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 No offense, but your claymore is a bit outdated."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. 'T would 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.