Picture by Jessie

ANGEL AND THE BADMAN

by Darcy

1: Rules of Engagement
 
He nodded to the man across the table and stood up. "I've heard enough. Give 'em the two hundred thousand. Work it through one of the holding companies...you know the drill, Spelling."
Attorney Mark Spelling stood too, right hand extended to his client. His most valued client. The retainer Cortland Davis paid each month like clockwork made up a big chunk of Spelling's income. As usual, Davis' handshake was two firm pumps and then a quick release. He never held on, talking and shaking like some men did. He never made a ritual out of a simple handshake, none of that fake you can trust me I'm a good old boy kind of thing. Cort Davis didn't seem to like shaking hands at all, but Spelling forgave him his idiosyncrasy. It took all kinds.

"I'll get on this right away, Mr. Davis," he promised as his client turned for the door.
The attorney didn't bother shaking with Cort Davis' henchman. Mark was not above a few shady dealings...he was a lawyer, after all...but Paco Benning weirded him out. Spelling couldn't decide just what Benning's job was. Bodyguard, henchman? Partner? Neither man came across as gay, but you never knew.

He watched them take their leave, Benning a deferential two steps behind Davis as he strode through the office door. Spelling decided Paco couldn't be a bodyguard…if he was, he'd have gone out ahead of his boss. Protected him. Unless Cort Davis thought he didn't need protection. His attorney knew enough about his business to think he might.

                                                                 W

As they walked out of the glass walled office in the fifty-story glass walled building, Paco Benning hurried to catch up to his employer. His grin showed his amusement at the idea of Cortland Davis, part owner of a restaurant. "So boss…you going into the coffee bidness, huh?"

Cort didn't bother to look at him. "See Paco, that's why I'm in charge and you drive the car," he said laconically. "I'm not going into the coffee business...I'm making an investment in a sure thing. I know these people. They'll pull it off, and I'll get a nice return on my money."
Paco looked doubtful. "You'd be better off puttin' your jing into a bar. Coffee? This is a boozin' town, seems to me."

"This," Cort said shortly, "is a gambling town. Folks risk their money on the turn of a card, they like to keep sharp. A man can't swill liquor all day and night and expect to be alert enough to gamble. Or a woman, for that matter."

"Yeah? So what about Starbucks?" Paco countered. "They're all over the place. Big name, good reputation. Lots of competition."

"Starbucks won't get a franchise in the hotel or the casino," Cort said flatly. "And the others won't have Riley Biebe's good cookin' to lure in the customers." He stepped back politely to allow a woman to board the elevator before them.

Paco grinned. No franchise in the casino? Shit, he bet there would be no franchise within a block of the joint. He should have known the boss had an ace up his sleeve…the sharp fucker always did. The fix was in. This new coffee shop would have a clear field, no competition.

Outside the reflective glass doors, it was blistering hot. Cort and Paco walked out of the cool, aptly named Friese Building and stepped into an inferno. The concrete sidewalk burned their soles through their boots, and in the five minutes it took to walk to the car, sweat darkened his hair and soaked Cort's shirt through. He glanced up at the sun, squinting at relentless brilliance that dazzled even through his shades. It had never seemed this hot in the old days. Maybe that feller Al Gore and the tree-huggers had the right idea about Global Warming. He could tell them for certain the climate had changed from a hundred years ago.
Paco slid behind the wheel of the Avalanche as Cort got in on the passenger's side. He never drove when he was out with Paco. The man was loyal, but he wasn't too bright. Had a slow reaction time to boot, but he was a decent driver. He'd asked for one, but Cort refused to let him carry a gun...reckoned he stood a better chance of staying alive if he personally took care of any shooting, should the situation ever arise. Not that he expected it. Nobody really knew who Cortland Davis was. It was his habit to keep a low profile, he made most of his deals through Spelling. It was only when someone needed some extra persuading that Cort showed his face.

Paco slid the key into the ignition and fired up the Avalanche's three hundred and ten horses, before glancing at his boss. "Where to now?"
Cort's eyes slid from the digital temperature read out...110...to gaze out of tinted windows at heat shimmering off asphalt. He had several construction sites to visit, but late afternoon was no time to be out in the Nevada desert. His days of broiling in the sun were over. "Home," he ordered, and fell silent while Paco drove back to the hotel.

SIX MONTHS LATER

She liked the little coffee house from the minute it opened. Café Biscotti was an oasis of quiet in the carnival-like atmosphere of Las Vegas. Whoever had thought to put an old-fashioned coffee house at the edge of a casino had really had a good idea.

