How many times over the last few days had she thought of him, wondered about him? Too many to count. Did he ever feel remorse for killing her attacker? Did he ever think of her and wonder where she was and if she was safe from the dangers of the city? Was he some bad-assed vigilante bent on saving damsels in distress? A caped avenger who helped women on New York's mean streets? Did he have a woman of his own?

"Stop it, right now." She grabbed her coat from the rack by the door and headed out. There was no sense in staying in the apartment when she would do nothing but go mad from the silence.

Wind blew her hair into her eyes and she pushed it back out of her view. The cold air bit through her clothes and chilled her to the bone. Harry's Bar stood only a few blocks away, and she could clearly see its neon lights beckoning from the front of her building.

She had only walked a block when the sense of being studied rolled through her.

"Haven't you learned the fine art of calling a cab?" His voice slid over her like warm caramel.

Angelia turned around and watched him step out from the darkened doorway of a business, as if her thoughts had made him materialize again. Once could be called a coincidence. Twice, definitely stalking. "Are you following me?"

"Not in the strictest sense."

His reply intrigued her.

He came close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the controlled energy around him. "It is that our paths seem to converge."

She put her hand deep into her pocket and locked her fingers around the can of pepper spray she had purchased after her attack.

Another cold breeze blew and Angelia sucked in her breath.

"Cold?"

"Yes." She looked into his eyes—that warm golden cognac color—and her stomach caught. The voices made a sound like a sigh. "I'm going to Harry's for a drink. Would you like to join me?" Where had that invitation come from? She hadn't intended to invite him anywhere.

"If only I could. I'm meeting someone. Perhaps afterwards I'll see you there?"

She nodded and turned away, walking only half a block before she ducked into an alley to watch him. Questions tripped over in her mind. Who would he meet on a cold dark street at night? A drug dealer? A hitman? An arms dealer?

Five minutes passed before a car pulled up. The strange man with the even stranger eyes walked up to the window and took something, then placed it inside his jacket. The car pulled away and the man started walking in her direction. Quickly Angelia crossed the street and ran the two remaining blocks to Harry's.

A considerable crowd had already accumulated. Angelia pushed her way through the tightly packed bodies, sidled up to the bar and ordered a cognac. The bartender set it down in front of her and she lifted the snifter to inspect the liquid through the cut of the glass.

"Something wrong?" that now-familiar voice asked into her ear. She could feel his lips brush against her skin. Her eyes slid shut for a moment. She reveled in the guilty pleasure of having him so close to her.

She could swear he moaned as he took in a deep breath.

She blushed at being caught trying to see if the liquor in the glass would create the same mesmerizing effect as his eyes, and warmed at her reaction to his mouth so close to her neck. "No. Nothing. Just appreciating the visuals of it."

He sniffed. "Cognac?"

Angelia nodded.

The bartender made her way down to them again, and he ordered the same. As he waited for his drink to arrive, his gaze moved over her and her body heated in response. To break the tension-filled sensual silence, she turned fully to him. "You realize we're about to share a drink and I don't even know your name?"

He gave her a slow smile and held out his hand to her. "Tristain St. Blaise."

She would have been less shocked had he announced he was the new Pope. Or perhaps he pulled her leg. To her knowledge no one had actually seen St. Blaise. But there was the fact he dressed and carried himself as if he'd been born to privilege. "You're Tristain St. Blaise?"

"You seem surprised. Expecting someone older?"

"Well, yes. You'd have to be well over a hundred to do all the things you're reported to have done for the city." She held out her hand. "I'll need to see some identification."

He laughed and reached inside his coat. "Father and grandfather. I merely took up the mantle and the family name." He leaned on the bar. His gaze shifted down from her eyes to her lips. "I take it you don't like older men?"

"Depends on the man," she heard herself say. And swallowed.

He handed her a driver license. The name and the face definitely matched, or the state of New York had been taken for one hell of a ride.

He smiled a knowing smile as he accepted the ID back from her. "You didn't give me your name."

"Angelia Lightheart."

The bartender set the cognac down in front of Tristain and he lifted the glass to clink against hers. "To you, Angelia Lightheart."

The non-physical tribute did more to steal her breath than the obvious petty seduction attempted by Achilles.

There was so much she wanted to ask him, but didn't dare to now she knew his name. Tristain St. Blaise could pretty much do anything he wanted with immunity to prosecution. His family's philanthropic endeavors were legendary in New York. But more importantly, he didn't seem to be bothered by the killing.

"You're frowning. Did you not want my company after all? Perhaps my family name makes you nervous?"

"It should, but that's not what bothers me." She looked around to be sure no one listened to their conversation. "I think we need to talk about what happened the other night."

His eyes lost some of the warm glow, and he nodded. "If you need to. I assure you, I'm perfectly content with the way things turned out."

Her stomach dropped. How could a man be so well known for his good deeds, and still hold the heart of a cold-blooded killer? She looked down at her hands.

A gentle finger under her chin lifted her face so their eyes would meet. "Don't judge, Ms. Lightheart. It's unbecoming of you."

She gave a snort of a laugh. "I'm trying to understand it. I can't get it out of my mind. For days now…" What was she going to say? For days now she'd fantasized about him regardless of the fact he'd killed a man?

Before Angelia had time to protest, Tristain St. Blaise had her by the arm and walked her out of Harry's and into the chill night.

"Where do you live?" He marched her back in the direction in which she'd come.

"Just right there. Over the coffee shop." She pointed to the building on the corner a few blocks down.

"We'll talk, but not in public." A vicious curse fell from his lips as he walked beside her. "My intentions were not to scare you, only to protect you."

Angelia leaned in and whispered, "But did you have to kill him? You could have called the police and let them take him away."

"And let him get out just so he could to do it again to some other innocent?"

"You told me not to judge." She moved a few steps ahead of him. "Sounds to me like you did just that."

She hurried away from him, but could hear the sounds of his shoes on the pavement as he followed her.

*** Now Available From Samhain Publishing, Ltd.***