Chapter 2
He was even more stunning close up. Emma slapped herself mentally when she realized she was gawking at him. How could she forget he'd been looking under his kilt just minutes before? Why were men so obsessed with their equipment? She called into evidence exhibit number one - the flasher.
She glanced over her shoulder. He was still there. Still exposed. But the arrival of serious male competition had left him looking a bit... deflated.
"Are ye in need of assistance, miss?" The kilted man's soft burr caressed her nerves like a Highland breeze ruffling a hillside of heather. It brought back memories of happier times when her family had been alive and well, living in Scotland.
She frowned. She couldn't afford good memories. Not until the horrid ones had been thoroughly avenged.
"Is this man pestering you?" the Scotsman continued. His eyes were a vibrant green that sparkled with intelligence and something else she couldn't quite place. Curiosity? Perhaps, but something bolder. He seemed to be searching for something.
Emma lifted her chin. "I can handle him myself, thank you."
The flasher snickered. "Yeah, sugar, you want to handle me?"
She winced. Poor choice of words. The display on her cell phone had gone dark, so she lit it up and pressed nine.
The kilted man stepped toward the flasher. "I suggest ye leave this young woman alone."
"She was talking to me first," the flasher snarled. "So buzz off, buddy."
Emma groaned inwardly. Just what she needed. A drunk Scotsman and a flasher arguing over her. She punched number one.
"Och, how rude of me to interrupt. Especially you, a fine, upstanding paragon of good manners and propriety." The Scotsman arched a brow with a skeptical look. "After all, here ye are, prancing about the park with yer wee willie flopping about."
"It's not flopping! It's hard as a rock." The flasher glanced down. "Well, it was until you came along." He started rubbing himself. "Don't worry, sugar. I'll be back in full form before you know it."
"Don't hurry on my account." She snapped her phone shut and changed her mind about calling the police. She wouldn't get any hunting done if she had to stay here to give a statement. She clicked her phone back into its holster on her belt. "I have to go. I forgot to feed the cat." Probably because she didn't have one.
"Wait!" the flasher yelled. "You didn't get my picture."
"I assure you, the image has been permanently scalded into my brain for all time."
The Scotsman chuckled. "Off you go, lad. No one wants to see yer wee willie."
"Wee? You call this - this Mack truck wee? I bet it's bigger than yours, buddy."
The Scotsman folded his arms across his broad chest and widened his stance. "That would be a wager ye'd lose."
"Oh yeah? Prove it!"
"Oh, come on, guys." Emma raised her hands to stop them. "I really don't need to see - " She bit her lip and lowered her hands. So what if the gorgeous Scotsman lifted his kilt? He'd already done it once tonight, and who was she to stop him? It was a free country, after all. Her gaze drifted over to his kilt.
"Ye were saying?"
She glanced up at his face. A corner of his mouth quirked. His green eyes sparkled with humor. Oh no! He suspected she was secretly hoping for a peep show. Her cheeks flooded with heat.
"What are you waiting for, Scottie?" The flasher grinned. He'd achieved impressive proportions and was, no doubt, anticipating an equally sizable victory.
Emma figured he usually won by a head.
"The pretty lady can be our judge," the flasher announced.
She stepped back, shaking her head. "I really don't feel qualified." Or particularly honored.
"Don't worry, sugar. I came prepared." The flasher pulled something round, silver, and shiny from his trench coat pocket. "All you have to do is measure which one of us is longer."
The Scotsman arched a brow. "Ye brought a tape measure?"
"Of course." The flasher huffed. "I keep a daily journal, and I want it to be as accurate as possible." He planted his fists on his hips. "I take this seriously, you know."
"Brilliant," Emma muttered. "Well, guys, it's been... real, but I need to go. Feel free to do your own measuring." She turned toward the tree where she'd left her tote bag.
"No!" The flasher shouted.
Her training had taught her how to anticipate an attack. How to interpret the stirring of air behind her back. As soon as the flasher made a grab for her, she jumped out of his reach and assumed her favorite attack pose. Her reaction time had been as swift as ever, but not nearly as quick as the Scotsman. In a mere second, he'd reached behind his head, pulled out a sword, and pointed it at the flasher's neck.