Blanche went there at least twice a week. Her regular circuit of casinos took her all over the Strip, but she managed to visit the Café Biscotti even if she was playing elsewhere, stopping for a quick cup of coffee before she headed to her place at the poker table. Sometimes she took a go-cup with her, preferring their rich Italian roast to the swill served in the casino. When she was out and about early, or if she had stayed up all night to ride out a winning streak, she dropped in for breakfast and ordered frothy cappuccino and a flaky croissant, or one of those delicious calorie-laden pastries that lured her from their white paper doilies in the display case. When she was in a hurry, she sat at the counter on one of the high-backed stools, but when she had time to kill, she took a table and relaxed, reading or just people watching.

That's when she'd seen him the first time, scruff-bearded, his chestnut hair long enough to frame his face and curl over his collar. The man with the deep-set green-blue eyes that seemed to miss nothing. She knew for a fact they hadn't missed her.
They played a little game at first. Blanche pretended she didn't notice how intensely he watched her, or how often he just happened to be at the Café when she came in. He grinned at her once, his smile an open invitation, but she'd forced her eyes to slide past him as if she hadn't seen. Picked up her bag and walked out, as nonchalant as you please. She'd felt his eyes on her, knew he watched her until she was out of sight.

It was only natural that since she came in so often, she'd strike up a casual friendship with the woman who was almost always behind the counter. She asked Riley about him once, careful to keep her tone neutral, because Riley was smart and keenly observant, and Blanche didn't want to appear too interested. But Riley claimed she didn't know much. She said she'd heard him called Preacher once or twice, though he'd told her his name was Cort. He wore a wooden cross on a leather thong around his neck, too. She suspected he might be minister in one of those out of the mainstream type churches.
Blanche raised her eyebrows. A minister? It didn't seem likely to her. The man had a tremendous physical presence, exuded a powerful sexual magnetism that made it seem incredible that he'd ever preached Jesus from a pulpit. Brooding and dangerous, that's how she'd describe him. Brooding, dangerous, and damn easy on the eye. It was unsettling, how attractive she found him.

She bided her time, thinking he'd hit on her sooner or later. But he didn't. And on the day she followed him into the Café Biscotti, admiring his broad shoulders and the easy way he carried himself, as if he feared nothing and nobody, something came over her. Whether she'd been possessed by the devil or guided by the hand of God, she didn't know. Throwing off her usual discretion, she walked to the counter beside Cort and boldly told Riley to give him a drink. Bourbon, because she'd occasionally seen him fortify his coffee from a flask. Bourbon, because of one especially memorable day when he had stood close enough to her that Blanche caught the distinctive aroma of Kentucky's finest, warm on his breath.

                                                                        W

Cort didn't attend their grand opening, but he kept his eye on the place. From the moment it opened its doors, the Café Biscotti did a good business. There was steady foot traffic in and out. Lines snaked outside the door at lunch time as customers waited for tables. Only a week after opening, they'd hired a man whose only job was to deliver takeout to the rooms in the casino's hotel, and they kept him hopping. Cort smiled and mentally patted himself on the back...he'd been right about Riley Biebe's cooking.
He began dropping by the place every day, got to be a regular. He was a generous tipper, and the waitresses knew him by name. So did the owners. Of course he never mentioned that he'd backed the place. There were reasons it was best if John Biebe didn't know he'd prospered from Cortland Davis's money. A wry smile twisted his mouth. Good ol' John Biebe wouldn't like that at all.

He didn't have much use for the man, but his wife was another story. Cort liked her fine. Riley was a pretty little thing, always sweet as sugar to him, even when she was busier than a bee in a field of Texas bluebonnets. She always had time for a little conversation, a laugh or two. He was comfortable with her and appreciated her friendliness. He didn't have many friends. Never had.

The Café was open early and late. The only time they closed was the middle of the night, from two in the morning until six, just enough time to clean the place and do the day's baking and prep work. Cort usually wandered in around eight in the evening. He'd drink a cup of coffee, sometimes lace it with bourbon from a hip flask he carried. Or he'd order up some supper, choosing from the menu that changed once a week. He liked their man-sized sandwiches, and once in a while he got a craving for one of Riley's special desserts.

The day he first saw Blanche Donovan, he'd been at the Café, eating a solitary supper. She'd come in for coffee, sat at the counter alone. He'd been tempted to approach her then, but something in her manner stopped him. Instead he watched her while he finished his meal and drank a second cup of coffee. And when she stood to leave, she turned and looked right at him. He grinned, reckoned she couldn't help but notice his stare. But her eyes slid over him and there was no smile in return; she'd just gathered up her bag and gone out the door. His eyes followed her until she was out of sight, the twitching swing of her ass in tight jeans a pure pleasure.

