Her friend's face blanched and his eyes narrowed. He was five foot ten and, though muscular, not physical y intimidating. But Jack was stronger than he looked, and when his body tensed, she could feel the coiled power of a much larger man. Jack was not someone to under-estimate. Not at al .
As Mol y watched, Jack glanced past her shoulder. She saw no reaction in his features before he gazed at her again.
"Wish Bil was back from his break," Jack said, voice low and grave. "He'd be able to tel ."
Mol y hesitated a moment, then gave a tiny shrug. "What do we do?"
Jack nodded slowly. Then, without a word, he set off across the restaurant on a direct course for the bar.
The world around him shuddered and seemed to disappear as Jack strode the wood floor of Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub. The voices were gone and the other patrons ceased to exist, until al that remained were the guy at the bar and the music that lingered in the air.
Adrenaline rushed through him, and Jack nearly quivered with it. His alarms were going off, and he did his best to tone them down. Mol y was right. The guy looked out of place in here, like a model or an actor. Too perfect. And cruel, too. That was what disturbed Jack most of al . A powerful-looking guy, out of place, al by himself, and staring at Mol y as though he were the hunter and she the prey.
Prowler, Jack thought, and the idea only solidified as he moved closer to the man, defiantly chal enging him with his steady gaze. The man did not look away.
Jack took the two steps up to the bar area and stood directly in front of the man, staring down at him.
"You're pissing her off," Jack told him.
The man's eyebrows shot up, a glint of amusement in his eyes. It was an arrogant look, and Jack wanted very much to slap it off his face. "I'm sorry? I don't know what you're talkin'
about."
Arms crossed, Jack glared at him. "The redheaded waitress, the one you keep staring at. You're pissing her off."
The guy laughed. "I'm watchin' her. She's pretty tasty-lookin'. No law against watchin'. And I'm wonderin' if maybe it ain't her I'm pissin' off. Otherwise maybe she'd be over here tel in' me herself. Doesn't look like the kind of girl who'd let a guy do her dirty work. Unless maybe she's scared a' me."
Tasty-looking. The phrase stuck in Jack's mind. It might just be the guy being obnoxious, or it might mean something else entirely.
"Maybe she is," Jack admitted. "So maybe you should go."
The guy shook his head in disbelief and stood up. He was a good four inches tal er than Jack, a lot broader, and - Jack had to hand it to him - he was better dressed. He knew how the man must see him: punk nineteen-year-old in a cotton shirt with the name of the pub sewn on the breast, tel ing him what to do?
"I'm not done with my beer," the guy drawled in his slight southern accent.
With a frown, Jack tilted his head and regarded the man. "You've never heard of Tanzer, have you?"
From the flicker of confusion in the guy's eyes, he knew the answer. This man was not a Prowler. Just an arrogant, sexist moron with a chip on his shoulder.
Jack sighed. Prowlers were one thing. Jerks like this he had to handle just about every day, which got monotonous.
"You're gonna leave now," Jack told him.
"Who the hel are you?" the guy scoffed.
"The owner," Jack said cool y, gazing up at the man. He sniffed with a boredom that was only partial y feigned. "Look, I know you think you're a badass. But you're gonna have to trust me when I say I've dealt with meaner. If you want trouble here, you shouldn't come alone."
For a few seconds the guy laughed at that. But even as he did, he watched Jack's eyes. Whatever he saw there, something in them convinced him that Jack was speaking true.
He reached behind the bar and grabbed his mug, sucked back several gulps of beer, then slammed it down hard and stalked off, not looking back.
When the guy was gone, Danny - who was subbing for the bartender Bil Cantwel - leaned over the bar. "Damn, Jack, I thought for sure we were gonna have to take the big bastard down."
Jack smiled softly. Danny was al of five eight and maybe one hundred and forty pounds, but he was a scrapper. Like a lot of the pub's staff, he was a Southie boy.
"He didn't pay," Danny added.
"Forget it," Jack told him.
Mol y met him at the steps that separated the bar from the restaurant, a look of consternation on her face.
"No?" she asked, glancing toward the front door. "No," Jack reassured her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently.
Mol y cursed under her breath. "After two and a half months I'm stil total y paranoid."
Jack reached out and tilted her chin up so that their eyes met. "Stay paranoid," he warned. "We have reason to be."
Though it was wel past eight o'clock, it had only just begun to get dark as Tucker Marshal strode angrily into the street from Bridget's Irisk Rose Pub. He was glad he didn't know anyone in Boston yet. The kid in the pub had embarrassed him. He knew he could have snapped the boy in half if he'd wanted to, but Tucker had come to town to audition for the touring company of the new Lloyd Webber musical and had a cal back in the morning. The last thing he needed was to spend a few days in jail, or worse yet, damage his face.
The buffalo wings he'd had at the bar sat heavily in his bel y, sloshing around
