Falling For Rachel: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down. Нора Робертс
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a Cobra.”
“He had the jacket,” Alex agreed. “And the attitude.”
“He’s a scared kid.”
With a sound of disgust, Alex chucked the empty cup into a wastebasket. “He’s no kid, Rach.”
“I don’t care how old he is, Alex. Right now he’s a scared kid sitting in a cell and trying to pretend he’s tough. It could have been you, or Mikhail—even Tash or me—if it hadn’t been for Mama and Papa.”
“Hell, Rachel.”
“It could have been,” she insisted. “Without the family, without all the hard work and sacrifices, any one of us could have gotten sucked into the streets. You know it.”
He did. Why did she think he’d become a cop? “The point is, we didn’t. It’s a basic matter of what’s right and what’s wrong.”
“Sometimes people make bad choices because there’s no one around to help them make good ones.”
They could have spent hours debating the many shades of justice, but he had to get to work. “You’re too softhearted, Rachel. Just make sure it doesn’t lead to being softheaded. The Cobras are one of the roughest gangs going. Don’t start thinking your client’s a candidate for Boys’ Town.”
Rachel straightened, pleased that her brother remained slouched against the desk. It meant they were eye to eye. “Was he carrying a weapon?”
Alex sighed. “No.”
“Did he resist arrest?”
“No. But that doesn’t change what he was doing, or what he is.”
“It might not change what he was doing—allegedly—but it might very well say something about what he is. Preliminary hearing’s at two.”
“I know.”
She smiled again and kissed him. “See you there.”
“Hey, Rachel.” She turned at the doorway and looked back. “Want to catch a movie tonight?”
“Sure.” She’d made it to the outside in two steps when her name was called again, more formally this time.
“Ms. Stanislaski!”
She paused, flipping her hair back with one hand as she looked over her shoulder. It was the tired-eyed, stubble-faced man she’d noticed before. Hard to miss, she reflected as he hurried toward her. He was over six feet by an inch or so, and his baggy sweatshirt was held up by a pair of broad shoulders. Faded jeans, frayed at the cuffs, white at the stress points, fit well over long legs and narrow hips.
It would have been hard not to miss the anger, too. It radiated from him, and it was reflected in steel-blue eyes set deep in a rough, hollow-cheeked face.
“Rachel Stanislaski?”
“Yes.”
He caught her hand and, in the process of shaking it, dragged her down a couple of steps. He might look lean and mean, Rachel thought, but he had the grip of a bear trap.
“I’m Zackary Muldoon,” he said, as if that explained everything.
Rachel only lifted a brow. He certainly looked fit to spit nails, and after that brief taste of his strength she wouldn’t have put the feat past him. But she wasn’t easily intimidated, particularly when she was standing in an area swarming with cops.
“Can I help you, Mr. Muldoon?”
“I’m counting on it.” He dragged a big hand through a tousled mop of hair as dark as her own. He swore and took her elbow to pull her down the rest of the steps. “What’s it going to take to get him out? And why the hell did he call you and not me? And why in God’s name did you let him sit in a cell all night? What kind of lawyer are you?”
Rachel shook her arm free—no easy task—and prepared to use her briefcase as a weapon if it became necessary. She’d heard about the black Irish and their tempers. But Ukrainians were no slouches, either.
“Mr. Muldoon, I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about. And I happen to be very busy.” She’d managed two steps when he whirled her around. Rachel’s tawny eyes narrowed dangerously. “Look, Buster—”
“I don’t care how busy you are, I want some answers. If you don’t have time to help Nick, then we’ll get another lawyer. God knows why he chose some fancy broad in a designer suit in the first place.” His blue eyes shot fire, the Irish poet’s mouth hardening into a sneer.
She sputtered, angry color flagging both cheeks. She jabbed one stiffened, clear-tipped finger in his chest. “Broad? You just watch who you call broad, pal, or—”
“Or you’ll get your boyfriend to lock me in a cell?” Zack suggested. Yeah, that was definitely a fancy face, he thought in disgust. Butter-soft skin in pale gold, and eyes like good Irish whiskey. What he needed was a street fighter, and he’d gotten society. “I don’t know what kind of defense Nick expects from some woman who spends her time kissing cops and making dates when she’s supposed to be working.”
“It’s none of your business what I—” She took a deep breath. Nick. “Are you talking about Nicholas LeBeck?”
“Of course I’m talking about Nicholas LeBeck. Who the hell do you think I’m talking about?” His black brows drew together over his furious eyes. “And you’d better come up with some answers, lady, or you’re going to be off his case and out on your pretty butt.”
“Hey, Rachel!” An undercover cop dressed like a wino sidled up behind her. He eyed Zack. “Any problem here?”
“No.” Though her eyes were blazing, she offered him a half smile. “No, I’m fine, Matt. Thanks.” She edged over to one side and lowered her voice. “I don’t owe you any answers, Muldoon. And insulting me is a poor way to gain my cooperation.”
“You’re paid to cooperate,” he told her. “Just how much are you hosing the boy for?”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s your fee, sugar?”
Her teeth set. The way she saw it, sugar was only a marginal step up from broad. “I’m a public defender, Muldoon, assigned to LeBeck’s case. That means he doesn’t owe me a damn thing. Just like I don’t owe you.”
“A PD?” He all but backed her off the sidewalk and into the building. “What the devil does Nick need a PD for?”
“Because he’s broke and unemployed. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She set a hand on his chest and shoved. She’d have been better off trying to shove away the brick building at her back.
“He lost his job? But…” The words trailed off. This time Rachel read something other than anger in his eyes. Weariness, she thought. A trace of despair. Resignation. “He could have come to me.”
“And who the hell are you?”
Zack rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m his brother.”
Rachel pursed her lips, lifted a brow. She knew how the gangs worked, and though Zack looked rough-and-ready enough to fit in with the Cobras, he also looked too old to be a card-carrying member.
“Don’t the Cobras have an age limit?”
“What?” He let his hand drop and focused on her again with a fresh oath. “Do I look like I belong to a street gang?”
With her head tilted, Rachel ran her gaze from his battered high-tops to his shaggy dark head. He had the look of a street tough, certainly of a man who could bulldoze his way down alleys, pounding rivals with those big-fisted hands. The hard, hollowed face and hot eyes made her think he’d enjoy cracking skulls, particularly hers. “Actually, you could pass. And your manners certainly reflect the code. Rude, abrasive, and rough.”