He’d seen her Mustang running toward Vegas an hour ago, but he’d stayed up on the rise until he was sure she was far ahead of him. As dawn began to gray the sky, he kicked the Low Rider into roaring life, and took a leisurely ride back to town.

Cort parked the bike in a reserved space, took the express elevator up. He was conscious of a sense of relief as he walked into the cool dimness of his apartment. Carelessly, he tossed his keys into a pottery dish on the teak console near the door, and dragged his hands wearily through his hair. In the bedroom, he kicked off hand-tooled boots and slung his black leather jacket over a chair, then eyed his bed. He hissed through his teeth in bitter disappointment. Another night alone, this one harder than usual considering the woman he might have had.

He wasn’t ready to climb between those cold, lonely sheets. He padded to the kitchen, took a longneck from the refrigerator, and headed for the office. Beer in hand, he sat at his computer and tapped out her name and hit search.

A screen came up with her photo and a link to one site and Cort grinned. "There you are, darlin’..."

There wasn’t much, only an LA Times story about a murdered man he quickly discerned was her father. The widowed Cormac Donovan had been killed execution style in 1998, leaving behind two orphaned daughters, Mary Blanche and Maureen. Blanche had been twenty-one at the time, her sister only fourteen. According to the article, Mary Blanche took custody of her younger sister. Cort did the math: Blanche was thirty now, her sister twenty-three.

Interesting...an execution. Drug deal gone bad, or was her father involved with organized crime? Cort searched Cormac Donovan and a page of links appeared on the screen. He scanned them quickly, chose a few to investigate further. As he read, his face grew solemn. He finished with the last article and sat back in his chair to run a hand over his beard, his eyes fixed unseeing on the wall.

So...Blanche Donovan was the daughter of a small-time hood who’d paid the ultimate price for his association with some very shady characters.

Cort leaned toward the computer again and pulled up the casino’s security site, typed in her name. Paydirt. He stared at the screen, then sat back and tilted the bottle, chugging to quench a thirst that couldn't be satisfied by beer. He had everything he needed right in front of him...her address, security photos of her at the poker tables, her casino rotation schedule. He noted that she had three points in the Palms...probably a backer, some old fuck who thought he’d get into a beautiful young woman’s good graces if he fronted her a stake. Cort’s lips twisted in a hot surge of jealousy. He’d find out who it was, scare him off...he wasn’t sharing Blanche with anyone. If she wanted a backer, he’d pony up the money himself. She’d never have to know who it was, financing her play.

Thoughtfully, Cort rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth. He’d thought she was just a pretty girl, but Blanche Donovan was a complicated woman.

His brain hooked onto the address, committed it to memory. It was a community of new homes out on the road to Henderson near the lake. Cort was familiar with the area; he’d bankrolled the land development, made a nice return on his investment. Though he itched to see her, he decided he wouldn’t go out there now. She was already spooked and he couldn’t risk her running. Better to catch her in a public place where it appeared to be a casual coincidence. Like the Café...obviously the most likely place to find her. He grinned. Biebe would shit a brick...this was going to be fun.

Cort stood and looked out his massive window at sunshine faded neon. Time for bed. He never slept during the night. Never.

* * *

The door rolled up as she pulled into her driveway. Blanche drove straight into the garage and waited until the door came down behind her. Only then did she feel completely safe. She plucked the .44 off the seat and slipped it into her purse…a huge black leather Coach bucket that held everything a girl could possibly need, from makeup to antique revolvers.

She sat there a while, listening to the engine tick as it cooled, the sound soothing to her jangled nerves. From inside the house, she could hear Sport barking a welcome. When his deep-throated woof woof began sounding urgent, Blanche got out of the Mustang the way she got in, simply stood up and swung her legs over the door. Her heels tapped first on concrete, then Mexican tile as she let herself into the kitchen. She greeted her dog, let him out into the fenced backyard.

While Sport roamed contentedly, she put a filter and fresh ground coffee into the basket, pushed the start button on the maker and waited for it to drip brew. When it was done she stood at the window and drank a cup, watching the sun come up, her mind on the man who’d chased her that night. Sport’s low bark brought her out of her reverie. She let him in, refilled her mug, and grabbing up her bag, took it and her coffee to her bedroom.

