and Mitch stepped inside. His gaze swung from the pepper spray in Claire’s hand to the man standing in front of her. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
Claire shook her head. “He was just leaving.”
“I’m not going anywhere without you,” the cabbie announced.
“Think again.” Mitch folded his arms across his broad chest. “I want you out of here. Now.”
The cabbie stuck out his jaw. “And if I don’t feel like leaving?”
Mitch’s blue eyes narrowed. “Then you’re going to feel my fist shoved down your throat.”
Claire stepped between them, feeling somewhat responsible. After all, this entire situation was because of the skirt. “I don’t want to cause any trouble.”
“Too late,” Mitch muttered, then took a menacing step toward the cabdriver.
“All right,” the cabbie said, backing up. “I’m leaving.” Then he turned to Claire. “But I’ll be parked right outside waiting for you, babe.”
“Thanks for the warning,” Claire called after him. Then she looked at Mitch, who was scowling at her. “What?”
“Next time, leave your boyfriend problems at the door.”
Her eyes widened at his curt tone. Had the skirt lost its effect already? “Boyfriend problems? That creep isn’t my boyfriend. He was my cabdriver.”
“Did you forget to pay the fare?”
“He refused to let me pay him anything. He almost refused to let me out of his cab.” She moved around him toward the door. “Now if you’ll excuse me….”
But Mitch stepped in front of her, blocking the path. He was so close she could see a small scar just below his chin and smell the hint of aftershave he wore. His formidable size should have intimidated her. But she knew instinctively he wouldn’t hurt her. In fact, for one fleeting second, she thought he might move even closer. Her skin prickled at the thought and the skirt seemed almost hot against her skin.
She craned her neck to look up at him. He just stared at her for a long moment before finally stepping out of her way. “Enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you.” She walked out of the ladies’ room and took a deep breath. Funny how she found it hard to breathe all of a sudden. Maybe it was the scented air freshener in the ladies’ room. Or the glint of desire in Mitch’s blue eyes. The next moment, he stood right behind her, his heat caressing her neck.
“When you’re ready to leave,” he growled in her ear, “just let me know. I’ll help you get another cab.”
She turned to face him. “That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist.” Then he turned and walked away.
Claire stared after him, realizing she’d never had that kind of effect on a man before. It was intoxicating. Especially after the way he’d dismissed her in the alley behind The Jungle two weeks ago.
But she wasn’t here to impress Mitch Malone. It was time to line up volunteers for her research project. Several men were seated at stools by the bar, where a man with too much gray hair peeking through his muscle shirt stood behind the counter barking orders at a harried bartender.
Where to begin? Claire had read her father’s study numerous times, as well as his copious notes. Marcus Dellafield had introduced himself to several patrons before carefully selecting ten of them to be the main focus of his research. All the test subjects had been women. Claire planned to reverse the study and focus on men this time.
She slid onto the last empty bar stool, setting her purse in her lap. Several stools squeaked as men turned to look at her.
“Ask the lady what she wants to drink,” the man with the thick, gray chest hair growled behind the bar.
A harried young bartender hurried over to her. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll have a glass of wine,” she said, deciding to keep it simple for him. “Merlot, if you have it.”
The bartender looked at the older man. “Do we have it?”
“Hell, yes.” He pointed to one of the lower shelves. “Second bottle from the right.”
The bartender set a bottle on top of the counter.
“That’s pinot grigio, not merlot, you idiot!”
“I love pinot grigio!” Claire exclaimed, then smiled at the red-faced bartender. “You must have read my mind.”
“Get the lady a glass,” the older man ordered gruffly, then he turned to Claire. “You must be new in town.”
“How can you tell?”
“You’re too nice. Besides, I’ve been running this place for the last thirty years. I can spot a tourist a mile away.”
“Thirty years?” Claire echoed. “Then maybe you remember my father, Marcus Dellafield. He conducted a research study here called Strangers in the Night about twenty-five years ago. I’m his daughter, Claire.”
The bartender’s scowl faded into something that could almost be called a smile. “Well, hell. Of course, I remember Marc. I’m Dick Vandalay, owner of The Jungle.”
Marc? She’d never heard anyone call her father that before. Somehow it didn’t seem to fit with his dignified image. But her father had been a relatively young man back then. Handsome, too, from the photographs she’d seen. Her throat tightened and she had to swallow hard to keep from choking on a sob. She reached for her glass of wine and took a long sip.
“I haven’t heard from Marc for a while.” He looked around the bar. “Did he come with you?”
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