He asked Riley about her, but all she knew was her name. Blanche. Unusual name for these days when all you heard was Ashley and Kelli and Chelsea. He'd known another Blanche long ago, and this woman reminded him of her. She had the same pretty blonde hair...he was partial to blondes, always had been. They were rare back in the day, like a tropical bird would be in the desert. Attracted the same attention, too…seemed like back then, all the fellers liked yellow hair.

It was her attitude that made him think of the first Blanche, though. Confident, self -assured. She had a look in her eye that warned folks off. He'd seen it in action one day when a sharp with greasy hair tried to buy her coffee. He didn't get far before she shut him down cold, her eyes like chips of blue ice, a hard set to her jaw. Feisty. He liked that in a woman.

So it surprised him the day she sidled up the counter and told Riley to give him a drink of bourbon, on her tab. He'd just walked into the Café and gone straight to the counter to tease Riley with his usual joke... 'Can I get a sarsaparilla here, darlin'?' As soon as he heard Blanche speak, he thought, 'About time,' and he turned to face her, let his eyes and his smile work their magic.

Up close, she was even prettier than he'd thought. He kept his voice low, flirtatiously polite, "Why, thank you, ma'am'. I expect you'll join me?"

"Yes," she said, and his mouth widened into a disarming grin. He took her elbow, guided her to a U-shaped booth close by. She slid gracefully into the banquette and Cort followed until he was sitting beside her with only a wedge-shaped section of padded leatherette between them. He liked the seating arrangements. They were close, their legs almost touching under the table, but the right angle allowed him to see her face.

His eyes sparkled as he tipped his cup in salute "Thanks, darlin'. Did I hear that your name is Blanche?"
Her eyebrow arched. "How did you hear?"

"I asked," he confessed, and sipped bourbon, watching her face over the rim of his cup. His eyes were glittering, daring her.

Blanche bit back a smile. Flirting already... Although she sensed the aura of danger about him, something cool and calculating, he also seemed roguishly playful. She looked at him with the frank stare of the appraising. Preacher or not, he was good to look at. Ruggedly handsome, not suave or sophisticated. No pretty boy, but she wouldn't have given him a second glance if he had been. Blanche didn't care for men who were prettier than her. She decided his most compelling feature was his eyes. They were gorgeous...penetrating. Even when they were smiling, she felt like they saw too much. And Blanche had a lot to hide.

Deliberately, she looked away from them and sipped her coffee. She almost jumped when she felt his finger trace the back of her hand.
He leaned closer to drawl lazily, "All right then. Blanche it is. But you look more like an Angel to me, darlin'."

Definitely flirting. She pulled her hand back and curled it around her cup. "Looks can be deceiving, my friend. For instance, someone told me you're a man of the cloth." Fleeting surprise crossed his face and was just as quickly gone. Blanche let her eyes travel over his body, took in the black tee shirt, the leather jacket. "You don't look like a holy man to me," she said, her voice wry. "And this isn't much of a town for preachers." Her gaze slipped by him, out through the glass doors of the Café to the wide mezzanine that led to the casino.

The garish night-into-day lights of Las Vegas weren't visible from inside the hotel, but he knew what she meant. And when she took her hand away, Cort knew what that meant too...he'd moved too fast, touching her so soon. He didn't care, he liked touching her. Liked her reaction to it, too.
A mischievous light glittered in his eyes as he drawled, "Well Angel...there's holy, and then there's holy. Some things are pretty sacred, even in a town like this."

Her eyes pinned him. "So you are a preacher?"

He shook his head. "No ma'am. I am not."

She wasn't sure he spoke the truth, but Blanche told herself she had no right to get in his business. If he had something to hide…well, she did too.

"How's your drink, Preacher? Better than a sarsaparilla, or whatever that was you asked for?"
Eyes twinkling, Cort said, "Better, yeah. Going down like honey, darlin'...so good that it's almost gone. Hope Riley has more behind the counter."

"If she doesn't, you can always use your flask." Blanche smothered a smile and hid her face by bending to sip from the straw.

He stroked his bearded chin. "You've been watching me. I'll be damned."

She shrugged. "About as much as you've been watching me."

"That's because I liked what I saw," Cort said baldly.

Blanche looked up, caught his eyes. "So did I."

Encouraged, Cort slid his booted foot forward until his knee pressed hers. "So tell me, darlin'…what's an angel like you doing in sinful place like this?"