Unceremoniously, Blanche dumped her winnings and the Colt out on the bed. The cash she gathered up to put into the small safe hidden in her closet, but she hesitated over the gun. Would she need it? Was he dangerous? She stared at the antique pistol, the dull gray barrel and walnut grips gleamed dully with the patina of time. It lay there among her lipsticks, wallet and hairbrush, all the feminine accoutrements she regularly carried, looking sinister but comforting, too. For some reason, the gun reminded her of Cort.

Cort. Cort who? Blanche tried to think if anyone had mentioned his last name, but she couldn’t remember. They had never really been introduced. Still, his first name was unusual enough. She went to her Dell, tapped in a few commands. The portal for the Metro Police database bloomed on the screen. She typed in a password and gained entry, tabbed to the search function. Half afraid of what she’d find, she typed in CORT.

An hour later she stood in the shower, her hands braced against the tiled wall as steaming hot water cascaded over her back. It was a trick she often used to relax, but it wasn’t working. Tension bunched her shoulders and tightened her neck. Her head down, she stared blankly at soap bubbles swirling into the drain.

Blanche guessed sleep would be impossible today.

* * *

Right on time, just like every other morning, Cort’s eyes opened at ten o’clock. Sunshine filtered through the slit in the heavy draperies, cutting a sharp, brilliant line across his bed. Across his heart. He tucked an arm under his head, then reached over and lit a cigarette.

Smoke swirled and drifted, danced in the sliver of sunlight, then dissipated at the ceiling. Blanche Donovan had him twisted like a bull rope, his guts in a knot, his dick hard enough to cut diamonds. Should he walk away from this one? He considered it for minute, knew he wouldn’t.

His sleep had been filled with images of her, her face, her body, her hair. He dreamed so vividly, he’d felt her warmth and the texture of her flesh. He’d tasted her mouth, sweet and soft under his. Cort looked down to where his rock hard cock tented the sheet that covered him to the waist. Jesus Christ. This could get complicated real fast if he didn’t control it. With a muffled groan, he crawled out of bed, threw the butt into the toilet and pissed on it, then left for his morning workout.

The treadmill accomplished nothing, even at a heated jog, Blanche was still in his brain and he felt like he was chasing her. An hour of it and his frustration level was only higher. Avoiding the weight bench, he hit the showers, where icy water distracted his cock and chased his hard-on. Shivering, but minus an indecent bulge in his sweats, Cort dressed and went back to his apartment.

Coffee in hand, he wandered into the office, and once again, his fingers tapped on the keyboard. He read everything he could find about her one more time. Nothing had changed in the past few hours. Nothing but him. Suddenly the idea of Paco following Blanche filled him with disgust.

He leaned back in his chair, lifted his feet to rest them on the desk, picked up his cell and pushed speed dial.

"Stay away from her today," he ordered when a groggy Paco answered after four rings.

"Hey boss, I won’t lose her again. It won’t be like last night, man."

Cort’s feet slammed to the floor as he leaned over and spat into the phone, "Just do what I tell you, goddammit! I ain’t paying you to second guess me."

He snapped his phone closed and leaned back in his desk chair, swiveling to the window. There was only one way to figure her out. Folding his hands like the steeple of a church, he decided that Café Biscotti would be the perfect place for a leisurely lunch.

* * *

John smiled at the picture they made together...that huge guy Tua and his little Riley looked like Mutt and Jeff, God's sakes. Kinda reminded him of Tree back in the old days. A memory echoed, him looking up, waaay up at Tree, ..."Am I a big guy, Tree? No...you're the big guy...see?"

He was still smiling when the phone rang. Riley had given him a businesslike greeting to spout off every time he answered it, but all he ever said was, "Cafe Biscotti." He snagged an order pad, got ready to write.

It was a female voice, low and rasping, as if she had a cold. "Hello, John? Is this John Biebe?"

"Yeah, this is John. Can I help you?"

She laughed. "I sure hope so. I could use a little help. This is Blanche Donovan. I was in there yesterday, I don’t know if you remember...."

