2

      Rule 2: A lady will always strive to maintain a hint of mystery.

      COOP SLID A pilsner glass over the scrub brush inside the metal tub of hot soapy water. He concentrated on twisting the glass over the scrub instead of allowing his gaze to drift back to the platinum bride with the chickie-boom curves and eyes the color of the Mediterranean Sea at sunset.

      She was trouble. The kind of trouble a guy like him enjoyed and could easily be attracted to if he’d let himself get involved.

      He couldn’t afford to get involved, not when he had a business to salvage.

      He swished the glass a few more times over the scrub before dipping it into the tub of clear hot water, then added it to the rack to dry. The Stones CD on the jukebox faded into Carlos Santana’s sultry ode to a black magic woman, the momentary silence between CDs interrupted by hushed conversation and a sudden wail from the south end of the bar.

      Cooper let out a sigh and shook his head, fighting the urge to stop what he was doing and head back down the bar toward the lush little number in white. That plaintive wail of hers was easily a barometer to her sorry emotional state, which no doubt included equal doses of regret and guilt now that a couple of stiff drinks had dulled the shock of her act of desperation.

      Benny looked helplessly at his buddy Joe. “Don’t cry, Carly. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

      Carly muttered something Coop couldn’t quite make out, then she looked up at Benny. After a rather noisy sniffle, she dropped her forehead against the bar and sobbed louder.

      Coop hid the wry grin on his lips when Benny’s jaw fell slack. “It’ll be okay,” Benny said, thumping the crying woman on the back in a rough attempt at sympathy.

      “You gonna do something ’bout that, Coop?” Marty hitched his thumb in the blubbering bride’s direction. “She’s gonna chase off the customers, son, and you can’t afford that. If we wanted to hear a woman whine, we’d stay home.”

      Considering his blue-collar clientele, Marty definitely had a point, Cooper thought. Fred and Lou were already loading their custom pool cues into their cases and preparing to leave.

      “Why me?” Cooper muttered. He slapped a dry towel over his shoulder. “Of all the bars in Chicago, why this one?”

      Marty chuckled. “Face it, Coop. When it comes to luck, if it wasn’t for bad, you wouldn’t have any.”

      He very nearly agreed, except the pitiful state of The Wilde Side wasn’t of his making. No, that had been Hayden’s doing, or undoing, he thought grumpily. He’d known exactly what he was getting into when he’d promised his uncle he’d take care of the place—a lost cause. The neighborhood tavern had been around since the late fifties, and a few of the regulars never failed to remind him that the bar was as much a part of Chicago history as old Mrs. Leary’s cow. He could probably teach the teary bride a few things about guilt, he thought, because every time he considered closing down the bar, that’s exactly what he felt—a hefty dose of guilt about going back on a promise to his uncle.

      Luck had nothing to do with the obstacles Coop faced. Poor planning and allowing a woman to cloud his uncle’s judgment did, however, and Coop had nothing to blame but his loyalty to Hayden for his current problems and the sorry state of his own finances. He couldn’t afford to dump another dime into the bar, but if things didn’t turn around soon, he’d have no choice but to close the doors for good. And a blubbering bride chasing off what customers he had left wasn’t helping matters.

      He headed down the bar toward the odd threesome, stopping long enough to lower the volume on the jukebox. Benny and Joe were good guys, rough on the outside and always anxious for a little action, legal or otherwise. But anyone who took the time to get to know Benny West or Joe Lanford knew they were a couple of pussycats underneath the scruffy denim and chrome chains. What did surprise Cooper, though, was their matching soft spots for the curvy little damsel in distress. They made a habit of steering clear of the sweet and pure types, not that any frequented the bar, but one look at the teary bride and Cooper knew she’d easily reside at the top of the good-girl list.

      Oh well, he thought, snagging a box of tissues from behind the bar. At least with Benny and Joe playing bodyguard, not many would be anxious to hassle the bride.

      He slapped the box of tissues down in front of her. “Turn off the waterworks, Princess. You’re spooking my customers.”

      She sniffed and lifted her short cap of platinum curls, casting those intriguing eyes filled with moisture his way. Something twisted behind his ribs at the despondency cloaked in her gaze. Certainly not his heart. He didn’t need this. Not now when he was a bank statement away from financial ruin. Hadn’t he learned anything from the mistakes of his uncle and his mother?

      Obviously not, considering the way the buxom bride was making his heart slam into his ribs every time she shifted her turquoise eyes in his direction.

      “I’m sor…sorry,” she said, a huge tear spilling from her spiked lashes. “I’m not supposed to cry in public.”

      “Who said you can’t cry in public?” Joe asked, his gravelly voice filled with genuine sympathy as he gently patted her shoulder.

      Another sniff followed a tug on a tissue from the box. She looked at Joe. “It’s a rule.”

      “Who made up a dumb rule like that?” Benny asked, his puffy face filled with curiosity.

      Carly