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.
Chapter 3
The devil take it. He'd screwed up royally.
Angus watched Emma cross the stone bridge, her stride quick and determined. Instead of convincing her to retire, he'd made her even more determined to use her bloody stakes.
Roman and Jean-Luc were right. He was too hot-headed. But damn it all, it pissed him off that such a lovely young lass would place herself in so much danger. He suspected she was avenging more than the innocent mortals killed recently in Central Park. She was avenging her mother. That would explain her passion and determination, but even so, her behavior was suicidal. It was an idiotic, reckless thing to do, and yet there was nothing stupid or careless about Emma Wallace.
She was clever and quick. She possessed enough psychic power to detect his presence, though he'd managed to shield his thoughts and location from her. He'd never had to do that with a mortal before, which only gave further proof of how special she was. He had hoped reasoning with her would be enough, but she was so determined, it was going to be difficult to persuade her. He might have to pin her down just to get her to listen.
The thought of her lying beneath him caused him to swell. Bugger. He glanced down at his sporran, which was now hanging askew. He couldn't go to Roman's townhouse with an erection. They'd tease him about it for the next century.
He watched her jogging up the steps to Fifth Avenue. He moved quietly to the street, far enough away that he could still see her with his superior vision. She was hailing a cab, a worried look marring her pretty face. Good. It was about time she realized she was playing with fire.
He had to do something. If the Malcontents caught her in the act, they would kill her without a second of remorse. They considered mortals nothing more than a food source, a herd of cattle. Vampires were naturally faster and stronger than any mortal could be. The lass was doomed if he didn't stop her.