Falling For Rachel: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down

For an instant, she thought she saw hurt in those steel-blue depths. Then it was gone, hardened away. “He’s got me, whether he likes it or not. And I can afford a real lawyer, so why don’t you fill me in, and I’ll take it from there.”

This time she didn’t merely set her teeth, she practically snarled. “I happen to be a real lawyer, Muldoon. And if LeBeck wants other counsel, he can damn well ask for it himself.”

He struggled to find the patience that always seemed to elude him. “We’ll get into that later. For now, I want to know what the hell’s going on.”

“Fine.” She snapped the word out as she looked at her watch. “You can have fifteen minutes of my time, providing you take it while I eat. I have to be back in court in an hour.”

CHAPTER TWO

From the way she looked—elegant sex in a three-piece suit—Zack figured her for one of the trendy little restaurants that served complicated pasta dishes and white wine. Instead, she stalked down the street, her long legs eating up the sidewalk so that he didn’t have to shorten his pace to keep abreast.

She stopped at a vendor and ordered a hot dog—loaded—with a soft drink, then stepped aside to give Zack room to make his selection. The idea of eating anything that looked like a hot dog at what he considered the crack of dawn had his stomach shriveling. Zack settled for a soft drink—the kind loaded with sugar and caffeine—and a cigarette.

Rachel took the first bite, licked mustard off her thumb. Over the scent of onions and relish, Zack caught a trace of her perfume. It was like walking through the jungle, he thought with a frown. All those ripe, sweaty smells, and then suddenly, unexpectedly, you could come across some exotic, seductive vine tangled with vivid flowers.

“He’s charged with burglary,” Rachel said with her mouth full. “Not much chance of shaking it. He was apprehended climbing out of the window with several thousand dollars’ worth of stolen merchandise in his possession.”

“Stupid.” Zack downed half the soft drink in a swallow. “He doesn’t have to steal.”

“That’s neither here nor there. He was caught, he was charged, and he doesn’t deny the act. The DA’s willing to deal, offer probation and community service, if Nick cooperates.”

Zack chuffed out smoke. “Then he’ll cooperate.”

Rachel’s left brow lifted, then settled. She had no doubt Zackary Muldoon thought he could prod, push or punch anybody into anything. “I sincerely doubt it. He’s scared, but he’s stubborn. And he’s loyal to the Cobras.”

Zack said something foul about the Cobras. Rachel was forced to agree. “Well, that may be, but it doesn’t change the bottom line. His record is fairly lengthy, and it won’t be easy to get around it. It’s also mostly hustle and jive. The fact that this is his first step into the big leagues might help reduce his sentence. I think I can get him off with three years. If he behaves, he’ll only serve one.”

Zack’s fingers dug into the aluminum can, crushing it. Fear settled sickly in his stomach. “I don’t want him to go to prison.”

“Muldoon, I’m a lawyer, not a magician.”

“They got back the stuff he took, didn’t they?”

“That doesn’t negate the crime, but yes. Of course, there’s several thousand more outstanding.”

“I’ll make it good.” Somehow. Zack heaved the can toward a waste can. It tipped the edge, joggled, then fell inside. “Listen, I’ll make restitution on what was stolen. Nick’s only nineteen. If you can get the DA to try him as a minor, it would go easier.”

“The state’s tough on gang members, and with his record I don’t think it would happen.”

“If you can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can.” Zack threw up a hand before she could tear into him. “I know I came down on you before. Sorry. I work nights, and I’m not my best in the morning.” Even that much of an apology grated on him, but he needed her. “I get a call an hour ago from one of Nick’s friends telling me he’s been in jail all night. When I get down here and see him, it’s the same old story. I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody. I’m handling it.” He tossed down his cigarette, crushed it out, lit another. “And I know he’s scared down to the bone.” With something close to a sigh, he jammed his hands in his pockets. “I’m all he’s got, Ms. Stanislaski. Whatever it takes, I’m not going to see him go to prison.”

It was never easy for her to harden her heart, but she tried. She wiped her hands carefully on a paper napkin. “Have you got enough money to cover the losses? Fifteen thousand?”

He winced, but nodded. “I can get it.”

“It’ll help. How much influence do you have over Nick?”