Was she nuts? Hell yeah, he remembered. John’s eyes went to Riley. As if she’d felt them, she turned to glance his way. He lifted his eyebrows, waggled them and tilted his head toward the phone.

"For me?" Riley mouthed.

"Uh, you wanna talk to Riley, Blanche?" John said into the receiver.

"No...actually, I want to talk to you. Ask you one question. May I?"

John shook his head at his wife... ‘It’s for me’ he mouthed, and aloud, "Yeah, sure. What do you need, Blanche?"

"Can you tell me Cort’s last name? Is it the same as yours? Biebe?"

Instantly furious, John replied with a question of his own: "Goddammit, is that son of a bitch bothering you?"

His voice carried farther than he meant it to. Across the room, Riley's eyes snapped up and caught his.

Silence on the other end until a stunned Blanche said crisply, "No, he isn’t. But I’m sorry I bothered you," and hung up the phone. She hadn’t realized there was bad blood between them, and now she cursed herself for calling. She’d always been too impatient. She should have waited, looked harder herself. It had just seemed so easy to just call and ask.

Frustrated, she turned back to her laptop. The Metro Police database had a listing for a Cortland Davis, but there was no mug shot, and the file was locked down with a password she couldn’t break. She Googled the name and was surprised to find a single Las Vegas Sun article written back in 2004. A quick read-through made her think Cortland Davis might be the man she'd met yesterday. There was a photograph taken with a long distance lens that was grainy and shadowed. The subject wore dark glasses and a low-crowned hat that hid his hair. She couldn’t see much but his nose and jawline. Wasn’t enough for a positive ID, but as Blanche cocked her head and peered closer, she thought it could be him. Cortland Davis. Originally from Texas, come to Nevada by way of Arizona, California, and Mexico.

Mexico… In her mind she heard his voice, felt his breath ruffle her hair as he whispered, "Mexico, darlin'. I know a sweet little someplace just outside of Rosarito."

Blanche bit her lip, thinking.

According to the article, Cortland Davis was a powerful man with rumored connections to the Vegas underworld. Not quite a criminal, but certainly not straight arrow. He owned points in a dozen Vegas hotels and casinos. Blanche knew what that meant…points in hotels and casinos were given as rewards for services rendered, or to even the score when favors were owed. The more points you were given, the more grateful the owners for your specialized service or valuable favor. Blanche had a few points herself. Cortland Davis had a lot more; he was a wealthy man.

She scrolled the screen back to the beginning of the article. Entitled Midnight Rider, the byline said Brad Melaney, Las Vegas Sun staff writer. She reached for a pad and a pencil and wrote the name down. Maybe Brad Melaney knew more than he’d reported here. Maybe it was worth a call to see if he would tell her the rest.

Idly, she tapped the pencil on the paper. Midnight Rider. Great title for the article, obviously borrowed from the old Allman Brothers song. She knew it well; it had been one of her father’s favorites. He’d said once...just before he died...that it had been written for him. With a chill, Blanche couldn’t help but think that the lyrics reminded her of Cort too...

Well I've got to run to keep from hiding
And I'm bound to keep on riding
I've got one more silver dollar
But I'm not gonna let 'em catch me, no
Not gonna let 'em catch the Midnight Rider

Bad boys...she’d never get over her taste for them. Her stomach twisted in a roiling mix of excitement, apprehension, and desire. She wanted to be the one to catch the Midnight Rider. She wanted to seduce him, break down that cocky charm and see him sweat. She wanted to taste that sweet mouth, see it grimace in need.

Blanche thought of his lean strong body, those deep set eyes, the sexy scruff of beard that edged his jaw. She traced the profile on the photo and whispered through a devilish grin, "I want to ride you."

* * *

At eleven o’clock she dialed her sister in Philadelphia. The phone rang ten times before a sleepy voice answered, "Hello? Blanche? Is that you?"

Blanche smiled, relieved to hear her voice. There was always that vague sense of worry when it came to Maureen, always the fear that something would happen to her sister and leave her completely alone in the world. But she forced a teasing note and said jauntily, "Of course it’s me. Who else calls you from Vegas?"