With a gasp, Emma froze. He had a sword? And not just any sword. This sword was huge.
The flasher halted, his eyes wide with fear. He gulped and promptly wilted down south.
"I told ye mine was bigger," the Scotsman growled. "Make a move for the lass again, and I'll be shortening yers by a few inches."
"Don't hurt me." The flasher backed away, closing his coat.
The Scotsman advanced, his sword only inches from the flasher's fluctuating Adam's apple. "I suggest from now on, ye remember to wear yer knickers."
"Sure. Whatever you say, man."
"Leave us."
The flasher scurried away, disappearing around the bend. The Scotsman lifted the sword over his head so he could slide it back into its sheath. The long blade made a soft scraping noise as it slid home.
Emma was distracted momentarily by the bulge of his biceps, but she quickly came to her senses. "What are you doing with a sword?"
"'Tis called a claymore." He turned to face her. "Doona worry. Ye're safe now."
"I'm supposed to feel safe with a stranger who's packing a humongous weapon?"
He smiled slowly. "I told ye mine was bigger."
What typical male arrogance. "I was referring to your sword. Not your wee willie."
He gave her an injured look. "If ye're going to insult my size, I'll have to defend myself by offering ye proof."
"Don't even think about - "
"'Tis a matter of honor." His mouth twitched. "And I'm a verra honorable man."
"Very drunk is more like it. I can smell the whisky on your breath."
His eyes widened in surprise. "I've had a wee dram or two, but I'm no' drunk." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Admit it, lass. Ye were wanting a private showing."
"Ha! Of all the... I'm going now. Good night." She strode toward the tree to retrieve her tote bag. Anger pricked at her. Shame on her. She'd had too much training to get distracted by bulging biceps or a broad chest. Or gorgeous green eyes.
"I owe ye an apology."
She hitched the bag onto her shoulder, ignoring him.
"I doona generally discuss private parts, at least until I've introduced myself first."
She stifled a grin. Something about this man was too appealing. Maybe his accent and kilt made her feel homesick. She'd been in America for only nine months. She glanced at him, and his soft smile tugged at her heart. Shit. She needed to go.
She removed the stake from her belt behind her back and dropped it into the bag. Her nerves tingled, every strand aware that he was watching her closely. Instinct told her to leave, but her curiosity was stronger. Who was this man? And why did he carry a sword? "I assume you came to town for the parade?"
He paused. "I arrived today."
An evasive answer. "To celebrate or for business?"
The corner of his mouth tilted up. "Are ye curious about me, lass?"
She shrugged. "Professional curiosity. I'm in law enforcement, so I have to wonder why you're carrying a lethal weapon."
His smile grew wider. "Perhaps ye should disarm me."
Her chin went up. "Make no mistake, I could if I needed to."
"And how would ye do that?" He pointed at her bag. "Will ye take on my claymore with yer wee sticks?"
She wasn't about to explain why she was carrying wooden stakes. So she folded her arms across her chest and changed the subject. "How did you get the sword on a plane? Or through customs?"
He mimicked her move, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why are ye wandering about the park all alone?"
She shrugged one shoulder. "I like to jog. Now it's your turn to answer."
"Dinna anyone tell ye 'tis dangerous to run with a pointed stick?"
"It's my protection. And it's still your turn to answer. Why do you have a sword?"
"'Tis my protection. It chased that wee man away."
"A loud boo would have chased him away."
He grinned. "I believe ye're right."
She bit her lip to keep from smiling back. The blasted man was aggravating and attractive at the same time. And he still hadn't answered her question. "You were about to tell me why you're wandering about Central Park with a sword?"
"'Tis called a claymore. And I like to keep it handy at all times."
An image flitted through her head of the Scotsman naked in bed with his huge weapon. And the sword. "I fail to see why you need the claymore. You certainly look muscular enough to protect yourself."
"How kind of ye to notice."
