“Counselor.” He reached out a hand when she teetered. “Steady as she goes.”

“What now?” she demanded, jerking away. “Doesn’t it occur to you that—even though I’ve been appointed by the court as Nick’s co-guardian—I’m entitled to an hour of personal time without you in my face?”

He studied that face, noting signs of fatigue, as well as temper, in those big, tawny eyes. “You know, honey, I figured you’d be in a better mood after winning a case like you just did. Let’s try these.” With a flourish, he brought his other hand from behind his back. It was filled with gold, bronze and rust-colored mums.

Refusing to be charmed, Rachel gave them one long, suspicious glare. “What are those for?”

“To replace the ones that are dying in your apartment.” When she made no move to take them, he bit down on his impatience. He’d come to apologize, damn it, and it looked as though she was going to make him go through with it. “Okay, I’m sorry. I got pushy the other night. And after I got over wanting to choke you, I realized you’d gone out of your way to do me a favor, and I’d repaid it by…” Furious all over again, he thrust the flowers at her. “Hell, lady, all I did was kiss you.”

All he did? she thought, tempted to toss the flowers down and grind them underfoot. Just kissing didn’t jangle a woman’s system for better than thirty-six hours. “Why don’t you take your flowers, and your charming apology, and—”

“Hold on.” He thought it better to stop her before she said something he’d regret. “I said I was sorry, and I meant it, but maybe I should be more specific.” To ensure that she’d stay put until he was finished, he wrapped his fingers around the lapel of her plum-colored jacket. “I’m not sorry I kissed you, any more than I’m going to be sorry the next time I kiss you. I am sorry for the way I acted after you put on the brakes.”

She lifted a brow. “The way you acted,” she repeated. “You mean like a jerk.”

It gave her a great deal of pleasure to see a muscle twitch in his jaw. “Okay.”

A smart attorney knew when to accept a compromise. Lips pursed, she studied the flowers. “Are these a bribe, Muldoon?”

The way she said his name, with just a hint of a sneer, told him he’d gotten over the first hurdle. “Yeah.”

“All right, I’ll take them.”

“Gee, thanks.” Now that his hands were free, he tucked his thumbs in his front pockets. “I slipped in the courtroom about an hour ago and watched you.”

“Oh?” She couldn’t tell him how glad she was she hadn’t seen him. “And?”

“Not bad. Turning a vandalism charge around on the other guy—”

“The plaintiff,” she explained. “My client was justifiably frustrated after he’d exhausted all reasonable attempts to have his landlord live up to the terms of his lease.”

“And spray painting The Landlord from Hell all over the guy’s brownstone on the Upper West Side was his way of relieving that frustration.”

“He certainly made his point. My client had paid his rent on time and in good faith, and the landlord consistently refused to acknowledge each and every request for repair and maintenance. Under the terms of the lease—”

“Hey, babe.” Zack raised a hand, palm out. “You don’t have to sell me. By the time you got through, I was pulling for him. There were murmurs in the visitors’ gallery about lynching the landlord.” His mouth was sober enough, but his eyes danced with humor. The contrast was all but irresistible.

Her smile was quick and wicked. “I love justice.”

Reaching out, he toyed with the tiny gold links circling her neck. “Maybe you’d like to celebrate your victory for the underdog. Want to go for a walk?”

Mistake. The word popped full-blown into her mind, but she could smell the spicy flowers, and the evening was beautifully balmy. “I guess I would, as long as it’s to my apartment. I should put these in water.”

“Let me take that.” He’d tugged the briefcase out of her hand before she could object. Then—she should have expected it—he took her arm. “What do you carry in here, bricks?”

“The law’s a weighty business, Muldoon.” His grip on her forced her to slow her pace to his. He strolled when she would have strode. “So, how’s it going with Nick?”

“It’s better. At least I think it’s better. He balked at the idea of Rio teaching him to cook, but the idea of busing tables didn’t seem to bother him much. He still won’t talk to me—I mean really talk to me. But it’s only been a week.”

“You’ve got seven more.”

“Yeah.” He let go of her arm long enough to reach into his pocket and take out a handful of change. He dropped it into a panhandler’s cup in a gesture so automatic that Rachel assumed he made a habit of it. “I figure if they could turn me from a green recruit into a sailor in about the same amount of time, I have a pretty good shot at this.”

“Do you miss it?” She tilted her head up to his. “Being at sea?”

“Not so much anymore. Sometimes I still wake up at night and think I’m aboard ship.” Then there were the nightmares, but that wasn’t something a man shared with a woman. “Once things are stable, I’m planning on buying a boat, maybe taking a couple of months and sailing down to the Islands. Maybe a nice ketch, forty-two feet—not too fancy.” He could already see it, a trim little honey, quick to the touch, brass and mahogany gleaming, white sails bulging in the wind. He imagined Rachel would look just fine standing at the bow. “You ever done any sailing?”

“Not unless you count taking the ferry over to Liberty Island.”

“You’d like it.” He skimmed his fingers lightly down her arm. “It’s what you might call an outlet.”

Rachel decided it was safer not to comment. When they reached her building, she turned to him, holding out a hand for her briefcase. “Thanks for the flowers, and the walk. I’ll probably come by the bar tomorrow after work and look in on Nick.”

Instead of giving her the briefcase, he closed his hand over hers. “I took the night off, Rachel. I want to spend it with you.”