"Ah, Wayne Newton?"

Blanche cracked, "Isn’t he dead?" and grinned when her sister laughed. "So how’s it going, Mo? Things okay?"

Maureen Donovan replied patiently, "Yes, mother...everything is fine, like always. How about with you? Find a real job yet?"

Blanche lay back on her bed and grinned. "I haven’t been looking for a real job. The job I have suits me just fine for now."

"Sure, for now. But what about the future? Don’t you want a pension? A 401K plan?"

Blanche heard the tinkling sound of water on water. Her sister had obviously moved from the bed to the bathroom. Laughing, she said, "I’m counting on you for that, little sister. The deal is, I support you now, you support me later. Unless I marry rich."

Flush. A brrrr and a grunt as Mo got back in her bed. "Christ, it’s cold here in February! Nothing like Cali or Nevada," Mo complained. "Anyhow, let’s both marry rich. That’ll take care of all our problems."

"Yeah, or make us more." Blanche fell silent for a moment. "I met someone, Mo. Sort of."

Maureen yawned. "How do you ‘sort of’ meet someone?"

Blanche absently twirled a strand of hair around a finger. "Well, I bought him a drink. And then he had me followed. And then he followed me himself and scared me half to death. So I figure that counts as sort of meeting someone."

Her sister was aghast. "Jeez, B! He followed you?"

"Yeah."

Maureen said cautiously, "Isn’t that bad? I mean, you always say you know what you’re doing, but isn’t a man who would have a woman followed dangerous?"

Blanche thought of the article, the barely veiled innuendo about Cortland Davis’ business. She recalled the threatening promise in the heat of his eyes on hers, the relentlessness she understood and admired. She shrugged carelessly. "I guess so. But you know me, Mo. Stuff like that...well, it’s gasoline on a fire, honey."

"You’ve always been that way," Maureen scolded. "I’ve always been Little Goodie Two Shoes, and you’ve always been..."

"The Bad Girl." Blanche finished. "I take after Dad, I know."

"No. You’re not bad, B. Just....adventurous."

Blanche got up from her bed and stood in front of her dresser mirror, saw the wild, bed-tossed hair, the defiant eyes, the pouting lip. She saw a woman who was willing to cross the line when she had to, break the rules. Grinning at her reflection, she said into the phone, "I’m bad, Mo. Let’s be honest, here. I’m a bad girl, and I like the bad boys."

"Blanche," said Maureen, suddenly afraid. "Honey, you be careful, promise? You’re all I have left in this world, I couldn’t stand it if..."

"Shhhh..." Blanche soothed her sister, sorry she’d frightened her. "I’m not stupid, Mo. And I’m always careful." She laughed. "And really, I’m not that bad. So don’t worry, okay? Study hard, finish graduate school, and I’ll be out to see you at spring break. Or you can come here if you’d rather."

"I think I’d like that. March is not spring in Philadelphia. I want to be warm again."

"Then you’ll come here. Or we’ll both go somewhere...Mexico, maybe." Frowning because she knew where that idea had come from, Blanche looked at the bedside clock. Almost noon. She wanted to make the Café for lunch, and she still had to shower and dress. "Mo, I have to go."

"Got a date with the Bad Boy?"

"Not a date, but I’ll see him when I get where I’m going."

"Don’t let me stand in the way of love, then. I’ll call you on Wednesday, okay? Be careful."

"You bet, sweetie. Talk to you Wednesday."

* * *

He didn't rush, there were other things to take care of first. But as Cort dressed, he could feel the anxious pulse in his chest driving him to the little coffee shop.

What the hell was he going to do there? Confront Biebe? They had little in common and had piss marked their territories long ago. It wasn't dislike, at least not on Cort’s part. Wasn't quite distrust. It might have been something he often thought about...a wish buried inside that made them each wonder what it would be like to be the other guy. Biebe was as different from Cort as night from day. What would it be like to be a nice guy with a nice wife and a nice little business...and a law enforcement background to boot? Could he stand living that way, the saccharine sameness, the unending routine? And was Biebe wondering what life would be like if he was wild and free and all the fuck alone, like Cort? No ties, no permanence. Nobody to answer to. Pick up any woman you wanted, fuck her, and walk away.

