butt in a sling.
He wouldn't have done it for money—not that Ralph doesn't like money," Jack continued. "But he wouldn't risk his license, or risk me coming after him, for a few bucks. So he was saving his skin."
"And since Ralph is a pillar of the community, no doubt, this narrows down the list?"
"It means it was somebody with punch, somebody who wasn't afraid old Ralph would tip me off or go to the cops. Somebody who wanted you taken out. Who knows you've got the rock?"
"Nobody, except the person who sent it to me." She frowned at her burger. "And possibly one other."
"If more than one person knows a secret, it isn't a secret. How did your friend get the diamond, M.J.? You can't keep dancing around the data here."
"I'll tell you after I clear it with my friend. I have to make a phone call."
"No calls."
"You called Ralph," she pointed out.
"I took a chance, and we were mobile. You're not making any calls until I know the score. The diamond was shipped just yesterday," he mused. "They tagged you fast."
"Which means they tagged my friend." Her stomach turned over. "Jack, please. I have to call. I have to know."
The emotion choking her voice both weakened and annoyed him. He stared into her eyes. "How much does he mean to you?"
She started to correct him, then just shook her head. "Everything. No one in the world means more to me."
"Lucky guy."
It wasn't the response she'd wanted or expected. Fueled by frustration and fears, she grabbed his shirt. "What the hell's wrong with you? Someone tried to kill us. How can we just sit here?"
"That's just why we're sitting here. We let them chase their tails awhile. Your friend's on his own for now. And since I can't picture you falling for some jerk who can't handle himself, he should be fine."
"You don't understand anything." She sat back, dragged her fingers through her hair. "God, this is a mess. I should be getting ready to go in to work now, and instead I'm stuck here with you. I'm supposed to be behind the stick tonight."
"You tend bar?" He lifted a brow. "I thought you owned the place."
"That's right, I own the place." It was a source of pride. "I like tending bar.
You have a problem with that?"
"Nope." Since the topic had distracted her, he followed it "Are you any good?"
"Nobody complains."
"How'd you get into the business?" When she eyed him owlishly, he shrugged.
"Come on, a little conversation over a meal can't hurt. We got time to kill."
That wasn't all she wanted to kill, but the rest would have to wait. "I'm a fourth-generation pub owner. My great-grandfather ran his own public house in Dublin. My grandfather immigrated to New York and worked behind the stick in his own pub. He passed it to my father when he moved to Florida. I practically grew up behind the bar."
"What part of New York?"
"West Side, Seventy-ninth and Columbus."
"O'Leary's." The grin came quick and close to dreamy. "Lots of dark wood and lots of brass. Live Irish music on Saturday nights. And they build the finest Guinness this side of the Atlantic."
She eyed him again, intrigued despite herself. "You've been there?"
"I downed many a pint in O'Leary's. That would have been ten years ago, more or less." He'd been in college then, he remembered. Working his way through courses in law and literature and trying to make up his mind who the devil he was. "I was up there tracing a skip about three years ago. Stopped in. Nothing had changed, not even the scars on that old pine bar."
It made her sentimental—couldn't be helped. "Nothing changes at O'Leary's."
"I swear the same two guys were sitting on the same stools at the end of the bar—smoking cigars, reading the Racing Form and drinking Irish."
"Callahan and O'Neal." It made her smile. "They'll die on those stools."
"And your father. Pat O'Leary. Son of a bitch." Steeped in the haze of memory, he shut his eyes. "That big, wide Irish face and wiry shock of red hair, with a voice straight out of a Cagney movie."
"Yeah, that's
He wouldn't have done it for money—not that Ralph doesn't like money," Jack continued. "But he wouldn't risk his license, or risk me coming after him, for a few bucks. So he was saving his skin."
"And since Ralph is a pillar of the community, no doubt, this narrows down the list?"
"It means it was somebody with punch, somebody who wasn't afraid old Ralph would tip me off or go to the cops. Somebody who wanted you taken out. Who knows you've got the rock?"
"Nobody, except the person who sent it to me." She frowned at her burger. "And possibly one other."
"If more than one person knows a secret, it isn't a secret. How did your friend get the diamond, M.J.? You can't keep dancing around the data here."
"I'll tell you after I clear it with my friend. I have to make a phone call."
"No calls."
"You called Ralph," she pointed out.
"I took a chance, and we were mobile. You're not making any calls until I know the score. The diamond was shipped just yesterday," he mused. "They tagged you fast."
"Which means they tagged my friend." Her stomach turned over. "Jack, please. I have to call. I have to know."
The emotion choking her voice both weakened and annoyed him. He stared into her eyes. "How much does he mean to you?"
She started to correct him, then just shook her head. "Everything. No one in the world means more to me."
"Lucky guy."
It wasn't the response she'd wanted or expected. Fueled by frustration and fears, she grabbed his shirt. "What the hell's wrong with you? Someone tried to kill us. How can we just sit here?"
"That's just why we're sitting here. We let them chase their tails awhile. Your friend's on his own for now. And since I can't picture you falling for some jerk who can't handle himself, he should be fine."
"You don't understand anything." She sat back, dragged her fingers through her hair. "God, this is a mess. I should be getting ready to go in to work now, and instead I'm stuck here with you. I'm supposed to be behind the stick tonight."
"You tend bar?" He lifted a brow. "I thought you owned the place."
"That's right, I own the place." It was a source of pride. "I like tending bar.
You have a problem with that?"
"Nope." Since the topic had distracted her, he followed it "Are you any good?"
"Nobody complains."
"How'd you get into the business?" When she eyed him owlishly, he shrugged.
"Come on, a little conversation over a meal can't hurt. We got time to kill."
That wasn't all she wanted to kill, but the rest would have to wait. "I'm a fourth-generation pub owner. My great-grandfather ran his own public house in Dublin. My grandfather immigrated to New York and worked behind the stick in his own pub. He passed it to my father when he moved to Florida. I practically grew up behind the bar."
"What part of New York?"
"West Side, Seventy-ninth and Columbus."
"O'Leary's." The grin came quick and close to dreamy. "Lots of dark wood and lots of brass. Live Irish music on Saturday nights. And they build the finest Guinness this side of the Atlantic."
She eyed him again, intrigued despite herself. "You've been there?"
"I downed many a pint in O'Leary's. That would have been ten years ago, more or less." He'd been in college then, he remembered. Working his way through courses in law and literature and trying to make up his mind who the devil he was. "I was up there tracing a skip about three years ago. Stopped in. Nothing had changed, not even the scars on that old pine bar."
It made her sentimental—couldn't be helped. "Nothing changes at O'Leary's."
"I swear the same two guys were sitting on the same stools at the end of the bar—smoking cigars, reading the Racing Form and drinking Irish."
"Callahan and O'Neal." It made her smile. "They'll die on those stools."
"And your father. Pat O'Leary. Son of a bitch." Steeped in the haze of memory, he shut his eyes. "That big, wide Irish face and wiry shock of red hair, with a voice straight out of a Cagney movie."
"Yeah, that's
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