked in the truck bed as he rolled the cover back. "What’s all this other stuff?" she asked, her eyes twinkling as she eyed the logo on the bag of toys. "PetSmart? You stopped at a PetSmart?"

"Uh, yeah...bought a few things for Sport. Leave that, Angel. I’ll get it later," Cort said over his shoulder.

Shaking her head, Blanche took her sister by the hand. "I swear he only loves me for my dog. Come on, Mo. Grab a bag, and then I want you to meet Malena. She’s wonderful."

* * *

Cort left the sisters talking a mile a minute in Maureen’s room and went back out to the car. The bags from the pet store were gone, Tomas had already come back for them. And since the shepherd was no longer dogging his every step, Cort reckoned Sport was already settled in his new bed, chewing the hell out of a rawhide bone. He reached into the backseat for the envelope, almost forgotten in the hubbub of getting Maureen settled. Back in the house he tossed it carelessly on his desk to read later. He reckoned he knew most of what Andreen’s report said anyway. Blanche had told him everything.

There were phone calls to return first. Cort thumbed the button, pulled up his voice mail.

Spelling was his usual businesslike self in the first message. ‘Mr. Davis, please call at the office sometime today at your convenience. I’ve been trying to get in touch with you.’

The second message had a different tone. Spelling’s recorded voice sounded irritated, almost testy: ‘Mr. Davis, it seems you’re having a good time since you’re not answering your phone. I don’t like to bother you, but we need to talk briefly. It’s important or I wouldn’t disturb you. You can reach me on my cell if it’s after office hours.’

There was the clatter of pots from the kitchen, and a peal of girlish laughter floated down the stairs...Blanche and Maureen catching up. He had time...he had a feeling they’d talk the damn night away. Cort rose and closed the office door, then sat down at the desk, leaned back in his chair and punched in the numbers for Mark Spelling’s cell.

"About time you called," Spelling answered on the first ring. "I hope you’re enjoying your trip."

"I am," Cort said laconically. "What’s so all-fired important?"

"Ray Andreen. He insists you call him. Says he has something for your ears only. You have a pen handy?"

Cort leaned forward and pulled a pad of paper close, picked up a pen. "Go ahead." He jotted the number down as Spelling gave it to him, repeated it to make sure. "He seem worried about something?" Cort asked, setting the pen down and leaning back in the chair again. His feet came up and he crossed his ankles on the desk top, reached into his pockets for a cigarette.

"I wouldn’t say worried, but he was insistent. Played the cloak and dagger game...you know...wouldn’t tell me what it was, said the information was just for you. He wanted your cell number but I wouldn’t give it to him."

Cort grunted. "You don’t trust him?"

"I trust him," Spelling said, "but you’re not a man to suffer mistakes. I decided if you wanted him to have your number, you could give it to him yourself." He paused briefly, Cort heard him sip and swallow. "So how’s Mexico?"

Cort rubbed a hand over his beard tiredly. "Except for today, great. Today was a bitch; I went up to San Diego to meet Paco and had some trouble at the border on the way back, then the truck blew a shoe. Nothing major, just pain in the ass stuff." He dragged on his cigarette, his eyes narrowed against curling smoke. "Spelling...I’ve been thinking about staying in Mexico for a good spell. Possibly even living here. Paco could take over things in Vegas with some long distance supervision. I’d fly in if anything major came up."

There was silence as Mark Spelling digested the information. "Are you saying you plan to retire?" he finally said.

"Not retire, no. Just wouldn’t be as active."

Spelling took a breath. "Mr. Davis, you pay me handsomely for advice, so I’m going to give you some. If you want to retire on what you have, fine. Invest it all in safe stocks and live on the income. But if you plan to keep your company viable, then I wouldn’t stay away too long." His frustration poured out in his voice. "Your man Paco is not even second in command material. I don’t know what he’s doing in that position, but I wouldn’t have put him there, and I sure as hell wouldn’t hand over my company for him to run. He’d run it, all right...straight into Chapter 11."

