Myra.
Myra turned and headed back down the bar. The bartender gave her a stern look as she retrieved her
drink tray. "It don't concern you," he told her, reaching into his shirt pocket and taking out something.
She frowned as he moved his hand over Nolan's glass. Her gaze followed the descent of a small white
tablet through the Canadian Club and Seven-Up.
"Stay out of it." A silent warning flashed in the bartender's dark eyes.
"Ain't nothin' to me." Myra picked up the tray of drinks and turned.
Trip tapped Nolan on the arm. "How was your day, homeboy?" He had an eager look in his eye.
"Productive, I hope?"
Nolan held the man's gaze for a moment. While Rhianna and Joe Cortesio were talking across the
table, Nolan hooked a hand inside his denim jacket. Withdrawing a small white plastic packet, he laid it
on the table and covered it with his fingers. Trip bent forward, coming between Rhianna and the Italian,
forcing them to lean backward to finish their**conversation. Nolan slid the packet across to Triplett.
Dave Donne clenched his teeth and looked the other way as the transaction took place. It never failed
to amaze him how bold Conor Nolan could be or how stupid Trip had become, but he figured cocaine
did that to a man.
Triplett's tongue flicked out and he licked dry, chapped lips as he pocketed the packet. His glance
shifted past Nolan, swiveled about the table - avoiding Dave Donne's tight face - then jerked back to
Nolan. He nodded his thanks then leaned back in the booth with a long, relieved sigh.
Nolan put his face close to Rhianna's ear. "Wanna dance, pretty lady?" he asked just as Myra brought
their drinks.
"Sure," she answered, then looked up at the waitress.
"Which of you bozos is gonna pay for it this time?" Myra challenged, her disdainful gaze sweeping the
four men.
"I will," Nolan said. He shot out one long leg, dug his hand into his jeans and drew out a roll of money.
Peeling off a five, he pitched it on the table. "Keep the change, sweetheart." The Irishman took a long
swallow of his drink, then held out his hand to Rhianna as she slid toward him.
"Jeez, now I can have that heart transplant," Myra scoffed. Her eyes slid hungrily over Conor Nolan as
he stood up.
"How 'bout another round, darling?" Triplett asked the waitress. "On me."
Dave Donne turned to watch Trip scoot out of the booth and head for the men's room as soon as
Nolan and Marek were on the dance floor. He let out a disgusted snort then lifted his beer and drained it
before pushing the stein toward Myra. "Make it a boilermaker this time, darling, so long as the asshole's
payin' for it."
"Did you get me an address on that broad from last week?" Cortesio demanded, drawing Dave's
attention.
Donne hitched one thin shoulder upward. "Do I look like the City Directory to you, Cortesio?"
"Piss off, then," the Italian grunted. He turned to watch the dancers and chuckled when his gaze fell on
Nolan and Marek. "That fucking Mick can move*,* can't he?"
Myra glanced at Nolan as she wove her way around the periphery of the dance floor. _God, yes, the
man can dance_. Her gaze fastened on his ass in the tight confines of faded blue jeans and she stopped,
fascinated by the shifting of his body, the grace with which he moved. No matter where he danced, his
undulating, mesmerizing body attracted attention, his lean physique attracting every female gaze in the
place.
Nolan was thirty-seven or eight; Myra wasn't exactly sure. His hair was a lustrous deep dark brown
that shone beneath the revolving over head lights. His eyes were amber-brown and he had a way of
looking at her that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world. Lean in the hip, flat in a belly
that rippled like a washboard, broad in the shoulder, and well enough endowed to satisfy any woman's
prurient interests, Conor Nolan was a sexy man.
"She's watching you, again," Rhianna said as Nolan brought her close to him, her mouth at his ear.
"Who?" Conor's hands slid down to her rump and molded her to him, encouraging her to feel the
music as he did.
"Your little friend, the barmaid."
"Let her," was his negligent reply. He pushed her away from him and spun her beneath the arc of his
arm, then snapped her forward into him, enclosing her. He ground against her, dipping his knees and
sliding his body along hers like a cat against a scratching post.