Notice? She was doing a lot more than that. Her brain was busy undressing him, and if the rascal's twinkling eyes were any indication, he'd guessed she was enjoying the view. Her gaze ventured south once again, past his blue and green plaid kilt, and this time, she noticed the hilt of a knife peeking from the edge of his sock. Her heart raced faster. The man was packing multiple weapons. Maybe she should frisk him. Maybe she should call the paramedics first. "Do you have a name?"
"Aye."
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response, but he merely smiled. Aggravating man. "Let me guess. You're Conan, the Barbarian?"
He laughed. "I'm Angus."
As in prime beefcake? She should have known. "Do you have a last name?"
"Aye." He opened the leather bag hanging from his belt.
She stepped back, wondering if he was packing heat. "What do you have in there?" His sporran looked well-worn, as if he used it every day.
"Doona worry, lass. I'm looking for a business card." He removed the metal flask she'd noticed earlier so he could rummage through the remaining contents of the brown leather pouch.
She folded her arms while she waited. "Whenever you need something, it's on the bottom. I have the same problem with my purse."
He shot her an irritated look. "This is no' a purse. 'Tis a fine, manly tradition amongst the Scots."
Aha. She'd found a weak spot. She gave him a wide-eyed Bambi look. "Looks like a purse to me."
He gritted his teeth. "'Tis called a sporran."
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. No wonder she found this guy appealing. He made her smile, and it had been a long time since she'd acted happy and playful. Her mission dominated her life, and she had to take it seriously. The enemy was deadly. "So, what do you keep in there? Besides the whisky. Do you have any shortbread or leftover haggis?"
"Verra funny," he grumbled, although his mouth was curling into another smile. "If ye must know, I have a cell phone, a roll of duct tape - "
"Duct tape?"
He arched a brow. "Doona mock a man's duct tape. It comes in verra handy for binding wrists and ankles."
"Why would you bind someone?" She gave him a sympathetic look. "Oh, poor baby. Is it that hard to get a date these days?"
He grinned. "'Tis also good for covering up a saucy mouth." His gaze lowered to her mouth. And stayed. His smile faded.
Her heart stuttered. His gaze moved back to her eyes with an intensity that squeezed the air out of her lungs. And made her nerves tingle. Even her toes were curling under.
There was more than desire in his dark green eyes. There was a sharp intelligence. He wasn't drunk at all, she realized. And he saw a lot more than any man she'd ever encountered before. She suddenly felt as exposed as the flasher.
He stepped closer. "And yer name?"
Name? Good heavens, the way he was looking at her, her pulse was taking off at warp speed, but her brain was barely on life support. More power to the engines, Scottie. "I - I'm Emma." She decided to play it safe and give only her first name. He'd done the same.
"'Tis a pleasure to meet you." With a slight bow, he offered her a crumpled business card.
Clouds had shrouded the moon once again, and she couldn't make out the small print. "Do you happen to have a torch in your sporran?"
"Nay. I see verra well in the dark." He motioned to the card. "I own a small security company."
"Oh." She slipped the card into a pants pocket, so she could check it later. "You're like a professional bodyguard?"
"Do ye need one? A lass who wanders about the park alone at night should have protection."
"I can take care of myself." She patted her bag of stakes.
He frowned. "Ye have an unusual method for protecting yerself."
"So do you. How do you protect a client when someone's packing a gun? No offense, but your claymore is a bit outdated."
He arched a brow. "I have other skills."
She bet he did. Her throat felt dry.
He stepped toward her. "I could ask the same question. How do ye protect yerself with a wee stick when the attacker could have a gun... or a sword?"
She swallowed hard. "Are you challenging me?"
"I'd rather not. 'Twould not be a fair fight."
Male arrogance, again. "You're underestimating me."
He tilted his head, studying her. "That may be true. May I see one of yer wee sticks?"
She hesitated. "I suppose." She reached into her tote bag and handed him a stake. If he got any funny ideas, she could kick it out of his hand in a second.
He closed a fist around the stake, examining it closely. "This is a sorry excuse for a stake."
"It is not. I've been very successful - " She winced. The rascal was getting her to admit too much. "I find them very useful."
"How?" He ran a finger along the edge to the tip.
"They're sharp enough to provide protection."
