“Get out of that table now,” the cop ordered sharply, assuming authority over the situation. Moments later, he realized the man he had just insulted was actually the owner of the entire restaurant, turning the moment into instant embarrassment.

That should have been the end of it.

In places like Marquette House, it usually is.

But Rourke smiled, and it wasn’t the kind of smile that acknowledged inconvenience.

It was the kind that dismissed it.

He didn’t argue with her directly. That would have required treating her like an equal participant in the conversation. Instead, he looked past her, scanning the room, assessing, calculating—not where he might fit, but what he could take.