"You're shameless." Rhianna laughed. She liked dancing with him. The man moved like a jungle cat,
but sometimes his lack of inhibitions embarrassed her. Glancing around, she saw other women staring at
Conor and knew she was the envy of every female in the room. When he rubbed against her again, she
pushed at his shoulder. "Cut it out!" she told him. "You wanna get us thrown outta here?"
"I'm horny."
"I can tell." She eased out of his embrace. "Behave yourself, Nolan."
As badly as she felt he wanted her, and as badly as she wanted him, neither had made an effort to
consummate the relationship, but she knew it was only a matter of time. She knew that when it happened,
the sparks of their joining would set fire to a passion that would never diminish as long as they lived. And
she feared it.
He slid his body down hers once more and she laughed as she shoved him away. "You are an animal!"
The Irishman shrugged. "You wouldn't like me tame, Marek. I'd be boring as hell."
The music ended and the gyrations stopped. Nolan threaded his fingers through Rhianna's and led her
to the table as the next jarring, discordant blast of what was supposed to be music rocketed through the
roadhouse.
Myra was dispersing the second round of drinks when they returned. The waitress watched Nolan
down his drink in three long gulps. "Go easy on that, stud. It ain't soda pop," she reminded him in a hard
voice.
Surprised, Conor Nolan jerked his head around and looked into the woman's scowling face. A slow,
insulting smile stretched his lips. "Don't tell me what to do, Myra," he replied, his smile widening as she
stiffened. "I'll take another C.C. and 7."
"Why don't you let that one settle?"
Nolan tightened his jaw. "Why don't you mind you own business?"
"You drink too much," Myra said between clenched teeth.
"And you whore around too much," he shot back. "Do I tell you not to do it?" He stared at her until
she spun on her heel and stormed off.
"Asshole!" they heard her say. "Just forget it!"
Triplett chortled, spewing his gin and tonic from twitching lips. He cast Nolan an admiring look. "That's
no way to treat an old girlfriend, Nolan."
"There you go again spoiling it for the rest of us, you snotty Mick," complained Cortesio.
"Thanks a lot, Nolan!" snapped Donne. "I can kiss that piece of ass goodbye tonight."
Nolan's teeth sparkled in the faint candlelight. He shrugged. "She ain't that good, Donne."
"You should know," said Cortesio. "You Micks will fuck anything that stands still."
"And some that don't!" Donne guffawed and chomped down on a chunk of ice. He grinned nastily at
the Italian cop. "Least we don't do it with sheep!"
"Baaaaaaaa!"
Triplett laughed as Myra brought Nolan his second drink.
"I hope you choke on it," the waitress fumed, slamming the glass down. "Two fifty."
Nolan didn't even look at her. "Take it outta the tip I gave you."
Myra didn't miss a beat. She leaned over, across Nolan, and locked her angry gaze on Rhianna. "I
hope he's better in the sack with you than he was with me."
Rhianna just smiled, refusing to accept the challenge. It was none of Myra's business whether or not
she'd slept with Conor. It was no one's business, though most everyone they worked with thought she
and Conor were lovers.
"He show you that trick he learned in Mexico?" Myra pressed, trying to get a rise out of the
policewoman.
"I don't discuss my private life, Myra," replied Rhianna.
"I wouldn't either if the bastard I was humping couldn't…"
"Get outta her face and leave her the fuck alone," Nolan said softly, menace in his deep voice. "I mean
it, Myra."
Myra jerked her glower to the Irishman and when their gazes met, she saw a budding anger in his dark
stare that made her straighten up and step back. Without another word, she wheeled, shouting for one of
the other waitresses to take the table.
"Ah, shit." Trip groaned. "Now you've gone and done it, Nolan. We're gonna get Wanda!"
With a disgusted grunt, Joe Cortesio turned his attention to the dancers and nodded in rhythm.
"Wanda ain't half bad if you get her drunk," he mused.
"Let's dance, Irish," Rhianna said, feeling the tension beginning to build in him.
"I'm gonna call it a night," the Irishman said. Cortesio turned to stare at Conor.
"Already?" asked Rhianna. "After one dance?" She knew how much Conor loved to take his
frustrations out on the dance floor.
