Part 24 (2/2)

And up ahead, just up ahead, under a streetlight, stood a man.

The man.

She hadn't seen him in over a year.

Except in her dreams.

But he was here now. As tall as she remembered, dark, striking. His long-sleeved s.h.i.+rt was black, as were his trousers. His hands were casually shoved into his pockets. He might have been any striking young tourist. A businessman, out to see the sights of New Orleans. A musician, a politician, ad exec, plumber, electrician ... any tourist.

Except that... he wasn't.

She started walking toward him, half certain that he would turn away.

Disappear.

It wasn't him. It couldn't be.... He stood dead still, waiting.

He didn't walk away, and he didn't disappear.

And as she came to him, the noises of the city rushed to meet her.

The jazz, the talk, the laughter, the footsteps She was fairly tall, but she had to look up at him. Yes, it was he. In the flesh. The dark hair, the slender-appearing but hard-muscled physique.

The eyes ...

Like amber. Like fire.

”h.e.l.lo, Jade,” he said softly. ”We have to talk.”

They had to talk? He had been there during the night of her greatest danger and her greatest fear. He had probably saved her life-but then he had left her, leaving the police to think that she was crazy, leaving her to doubt her own sanity.

Then he had entered her dreams. Invaded her sleep, stolen into her soul. He had touched her, somehow. He had touched her; it had been real.

He had ruined-absolutely destroyed-her chances with the most perfect man she was ever likely to meet.

”Jade?”

”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!”

She hauled off and hit him with every bit of strength she had in her.

Chapter Eight.

It might have been a stupid thing to do.

He was a good six feet, three inches tall, and muscled like a son of a b.i.t.c.h. If he'd taken it the wrong way ...

Fear or instinct caused her to draw up an arm again. He caught it.

She attacked him with words. ”b.a.s.t.a.r.d. You were there. You saw everything. You just disappeared. And how amazing! I start to dream about you-”

He held her wrist; he had caught her flying palm in air, and now held it by her side. Gently? She couldn't feel the grasp, yet she knew that she couldn't have moved had she tried. ”What the h.e.l.l is going on?”

He shook his head. ”I don't know what you mean.”

”I think you do.”

He stepped back suddenly. ”Look, I hardly know you. Excuse me.”

To her amazement he turned and started walking away. She stared after him, mouth agape, hands on hips.

”Excuse you?” she repeated. ”Excuse you?”

She raced after him. He was in black again. Black form-hugging jeans, long-sleeved knit s.h.i.+rt, casual black jacket. It rode his shoulders very nicely. His dark hair, still longish, curled over his collar. It glistened in the lights of the street.

”Hey!”

She caught hold of his shoulder, drawing him back. ”You can't just walk away from me.”

”Should I stand here so you can hit me again?” he inquired politely.

”No, no ... but you ... you have to talk to me!”

He arched a brow. She did want to hit him again. He wasn't just attractive; he was compelling in an almost frightening manner.

Devastatingly good-looking, dark eyes, dark hair, and an air of self- confidence, a.s.surance, even arrogance.

She knotted her hands into fists at her sides.

”Fine! Don't talk to me!”

She turned that time, and started to walk away.

He didn't follow. She stopped, turned back. He was waiting, a smile lightly turning the fullness of his lips.

”Who the h.e.l.l are you?” she whispered. ”What is going on?”

”Where's your cop?”

”What?”

”Officer Beaudreaux.”

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