‘Human nature,’ Cort thought as he rode down in the elevator. ‘People ain’t never happy with who they are or what they have.’

A confrontation with Biebe wasn't necessary, he could avoid it and it wasn't like John was really interfering with him. He was just being who he is. That’s what pissed Cort off...that Biebe was so damn sure he'd hurt Blanche someday. The fuckin’ John Biebes of the world thought it was their job to watch over everybody.

Well, old John better realize Cort didn't need to be told how to treat a woman, and Blanche Donovan didn't need protecting. She could take care of herself, that one.

He shot a quick glance into a plate glass window to check his appearance, then ran a hand through his hair before strolling into the cafe. His mind was so caught up, he forgot his standing sarsaparilla joke and asked for black coffee. He took his cup and sat at a table in the far corner with a clear view of the door. It was just past high noon and his gut told him Blanche was on her way.

* * *

Heels tapping a sharp staccato, she approached the Café Biscotti, her heart fluttering wildly. She’d never felt this excited to see a man in her entire life, not even Steve, but Cort affected her that way. ‘And,’ Blanche warned herself sternly, ‘that isn’t good.’

She’d dressed carefully for the meeting she knew would happen. Taupe linen suit, contemporary but classic. Her hair was swept up and secured with a tortoiseshell clip. Chunky wooden jewelry just for fun. And gorgeous shoes. They were Blanche’s passion, her weakness. Pretty shoes were good for a girl’s confidence, and God knew she needed a shot of it today. The time she spent with Cort was going to be a game of wits and skill. She expected more verbal sparring, but through that, they would lay down the ground rules, set the pace for what was to come. It wouldn’t last. Sooner or later one of them would break those rules, because that’s what they were, she and Cort. Renegades, rule-breakers, junkies who craved the rush they got from living on the edge.

She strolled in, her easy, relaxed posture a lie. Got her coffee and turned from the counter. Her eyes went directly to him, as if she’d known where he was. He looked tired, like he already knew she was going to wear him out.

But she'd make him feel good, too. So good...

Unsmiling, Blanche started toward the table, kept her eyes locked on his. He watched her come toward him, and every step she took spoke a challenge.

Cort smiled.

* * *

The moment he saw her, something resembling fire shot through Cort's brain, seared a path down his chest, thumped through his belly and landed in his crotch. Without pretending to hide it, he shot a glare at the counter to let Biebe know he'd won the round...again. But John and his wife were busy, neither bothered to look his way. Cort turned the full intensity of his gaze on Blanche, remained silent as she sat down, shifted to cross her legs and sip coffee.

He smothered a grin. ‘So this is how you think it’s gonna go, Blanche? Think again, darlin'.’

Cort lolled in his chair and looked directly into her eyes. "I'm walking out of here right now," he drawled low. "I want you alone...right now, this goddamn minute. Either follow me or don't. Your choice, Blanche."

He stood, watching her expression. He'd give her exactly one minute. Sixty seconds. Silently he counted, one...two...three...

* * *

and stared at him expressionless, her poker face firmly in place. This push-pull game they played was very like high stakes poker. Bluff, check, bet. Winner take all.

Blanche took one last sip of her coffee, set the cup in the saucer, and stood to face him. Had it been anyone else, she would have savaged him with sarcasm. She would have let him walk away and never looked back at what might have been. But this time things were different. Cort was different. Something inside told her to lead him softly, just this once, because whatever this was between them was meant to be.

At least for now....and now was all anybody could count on.

She said coolly, "I’m not the kind of woman who follows a man. And I don’t take orders from anyone." She saw his jaw tighten, his eyes darken in disappointment, and leaned close to rest her hand on his forearm. "But I’d walk out of here beside you," Blanche said, her breath warm and moist on his ear. She kissed his cheek, a mere brush of her lips above his beard, just before she whispered, "That’s my choice, Cort...I'll go beside you, or not at all."

* * *

His lips pulled with the whisper of a grin and his eyes sparked. His hand snaked around her waist again, settling gently on the curve of her hip. He squeezed slightly and nodded toward the door.

