beveled glass door was heavy. She tugged it open and stepped out of the chill into the warmth, sounds and scents of an established neighborhood bar. It wasn’t the dive she’d been expecting, but a wide wood-paneled room with a glossy mahogany bar trimmed in brass. The stools were burgundy leather, and every one was occupied. Neat tables were set around the room to accommodate more customers. There were the scents of whiskey and beer, cigarette smoke and grilled onions. A jukebox played the blues over the hum of conversation.
She spotted two waitresses winding their way through the patrons. No fishnet stockings and cleavage, Rachel mused. Both women were dressed in white slacks with modified sailor tops. There was a great deal of laughter, and she caught snatches of an argument as to whether the Mets still had a chance to make the play-offs.
Zack was in the center of the circular bar, drawing a beer for a customer. He’d exchanged his sweatshirt for a cable-knit turtleneck in navy blue. Oh, yes, she could see him on the deck of a ship, Rachel realized. Braced against the rolling, face to the wind. The bar’s nautical theme, with its ship’s bells and anchors, suited him.
She conjured up an image of him in uniform, found it entirely too attractive, and blinked it away.
She wasn’t the fanciful type, she reminded herself. She was certainly no romantic. Above all, she was not the kind of woman who walked into a bar and found herself attracted to some land-locked sailor with shaggy hair, big shoulders and rough hands.
The only reason she was here was to uphold the court’s ruling. However distasteful it might be to be hooked up with Zackary Muldoon for two months, she would do her duty.
But where was Nick?
“Would you like a table, miss?”
Rachel glanced around at a diminutive blonde hefting a large tray laden with sandwiches and beer. “No, thanks. I’ll just go up to the bar. Is this place always crowded?”
The waitress’s gray eyes brightened as she looked around the room. “Is it crowded? I didn’t notice.” With a laugh, she moved off while Rachel walked to the bar. She eased her way between two occupied stools, rested a foot on the brass rail and waited to catch Zack’s eye.
“Well, darling…” The man on her left had a plump, pleasant face. He shifted on his stool to get a better look. “Don’t think I’ve seen you in here before.”
“No.” Since he looked old enough to be her father, Rachel granted him a small smile. “You haven’t.”
“Pretty young girl like you shouldn’t be here all alone.” He leaned back—his stool creaking dangerously—and slapped the man on her other side on the shoulder. “Hey, Harry, we ought to buy this lady a drink.”
Harry, who continued to sip his beer and work a crossword puzzle in the dim light, merely nodded. “Sure thing, Pete. Set it up. I need a five-letter word for the possibility of danger or pain.”
Rachel glanced up. Zack was watching her, his blue eyes dark and steady, his bony face set and unsmiling. She felt something hot streak up her spine. “Peril,” she murmured, and fought off a shudder.
“Yeah! Hey, thanks!” Pleased, Harry pushed up his reading glasses and smiled at her. “First drink’s on me. What’ll you have, honey?”
“Pouilly-Fumé.” Zack set a glass of pale gold wine in front of her. “And the first one’s on the house.” He lifted a brow. “That suit you, Counselor?”
“Yes.” She let out the breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. “Thank you.”
“Zack always gets the prettiest ones,” Pete said with a sigh. “Tip me another, kid. Least you can do, since you stole my girl.” He shot Rachel a wink that had her relaxing with a smile again.
“And how often does he steal your girls, Pete?”
“Once, twice a week. It’s humiliating.” He grinned at Zack over a fresh beer. “Old Zack did date one of my girls once. Remember that time you were home on leave, Zack, you took my Rosemary to the movies, out to Coney Island? She’s married and working on her second kid now.”
Zack mopped up the bar with a cloth. “She broke my heart.”
“There isn’t a female alive who’s scratched your heart, much less broken it.” This from the blond waitress, who slapped an empty tray on the bar. “Two house wines, white. A Scotch, water back, and a draft. Harry, you ought to buy yourself one of those little clip-on lights before you ruin what’s left of your eyes.”
“You broke my heart, Lola.” Zack put some glasses on the tray. “Why do you think I ran off and joined the navy?”
“Because you knew how good you’d look in dress whites.” She laughed, hefted the tray, then glanced at Rachel. “You watch out for that one, sweetie. He’s dangerous.”
Rachel sipped at her wine and tried to pretend the scents slipping out from the kitchen weren’t making her stomach rumble. “Have you got a minute?” she asked Zack. “I need to see where you’re living.”
Pete let out a hoot and rolled his eyes. “What’s the guy got?” he wanted to know.
“More than you’ll ever have.” Zack grinned at him and signaled to another bartender to cover for him. “I just seem to attract aggressive women. Can’t keep their hands off me.”
Rachel finished off her wine before sliding from the stool. “I can restrain myself if I put my mind to it. Though it pains me to mar his reputation,” she said to Pete, “I’m his brother’s lawyer.”
“No fooling?” Impressed, Pete took a closer look. “You the one who got the kid out of jail?”
“For the time being. Muldoon?”
“Right this way for the tour.” He flipped up a section of the bar and stepped through. Again he took her arm. “Try to keep up.”
“You know, I don’t need you to hold on to me. I’ve been walking on my own for some time.”
He pushed open a heavy swinging door that led to the kitchen. “I like holding on to you.”
Rachel got the impression of gleaming stainless steel and white porcelain, the heavy scent of frying potatoes and grilling meat, before her attention was absorbed by an enormous man. He was dressed all in white, and his full apron was splattered and stained. Because he towered over Zack, Rachel estimated him at halfway to seven feet and a good three-fifty. If he’d played football, he would have been the entire defensive line.
His face was shiny from the kitchen heat, and the color of india ink. There was a scar running from one coal-black eye down to his massive chin. His hamlike hands were delicately building a club sandwich.
“Rio, this is Rachel Stanislaski, Nick’s lawyer.”
“How-de-do.” She caught the musical cadence of the West Indies in his voice. “Got that boy washing dishes like a champ. Only broke him five or six all night.”
Standing at a huge double sink, up to the elbows in soapy water, Nick turned his head and scowled. “If you call cleaning up someone else’s slop a job, you can just—”
“Now
