rush, he swept his hat from his head and bowed deeply at the waist like some hammy silent-screen actor.
“Griffin, at your service.”
She couldn’t respond right away. He was terribly good-looking, in a dark sort of way, much as her youthful fantasy man had been. His wavy black hair just touched his shoulders, and his features were exquisite, almost regal.
But his eyes blew her away. He had blue eyes, so light in color, they seemed to glow as if reflecting a full moon hidden somewhere behind her.
A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she staggered backward to keep her balance.
As quickly as he’d appeared that first night in the street, he materialized at her side, clutching her arm. “My dear, are you all right?”
She looked up at him. “Who the hell are you? And how do you know my name?”
He chuckled. “Well put.”
“Huh?”
She was usually more articulate than “huh,” but felt as if she’d stepped into a thick purple fog she couldn’t explain.
“Now, now,” he said, patting her arm, “don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” Then he leaned close and whispered, “Unless you ask me to.”
They walked toward her house, alone on the street, her boot’s heels thudding on sidewalk. Although she was terrified, it wasn’t for the usual reasons. She didn’t expect him to drag her into a dark alley, rape and kill her, or even to take her purse. Something deeper, more primal, drove her fear. She knew, somehow, that her world would never be the same.
“Would you like to sit and talk?” he asked.
“What?”
“Are you having trouble hearing me? Or is English not your native tongue?”
Serena pushed herself free from him and shook her head to loosen her thoughts.
How had they reached her front porch?
She eased into one of the wicker chairs, and it squeaked under her weight.
Silent, he did the same, settling into the chair to her right, crossing one leg over the other, then placing his hat on his knee.
She sat there, shaking like a leaf in a spring gale; he looked like he awaited delivery of a mint julep.
“Who are you?” she asked again.
“As I’ve already stated, I’m Griffin.”
“Just Griffin?”
“Just Griffin. And you are Serena Brockman—psychologist, orator and writer, born in Atlanta and living in Santa Fe, thirty-two years old.”
“I know who I am,” she said, anger surging at the one-sided feel of the whole encounter. “How do you know all that?”
“I attended your lecture.”
“I didn’t say anything about my age or where I was born. And you weren’t at the lecture.”
His eyebrows lifted in innocence, and he smiled. “I tend to listen from doorways.”
“Why?”
“Unfortunately, my appearance causes difficulties.”
Her senses seeming to have returned, she studied him more carefully. He watched her with unearthly intensity. Her body warmed in response, but she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the sensuous quality of his gaze.
Pale skin gave his fine features the look of marble, then as she stared, his face morphed into something feral.
She blinked hard, found his original appearance restored, and decided that her system must be on overload.
“Look, Griffin,” she said as she got up from her chair, “I think you should leave.”
He rose in front of her and stood very close to her, as if they were intimate. “Do you really want me to?”
Time stopped, and the air around her disappeared. For some reason, she couldn’t lie, couldn’t breathe and couldn’t send him away. She met his unblinking gaze and shook her head.
“No.”
He smiled again. “Good.” He stepped back to a reasonable distance. “Do you plan to invite me in?”
Every cell in her body screamed, “No!” She’d grown up in cities and knew the stories, the horror stories. If he stepped over her threshold, past the deadbolts, she had no defenses. She didn’t own a handgun.
“Yes,” she said.
Holding his hat at his side, he followed her into the house.
“It’s quite charming.”
She walked around the living room, turning on lamps, taking comfort in the light. Griffin followed her, switching off all but two of the lamps.
“What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “I’m sorry, but my eyes are unable to tolerate bright lights.”
“Oh.”
He stopped directly in front of her, smiling wickedly, as if eyeing dessert.
She backed away, toward the safety of her kitchen. “Would you like some tea or something?”
“Something, perhaps,” he said.
“If you want to wait here,” she said, motioning nonchalantly over her shoulder.
But he didn’t wait. In the kitchen, he leaned against the tile counter and watched her fill the kettle, place it on the stove and juggle a mug from the cupboard, which escaped her grasp. In a blurred movement, he scooped up the mug just inches from the floor and handed it to her.
“Holy shit,” she said, again less eloquent than usual. “How did you do that?”
“I have wonderful reflexes.”
“No joke.” She placed the mug on the counter beside the stove, drew in a deep breath for courage, and then turned to face him.
“Okay, I want a straight answer. Who are you and why are you here?”
Griffin dropped his hat on the counter behind him and nodded, admitting defeat. “My name truly is Griffin, and I’m here to erase your memory of me.”
“What? Why would you want to do that, assuming you could? What are you, a hypnotist?”
He moved forward again, and the lights in the room dimmed as he neared. With his lips not quite touching her skin, he moved his mouth across her cheek.
Her throat constricted and her heart pounded. She couldn’t explain or control the erotic excitement tingling in
