Too tall, too big, too intense, too gorgeous.
Her breath gave a funny little hitch in her throat.
He was beautiful.
Maybe her age? Late twenties? Or early thirties? Tall; he was easily six feet, maybe a couple of inches more. Broad shoulders angled down to a slim waist with no softness showing anywhere. And he had amazing bone structure. She suddenly wanted to dig out the paints she’d tried out a few times when she was enjoying her new freedom and try to capture the strength in his jaw, the sharpness of his high cheekbones, and the glow in his eyes. His face held a slight beard, as though he hadn’t shaved in the days before he’d died, and those long, dark lashes shaded not just his incredible eyes but the shadows beneath them. His dark hair was swept back from his forehead, as if he’d impatiently shoved it out of his way with one of the large, capable hands that currently held an armful of unhappy raccoon.
Marigold hissed again, snapping Alice out of her trance, and she edged forward, took the angry creature, and stumbled back and away from her unexpected visitor. She swallowed, hard, and tried to regain control of the situation.
The only way to deal with ghosts was to take the reins at the very beginning of each encounter. She thought she’d done this at the hotel, but she’d been caught off guard by the man’s—the ghost’s—aliveness. She’d encountered ghosts who could manipulate objects before, of course, but nothing like this.
“Listen. I—” The amusement in his gaze threw her off, and she forgot what she’d been about to say. So, she asked a basic question to give herself time to regroup. “What is your name? I can’t keep thinking of you as ‘that man’ or ‘that ghost.’”
His devilish smile flashed again. “I like that you keep thinking of me.”
“That’s not what I meant! I just—I actually—Oh! Good night!”
What was she doing? The simplest and quickest way to remove herself from the situation was to do just that. She backed away until she was on the other side of the van, and then she ran for the porch, holding a trembling Marigold tightly. When she glanced back, afraid the stranger would be right behind her, he was gone.
“Well, that’s better, isn’t it?” She kissed the top of Marigold’s silky head as she slowed to take the steps to the porch. “I guess he can take a hint, at least.”
The deep voice that answered her was husky with suppressed laughter. “Sadly, no. I’m terrible at hints. Perhaps you should be more direct.”
She looked up just in time to avoid running him down, but not in time to stop herself from plowing right into him. He caught her with those strong hands on her arms and pulled her closer, Marigold between them.
Instead of struggling, though, Alice opened her senses—the ones that comprised what she thought of in her more fanciful moments as her Third Eye—completely, reaching for that icy sense of connection that always opened between her and the ghosts. If he wouldn’t leave, she at least needed to get a more comprehensive understanding of what kind of ghost she was dealing with; then she could determine how to make him go away.
Her gift, once a flickering sense of the “other,” and then, later, a more fully-fleshed-out recognition of the dead, now responded easily and quickly to her call. She stayed right where she was, trying to ignore the strength of his arms around her, trying not to surrender to the impulse to inhale as deeply as possible his wonderful scent of pine and soap and man, and closed her eyes to allow her senses to reach out for that connection to his essence—to what she thought of as the remnant of humanity that sometimes remained after a person died.
Only for her eyes to snap open again when there was no connection. No essence for her to touch, because this man, odd aura or not, was very much alive.
“You’re not a ghost! You’re not even dead!”
The smile still played around the edges of his sensual lips but faded from his eyes. “That’s a matter of some debate, apparently.”
Alice realized she still stood in the circle of his arms and shoved at his hard, muscled chest with one hand. “Get back! I have…I have pepper spray! And an attack raccoon!”
He released her and raised his hands, palms out, and took a step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I don’t believe you. You followed me to my home. I read books. I know that’s a classic warning sign of a dangerous man. You might be a serial killer, for all I know.”
Those fey eyes seemed to glow with blue flames. “I am no danger to you. I swear it.”
A shiver of awareness at the electrically charged sound of his voice raced down her spine. There was something almost hypnotic about him, and she found herself nodding.
Of course, he was no danger to her. He’d sworn it. In fact, he…
He…
What?
“No!” She shook her head hard, trying to dispel the compulsion she’d been falling into. “What is that? Were you trying to hypnotize me? Do you think that makes you feel like less of a danger? Now, I’m going to call 911, when before I would have just asked you to leave.”
She lifted Marigold to one shoulder and dug inside her bag, searching for her phone.
“Damn. Well, it was worth a try,” he said, raising one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I guess I’m not good enough at this vampire stuff yet. Maybe we could just talk? I find that I’d really, really like to get to know you. And my name is Hunter Evans.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said automatically, before realizing what an absolutely untrue statement it was. She was not pleased to meet him. He’d invaded her space, tried to hypnotize her, and, and, and…manhandled her raccoon. She was not—
Wait.
“This vampire stuff?” She blinked, captivated by the sudden stillness with which he held himself. It was as if his body had tensed in a fierce readiness; a predator focusing his entire concentration on her. A shiver raced through her at the gleam in his eyes, and she had the overwhelming urge to run fast and far and hide away from this dangerous man.
But she was nobody’s prey. Never again.
“So,” she began gently, changing tactics. “Mr. Evans. You think you’re a vampire. I was sure you were a ghost, but, well, that doesn’t matter. The truth is you’re just a man, and I was tired and confused. I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. If you’ll just leave now, no harm, no foul, and—”
He leaned against one of the wooden pillars on the porch, and she could tell he was deliberately attempting to appear nonthreatening, which only made her more wary. He wore a dark, long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and boots, all of which should have made him seem ordinary, but instead only highlighted his dark, deadly beauty.