He frowned as he rotated the stake in his hand. "There is something written here."
"It's nothing." She reached for the stake, but he stepped back.
His eyes widened. "It says Mum."
Emma winced. He did have good night vision. And now his eyes were focused on her, studying her. She grabbed the stake. His grip tightened. She yanked, but he wouldn't let go.
"Why would ye write yer mother's name on a stake?" he whispered.
"None of your business." She jerked the stake from his hand and dropped it back into her bag.
"Ah, lass." His voice was soft and full of compassion.
Anger flared inside her. How dare he open that wound? No one was allowed to crack her armor. "You have no right - "
"Ye have no right to endanger yerself," he interrupted with a scowl. "Roaming about this park with nothing but a few sticks for protection? 'Tis foolhardy. Surely there are people who love ye dearly. They wouldna approve of ye risking yer life."
"Don't!" She pointed a finger at him. "Don't you dare lecture me. You know nothing about me."
"I'd like to know."
"No! No one is going to stop me." She spun on her heel and strode south down the brick pathway. Damn him. Yes, there had been people who loved her dearly, but they were all dead.
"Emma," he called after her. "If ye're here tomorrow, I'll find you."
"Don't count on it," she yelled without looking back. Anger surged through her with each step she took. Damn him! She had every right to avenge her parents.
She should have shown him just how tough she was. She should have disarmed him and bound his wrists with his own freaking duct tape. She slowed her steps, tempted to go back and teach him a lesson.
She glanced over her shoulder. The path was empty. Where had he gone? He didn't seem like the type to slink away in defeat. She swiveled slowly in a circle. No one in sight. No movement among the trees. A cool breeze blew a lock of hair across her face. She shoved it back and listened. Not just with her ears, but with her mind. She stretched psychic feelers out, searching for the thoughts of a nearby brain.
A sudden chill made her shiver. She zipped up her short jacket and flipped the collar up over her ears. An eerie feeling settled in her gut. She hadn't heard any thoughts, but she'd definitely felt a presence. Someone was watching her.
She reached in her bag for a stake. At least she'd only felt one presence out there. Was it Angus? Who was he exactly? As soon as she returned home, she'd check him out.
The park entrance wasn't that far away. She crossed the stone bridge and strode alongside the Pond. The Scotsman was downright confusing. Gorgeous and sexy, without a doubt. She'd enjoyed talking to him until he'd started scolding her like a two-year-old. What had come over him? The minute he'd taken her stake in his hands, he'd become rude and overbearing. Why would a man with a huge sword be so uptight over a wooden stake?
She halted with a jerk. God, no.
Her heart pounded. No, not him. He couldn't be a vampire. Could he? She spun in a circle, searching the surroundings. She even looked at the Pond, as if he were going to rise out of it and fly toward her.
Get a grip! The man was not a vampire. She would have known. She would have felt it. And he would have attacked her. Instead he'd lectured her on safety. She'd smelled the whisky on his breath. What vampire would drink anything but blood? And he was drinking from a silver flask. She'd read in reports that silver burned their skin.
Oh, shit. Months ago, when she'd first arrived, she'd read a report about last summer, when the Stake-Out team had spotted a bunch of vampires in Central Park with the boss's daughter. Many of the vampires accompanying Shanna Whelan had been wearing kilts. Scottish vampires. All armed with swords. And just because Angus's flask was silver in color, that didn't mean it was actually silver. It could be stainless steel or pewter.
Oh God. He might actually be a vampire.
Shit! She should have taken him down while she had the chance. Emma strode toward the corner entrance to the park, then ran up the stairs to Fifth Avenue. Good heavens, Angus had seen her stakes. He had to know she was the slayer. He'd probably report her to all the other vampires.
She froze, her arm lifted to hail a cab. Cars zoomed by. Horns blared in the distance. The clip-clop of horse hooves approached slowly from an open carriage. All the sounds of the city blurred as the full truth unfolded in her mind.
Angus knew who she was. Her nights of secretly slaying vampires and remaining anonymous were over. The vampires would want revenge. They'd want to kill her. Her quest to avenge her parents had just escalated to a new level.
She was at war.