"I'll walk beside you Blanche," he muttered, then slowly lowered his mouth to brush her full lips. "I'll be proud to walk beside you." He tightened her against him and led her from the cafe. He had no intention of wining, dining or wooing her. She wasn't one to be forced, but he'd see how long she could hold that poker face once he had her upstairs between his sheets, and under his shower. Under him, by Christ. Maybe by dinnertime, he'd start to think about what to do with her tomorrow... and the day after that. For this afternoon, she was his. All bets were off the moment she walked into Cafe Biscotti and right up to him.

He grinned to himself. All in all, a success. Blanche Donovan...in his arms in less than sixty seconds.

* * *

Blanche hid her smile of triumph. Cortland Davis, hers in less than a minute. They walked out into the casino lobby and his big hand rode low on her waist, heating the flesh under it. His fingers kneaded, and she’d swear it was unconscious on his part. One more indication of his simmering sensuality...it was as if he couldn’t help but caress her. With gentle pressure, he guided her toward a bank of elevators and pressed the call button. Neither one of them had spoken a word since they left the Café Biscotti. Blanche decided she wouldn’t be the first to break the silence.

The doors slid silently open, and she and Cort waited until everyone else left the elevator. Mirror lined, it reflected ten Corts and Blanches walking into the car. Another couple approached to join them, but Cort gave them a cold stare and they backed off. He reached inside his pocket, withdrew a keycard, and slid it into a slot above the rest of the buttons.

The penthouse.

This wasn’t going to be a short ride. Blanche leaned against the rear wall, watched him as he tucked the card back into his pocket and turned. He leaned over her, one hand braced on the wall above her head.

His voice came low, whiskey rough, as sensual as he was.

"Angel..."

His breath on her face was tinged with the scent of tobacco and mint. There was nothing to say but ‘yes.’ Instead of forming the word, Blanche raised her eyes and let them do her talking.

His hand slid around her neck...gently, but the hint of strength, tempered with desperation, was there. She felt it when he tipped her chin to guide her mouth to his. And when he muttered, "Kiss me, damn you," Blanche knew there was no going back. She parted her lips, let him in to plunder her mouth. She didn’t realize the elevator had stopped until the mirrored panels whispered open and a discreet tone chimed.

He lifted his head and stared at her, breathing hard. With a hand on her waist, he guided her to his door just as he had guided her out of the Café. Again he used the card, leaning around her to push the door open, allowing her to walk in ahead of him.

The few women he’d brought home before were impressed by the place, but the first thing Blanche did was go to the windows and look out, as if she wanted to escape. She didn’t look around or compliment the sleek furnishings, the impressive size of the room. For a moment her silence, the sudden change in her attitude, threw him. It was like she’d gone shy the minute she stepped over the threshold. His lips flattened into an impatient grimace. Whatever she thought he’d brought her up here for, it wasn’t to check out the view. Goddammit, she was no innocent. She knew what he wanted.

Cort crossed an expanse of gleaming hardwood to stand behind her, and even though his hands itched to touch her, he kept them jammed in his pockets so he wouldn’t. The kiss in the elevator...Jesus, she wanted it. He could tell when a woman wanted his kisses.

"What are you looking for out there, Angel?" he said quietly. "I thought what you want is in here."

She turned from the wide expanse of glass, the afternoon sun golden on her skin. "It is," she said. "It’s right here." She stepped close enough that he could feel her body heat, but she didn’t touch him.

He cocked his head, gazed into her eyes. Blue didn’t seem like enough to describe Blanche Donovan’s eyes, but that’s what they were. Changeable blue...sometimes dark, like the color of Texas wildflowers. And sometimes they were light and sparkling, reminding him of sunlight dancing on the sea down in Rosarita.

Like now.

His hand came up and touched the clip that held her hair. He released it, watched the heavy blonde mass spill loose and tumble down like a waterfall. Cort pushed his hands into it, used it to guide her face to his. His face hovered over hers and he hissed when her tongue flickered out and licked his bottom lip, just before he covered her mouth with his. His eyes drifted closed, and even though it was broad daylight, Cort saw stars.