She almost laughed...wasn't that the oldest line in the world? But instead she turned the full battery of her eyes on him, gave him the look that had melted men before. "Might be I'm looking for something sinful," she said, deliberately purring.

His eyes heated and narrowed. He was just about to suggest something sinful with him when Riley Biebe came up to their table, smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary. Cort swore under his breath. He liked Riley fine, but she had piss poor timing.

"Hey you two...how's everything going? Can I get you something else?"

Cort didn't take his eyes off Blanche. "Another one of these would go down easy, honey."
As a rule, liquor wasn't served in the Café Biscotti, but Cort was special. Riley used bourbon in several recipes and kept a bottle of Maker's Mark on hand. His first drink had put a dent in the fifth, but there was enough left for another.

She nodded. "Sure, coming right up." She checked with Blanche, "You need anything, hon?"
"Maybe …" Blanche said, and just from the look in her eyes, Riley knew she wasn't talking about another latte. "Riley, what do you think? Can I find what I'm looking for in this town, or am I just wasting time?"
Belatedly, Riley got the picture. There was something going on here, something intense. But it would be with these two. She'd had the thought before that they'd make a good couple and hoped they would hook up, and if Blanche was asking her opinion, well… She smiled, laid a fond hand on Cort's broad shoulder.
"Blanche...I think you might just have found exactly what you're looking for right here."

Cort leaned forward, and in a voice that resonated pure sex, he said, "Listen to her, Angel. I promise you...you won't be wasting your time." He sat back, a confident smirk pulling at his lips.
Promises... Blanche stared at him, expressionless. In her experience, promises from men were bullshit, even teasing sexual innuendo. Half the time, a man who promised to take you to the moon didn't have the rocket launcher to get the job done. A suddenly irritated Blanche decided to wipe that cockiness right off Cort's face.

"I don't believe in wasting time," she said coolly and saw his smile fade. She raised her coffee cup and took a sip, set it down with deliberate care. "And I don't believe in promises, either," she finished.
"Uh, this looks like a good time for me to fade away," Riley said and disappeared, leaving them to sort things out alone.

Cort looked down at the table top and traced a circle with his finger. "Darlin'," he said flatly, "don't blame me for some other man's fuck up. Hell, we both know things don't always work out. We've seen 'em go bad...and I reckon we've both believed the wrong promises." He raised his head, and now it was his turn to pin her with his eyes. "What do you say we make no promises? Take this slow. But I'm telling you damn straight, Angel...this will not be a waste of your time, or mine."

Itching to touch her, he lifted his cup and sipped bourbon, seared her with his eyes.
Angel. She remembered the last time a man had called her that. He hadn't kept his promises. Not one of them, and there had been many. But that was in the past and Cort was here now. He offered nothing, promised nothing. He only wanted a chance.

"All right then." Blanche raised her cup in a careless salute. "To no promises."
Cort almost grinned. He had her. He touched his cup to hers and repeated, "No promises." He sipped, and his tongue lapped at the rim, as if gathering one last drop for his taste buds to savor.

That unconscious but heat-generating habit of his made her clench her thighs. Jesus, he was gorgeous. All lean and long and brooding eyes, a throwback to a more romantic time. She could feel the sexual energy resonating from him. He was silently willing her to have faith, and Blanche wanted to believe. Maybe he could make her believe in him. But after so long a time on her own, she couldn't just hand over that power like a child's birthday present simply to see the delight on his face. Not yet.

She met him stare for stare, refusing to give in to the urge to draw closer and brush her lips against his, though he so clearly expected it. Things were moving too fast, and Blanche suddenly felt like she had to get away from Cort's probing eyes before he sucked her all the way down, into their sultry darkness.
As if on cue, a perfectly timed cue, Riley's irritated voice penetrated to their table. "Damn it!"
Reluctantly, Blanche tore her eyes from his and glanced toward the counter. Her friend was busy at the espresso machine, her head downcast.

"Riley looks irritated," Blanche murmured, watching her struggle. "Maybe I upset her. I'm going to go talk to her for a minute. You mind?"

Without waiting for him to answer, she slid out of the booth, and as she walked away she could feel Cort's stare, as blatant as a caress, on her back. It was exciting, this little game they played, but it was scaring her too. The man packed a whole lotta punch in his eyes, his voice, his obvious sensuality. Blanche wondered if she was scared enough to run from him, back to the safety...and boredom...of aloof detachment. She thought of his eyes, willing her to believe, and she shuddered half in fear, half in pleasured anticipation.
 

 

To be continued