It was Cort’s turn to remain silent and think. He pictured Paco in his mind’s eye, knew that Spelling was giving him good counsel. He knew Paco wasn’t capable of running the show, but he’d let his desire to stay tucked away with Blanche cloud his judgment. "I reckon you’re right," he said finally. "But I’m getting tired of the game, Spelling. Thought I could get away with this plan for a year or so and take a break. Looks like I have a decision to make."

In his Las Vegas home, a stunned Mark Spelling felt the liquor in his stomach curdle like sour milk. He’d had no idea Davis was thinking of scaling back. ‘Fuck...’ he swore silently. He’d lose a big chunk of his own income if his firm could no longer count on Cort’s juicy monthly retainer, not to mention the rest of the fees it charged him. Christ, he wanted more clients like Cortland Davis on his roster, not fewer.

"It’s a big decision, Mr. Davis. Don’t be rash."

"Well, nothing’s going to happen just yet," Cort told him. "I’ll talk to you about this when I come back to town."

Spelling controlled the near panic in his voice. "When will that be, Mr. Davis?"

There was a discreet knock on the heavy paneled door, and Cort looked up. "Not for a while. I’ll let you know," he said, his tone final. "Thanks, Spelling."

He raised his voice and called out loud, "Yeah?"

"Dinner in five minutes, Señor Cort. I am going up to tell the ladies now."

Shit.

"Thanks, ‘Lena."

Cort eyed the heavily taped envelope. It suddenly appeared menacing, as if it contained something as lethal as an anthrax-bearing powder. He looked at Andreen’s number on the pad. No time to open the envelope or call Andreen now, it would have to wait until later. Malena would be pissed if dinner got cold, and he’d bet Maureen was starving. He got up from his desk, went to the bathroom to wash his hands.

But his face was pale in the mirror above the basin, and the weight of suspicion was pressing down on his chest. The vague sense of disquiet was back, stronger now.

Fuck dinner, he had to know. Cort walked back to his desk and picked up his phone. His face grim, he punched in the numbers and waited.

There was the usual static of an international call, and then it rang once, twice, before a voice on the other end said, "Ray Andreen."

He took a deep breath. "Ray, it’s Cort Davis. I hear you wanted to talk to me."

* * *

He was quiet through dinner, his mind on what Andreen had told him.

Cort looked down at his still almost full plate, his appetite gone. Malena had made one of his favorites, mole con pollo, but he’d hardly tasted the little he ate. His mind was on the envelope waiting on his desk, sealed up tight as a Wells Fargo strongbox.

Sweet Jesus, what a pair of gimmicks, that hair, the trick with the page numbers. Cort had to hand it to Andreen, it was so simple, it was bound to work. And he had to admit he wouldn’t have thought of it.

But then he hadn’t suspected the need for such measures. Cort had always trusted Spelling...the man had enough of the touch of the con about him to recognize and condone Cort’s methods, and yet he’d never been anything but straightforward in their business dealings together.

And Paco...well, hell. He’d trusted Paco too. The man was dumber than dirt but Cort never had cause to think him disloyal. That business with the name, though...goddammit, that spooked him. Two men with Mexican nicknames and the same Americanized alias? Andreen was right; it was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Were they family? Christ, brothers? Cort could remember enough times in his past when brothers had exacted revenge on each other’s behalf.

He grimaced, wondering if what he’d perceived as stupidity these past few years had been an act calculated to fool him. And just as quick as he had the thought, he mentally shook his head. Why would Paco pretend to be a damn jackass if he wasn’t? The man didn’t have anything against his employer. Cort had taken him in off the street, given him an opportunity, a job with dignity...

Not against me, Cort thought. But if what Andreen said was on the money, Paco sure the fuck had something against Angel...

His troubled gaze flickered across the table to where she sat. Her eyes were on him, questioning. He slouched back in his seat, his posture deliberately relaxed, and smiled to reassure her. Even gave her a teasing wink. But Cort knew the smile didn’t reach his eyes, and that Blanche wasn’t fooled. Not for a minute.