Kerrelyn Sparks - Be Still My Vampire Heart

"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.