“Next to none.” He smiled, and Rachel was surprised to note that the smile held considerable charm. “But that can change. I’ve got an established business, and a two-bedroom apartment. I can get you professional and character references, whatever you need. My record’s clean— Well, I did spend thirty days in the brig when I was in the navy. Bar fight.” He shrugged it off. “I don’t guess they’d hold it against me, since it was twelve years ago.”

Rachel turned the possibilities over in her mind. “If I’m reading you right, you want me to try to get the court to turn Nick over to your care.”

“The probation and community service. A responsible adult to look out for him. All the damages paid.”

“You might not be doing him any favor, Muldoon.”

“He’s my brother.”

That she understood perfectly. Rachel cast her eyes skyward as the first drop of rain fell. “I’ve got to get back to the office. If you’ve got the time, you can walk with me. I’ll make some calls, see what I can do.”

A bar, Rachel thought with a sigh as she tried to put together a rational proposition for the hearing that afternoon. Why did the man have to own a bar? She supposed it suited him—the big shoulders, the big hands, the crooked nose that she assumed had been broken. And, of course, the rough, dark Irish looks that matched his temper.

But it would have been so much nicer if she could tell the judge that Zackary Muldoon owned a nice men’s shop in midtown. Instead, she was going to ask a judge to hand over the responsibility and the guardianship of a nineteen-year-old boy—with a record and an attitude—to his thirty-two-year-old stepbrother, who ran an East Side bar called Lower the Boom.

There was a chance, a slim one. The DA was still pushing for names, but the shop owner had been greatly mollified with the promise of settlement. No doubt he’d inflated the price of his merchandise, but that was Muldoon’s problem, not hers.

She didn’t have much time to persuade the DA that he didn’t want to try Nick as an adult. Taking what information she’d managed to pry out of Zack, she snagged opposing counsel and settled into one of the tiny conference rooms in the courthouse.

“Come on, Haridan, let’s clean this mess up and save the court’s time and the taxpayers’ money. Putting this kid in jail isn’t the answer.”

Haridan, balding on top and thick through the middle, eased his bulk into a chair. “It’s my answer, Stanislaski. He’s a punk. A gang member with a history of antisocial behavior.”

“Some tourist scams and some pushy-shovey.”

“Assault.”

“Charges were dropped. Come on, we both know it’s minor-league. He’s minor-league. We’ve got a scared, troubled kid looking for his place with a gang. We want him out of the gang, no question. But jail isn’t the way.” She held up a hand before Haridan could interrupt. “Look, his stepbrother is willing to help—not only by paying for property you have absolutely no proof my client stole, but by taking responsibility. Giving LeBeck a job, a home, supervision. All you have to do is agree to handling LeBeck as a minor.”

“I want names.”

“He won’t give them.” Hadn’t she gone back down and harassed Nick for nearly an hour to try to pry one loose? “You can put him away for ten years, and you still won’t get one. So what’s the point? You haven’t got a hardened criminal here—yet. Let’s not make him one.”

They knocked that back and forth, and Haridan softened. Not out of the goodness of his heart, but because his plate was every bit as full as Rachel’s. He had neither the time nor the energy to pursue one punk kid through the system.

“I’m not dropping it down from burglary to nighttime breaking and entering.” On that he was going to stand firm, but he would throw her a crumb. “Even if we agree to handle him as a juvie, the judge isn’t going to let him walk with probation.”

Rachel gathered up her briefcase. “Just leave the judge to me. Who’d we pull?”

Haridan grinned. “Beckett.”

Marlene C. Beckett was an eccentric. Like a magician, she pulled unusual sentences out of her judge’s robes as if they were little white rabbits. She was in her midforties, dashingly attractive, with a single streak of white hair that swept through a wavy cap of fire-engine red.

Personally, Rachel liked her a great deal. Judge Beckett was a staunch feminist and former flower child who had proven that a woman—an unmarried, career-oriented woman—could be successful and intelligent without being abrasive or whiny. She might have been in a man’s world, but Judge Beckett was all woman. Rachel respected her, admired her, even hoped to follow in her footsteps one day.

She just wished she’d been assigned to another judge.

As Beckett listened to her unusual plea, Rachel felt her stomach sinking down to her knees. Beckett’s lips were pursed. A bad sign. One perfectly manicured nail was tapping beside the gavel. Rachel caught the judge studying the defendant, and Zack, who sat in the front row behind him.

“Counselor, you’re saying the defendant will make restitution for all properties lost, and that though the state is agreeable that he be tried as a minor, you don’t want him bound over for trial.”