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“Sara…”
She turned away, recognizing the heat in his voice.
“Hey, Danny-boy,” Manny said, thankfully breaking the tension. “Got a whiskey here with your name on it. You, too, Sara.”
“I’ve got Sara covered,” Petra said, gesturing for Sara to return to her side. Sara did, shooting the others an apologetic look. It was, frankly, a minor miracle that Petra had come to Probation to celebrate. As a rule, the private investigator didn’t like crowded places—too many possibilities for accidental touching. And Petra had a skin condition that was exacerbated by even the lightest of touches.
At least, that’s what her friend had always told her. Lately, Sara had begun to wonder if it was more phobia than physical.
“You should go order yours at the bar,” Petra said, pulling Sara from her thoughts. “Save the bottle we already ordered for the rest of us.”
“Pet…”
“Don’t even try to act like you’re not interested. I know you are. And he damn sure is. He keeps looking over here, and we both know it’s not me he’s looking at.”
“I’m supposed to be celebrating with my friends.”
“So? Gocelebratewith a new friend.”
Sara fought to turn an amused grin into a scowl.
“Come on,” Petra prodded. “You know you want to. And he does, too. This is, what? The fourth time we’ve seen him watching you in the last two months?”
“Fifth,” Sara said.
Petra broke into a wide grin, and Sara cursed, realizing her mistake.
“Just go. Enjoy your victory.”
“I do need a drink. I mean, it’s my party, right?”
“That’s the way to justify. Go.”
Petra twirled her hand in a hurry-up motion, and Sara gave up protesting. It had all been for form, anyway. She knew what she wanted. She may have only noticed him five times, but it felt like she knew him intimately. As if she’d been waiting for him. Expecting him.
That, of course, was ridiculous. But it didn’t change the fact that she was curious. With a quick nod to Petra, she took a breath, then headed toward the mythological god at the bar, smiling and waving in response to the calls of congratulations volleyed toward her by the other patrons.
“This one’s on me,” the bartender, Melanie, was saying to the god as Sara settled on the stool next to him. About Sara’s age, Melanie had been working the bar for as long as Sara had been coming to Prohibition.
“That’s really not necessary,” the man said to Melanie. There was a hint of amusement in his voice, coupled with an accent that Sara couldn’t place.
“Of course, it isn’t necessary,” Melanie retorted. “But it’s still on me. Seriously, Luke, you saved my ass.”
Luke. She let the name roll through her thoughts, and decided that it suited him.
“Not that many nice guys walking the streets these days,” Melanie continued. “A couple of drinks isn’t even close to sufficient thanks for what you did.” She turned her attention to Sara. “Yours is on the house, too, Sara. Great job getting the riff-raff off the street. The usual?”
“Sure. And thank you.” She grabbed a handful of peanuts out of one side of a scale of justice put to a campy new use, then set them on a bar napkin.
“Sara’s our rock star,” Melanie said.
“I know.” Luke turned a bit in her direction. His eyes were amber, an unusual color that made his steadfast gaze seem predatory. He glanced up at the muted television that hung above the bar. Her own face filled the screen. “Congratulations,” he said, returning his attention to her.
“You followed the trial?”
“Of course.”
“Are you an attorney?” she asked. “Or maybe a cop?” Both were good bets considering the bar’s usual clientele.
