Kieran Read Free

studio was thrust open, and one of the waitresses Rica had hired slammed it behind her. She sprinted down the spiral staircase, the soles of her flats click-clacking on the metal steps. He gripped her biceps as she shoved past him, snatching her back.
    The girl wrapped her fingers around his and squirmed. “Let go.” She lifted her head and stopped moving. Her lips formed a firm line and she swallowed.
    “Where’s your boss?” He enunciated every word.
    “Big guy upstairs…has p-p-pictures. Wants money. Rica sent me to the cash register for more funds.” She squirmed in his hold.
    “Serve the customers. If you leave the bar again I will toss your ass out of here myself.” Kieran released her and spun on his heel. This was his place and some asshole thought to shake him down? Bastard must have lost his damn mind. Every-fucking-body knew Irish was owned by an O’Shea.
    The bar served two purposes. It gave his bothers a safe place for them to connect if they ever needed it, and the business was profitable enough to hide the funds from his other, not entirely legal entities. He considered it a plus that Rica was adept enough to run it. When she took it over, his money doubled in three months. Something he hadn’t expected when he met her.
    ***
    She sat at the defendants’ table, her dark brown tresses held up off the long column of her neck in some kind of pin-up hairstyle. The tense atmosphere was reflected in the pinched faces of the prosecutor and judge. Over the course of the week he’d been checking the progress of her case off and on. It had been a few days since her defense attorney had shown up. He checked his watch--he had to leave soon, and he was on the docket in another courtroom.
    The prosecutor stood. “Your honor, if the defendant wants to dismiss her defense attorney, the state has no objections.”
    That statement made him sit up and take notice. Only an idiot would try to defend themselves. Kieran shook his head and studied the pretty young woman. Her skin was the color of rich caramel. There was a pink hue to her cheeks, and her lips formed a firm line, but she didn’t move and faced the judge with her chin slightly upturned.
    The judge directed his attention to her. “Ms. Ward, you have the right to represent yourself; however, is it possible to find another defense attorney?”
    She placed fisted hands on the table. “It seems I scared the last few public defenders.” Her soft tone was matter of fact.
    What compelled him to stand up like he was on some kind of soap opera, he couldn’t tell a soul. The urge to protect her came out of left field and hit him like a kick to the nuts. He hadn’t realized he’d opened his mouth until everyone turned to face him. A quick glance at the defendant’s face--the only indication she was caught off guard was the way her mouth was slightly agape. He didn’t call the words back; instead he grabbed his briefcase and strolled up the aisle as if he hadn’t a care in the world, winked at her and asked for a continuance.
    ***
    He’d represented her in an assault with deadly intent case. If he had any doubts she was the woman for him, they were quelled during the trial when she snatched the fountain pen from his hand and jumped the table to stab the prosecutor. The scathing remarks were just theatrics on the prosecution’s side that he’d advised her to ignore. She didn’t listen, which was particularly entertaining, especially when she would mumble retorts, and she always had something to say. More than once he’d had to swallow his mirth. But the wide-eyed look of fear that etched the man’s face as she ran at him was priceless. Derrica Ward had a temper to match his own.
    Good thing he had quick reflexes and caught her before she buried the instrument in the attorney’s throat. It would have been a bitch cleaning the blood from his favorite pen. Shit went downhill after that, and additional charges were filed. She was handcuffed to her chair and