Nolan looked around, shrugged, then said. "It's been a long day, pretty lady, and I've got a bitch of a
headache."
"That means I gotta go, too," Cortesio complained with a long, put-upon sigh. "I'm riding with him."
"I'll take you home," Trip said.
Donne and Cortesio exchanged a look. The Italian shook his head. "Thanks anyway, man. I want to
get home alive."
"I'm going his way," said Donne. "I'll take him home, Irish."
"You're a prince of a fella, Davey!" said Cortesio.
Nolan knocked back the last of his drink, reached out to squeeze Rhianna's hand, then looked directly
at Dave Donne. "You taking Rhianna home, too?"
"If you trust me not to molest her." Dave chuckled.
"You know what'll happen if you do," said the Irishman. He cocked his head toward Trip. "Take him,
too."
"Ah, hell, Irish," Trip complained. "I can drive myself."
"Ah, hell, Trip, no you can't." Nolan held out his hand. "Give me your keys." He waited until Triplett
dug into his jacket.
"I ain't that wasted," Trip murmured as he handed them into Nolan's keeping.
Rhianna glanced at her partner and wondered if he was using. She frowned. "Damn it, Triplett," she
growled. "Are you high?"
"Don't sweat it," Nolan told her as she turned her eyes to him. "He's cool." Bending over, he nuzzled
her neck, moved back from her playful slap and got up. Turning from the booth, he collided with a female
and had to struggle to keep from falling.
"I'm sorry!" The Irishman reached out a steadying hand to the woman he'd bumped. "Did I hurt you?"
He strained to see the woman's face through the mist of smoke, but her head was down and all he could
make out was a golden sheen of long, wavy hair.
"Of course not." The voice was as intoxicating as the perfume she wore. The hand, pressing against his
chest came away with a deliberate slide over his jacket. "I'm fine, thank you."
"I'm not usually so clumsy," he said, wishing she'd look up at him. Then she did.
A pale oval face, perfectly formed with a slight point to the delicate chin, took his breath away. Green
eyes gazed back at him from a smudge of spiky lashes beneath thick, soaring and precisely arched
brows. Full lips, the bottom fuller and more luscious than the upper, were stained a bright scarlet and
glistened in the reflected glow of the table's candlelight. She ran a delicate pink tongue along their
expanse. Her cheekbones were high, chiseled, and her nose was slightly tilted at the end with wide,
flaring nostrils. The lobe of one shell-shaped ear, adorned with a swinging hoop of intricately-fashioned
gold wire, peeked out from a heavy sweep of tawny hair. Unable to keep his eyes from moving down, he
found high, rounded breasts barely contained within the bodice of her dress. Her shapely body had a
tiny, pinched hourglass waist, pale slender arms and long, tapered legs, one of which could be seen
through a slit in the silk dress that hugged her like a second skin. The overall effect was stunning and
Nolan found himself tightening in the constriction of his faded jeans.
"Are
you
hurt?" she asked with a throaty laugh.
He had to mentally shake himself to understand her question. His gaze had returned to her beautiful
eyes and he stood there lost, unable to look away. "No," he finally answered, his body as tense as a
hormonal sixteen-year-old's. "I'm all right."
Her gaze crawled over him - from the top of his head to the scuffed toes of his black boots - then
slowly lifted to settle on his mouth. Her wide smile gave evidence that she liked what she saw. Her
attention shifted to his eyes.
"Felicity," she said to his unasked question. "Felicity Rogers." She held out her hand.
Cortesio's brows shot upward as his partner took the proffered hand. Not that he wouldn't have
himself, he thought with a slight niggle of jealousy, but there was something about the woman holding
Conor's hand that sent shivers of unease through the Italian's short, squat body. He couldn't understand it
and didn't try to analyze it at that moment, but the guardian angel who'd always ridden Joseph David
Cortesio's shoulder did a short, agitated little hop on that bony protrusion and gained Joey's attention.
"Hey, Conor?" Cortesio shouted. "You going, man, or what?"
"Conor," the woman said and his name on her lips was a caress that sent a stab of pure lust through
Nolan's belly. "A Celtic warrior's name." Her tongue flicked at the right corner of her mouth. "A very