Movement in the mirror caught her attention. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Josiah Mason slid out of his seat with casual grace. He wore jeans and a thin cream sweater that looked like it was cashmere and highlighted his healthy tan. Dark hair swept back from his strong forehead in a long, unruly wave.

He approached. Of course he approached. Her hands clenched. Damn it to hell, why was he ignoring the go away vibes she threw so strenuously into the air? Anybody with discretion or good sense would avoid her like the plague after witnessing her meltdown.

He was a powerfully built man, and he moved with the sinuous grace of a jaguar. He looked like he could take down any opponent in a championship boxing match. Like he could kill someone if he wanted.

As he neared, she felt the same thing she had sensed on Thursday, that he emitted some kind of dark, intense frequency that made everybody else in the bar appear pale and flat, like paper dolls. This man would re-form reality wherever he went.

Without asking permission, he slid into the empty stool beside her. When the bartender set her drink down, she signed for it, then wrapped both hands around the glass and clutched it as if it were her lifeline. Just stay calm and breathe normally, she thought.

In a low voice, she said, “I am intensely uncomfortable with you coming to join me.”

“And I am positive you will survive it.” His voice was deeper than she had expected. With a small jolt, she realized this was the first time she had heard him speak. “We haven’t been properly introduced.”

“I know who you are.” She took a big gulp of the Balvenie. Fruity and smoky, the scotch glided down her throat as smoothly as a hunting knife sliding into a sheath. Warmth suffused her middle, spreading outward like a fresh pool of blood. She had turned unexpectedly morbid. “People call you hot shit, or so I’ve heard.”

That probably shouldn’t have slipped out of her mouth. Day drinking wreaked havoc on impulse control.

As she watched in the mirror, one corner of his long mouth tilted up. He didn’t have yellow eyes so much as amber. They seemed brighter when the light hit them just right.

“I prefer Josiah.” His strong throat muscles worked as he took a swallow of his own drink. It was something clear and bubbly on ice with a slice of lime, probably a gin and tonic, or vodka. Or maybe it was soda water. He didn’t look like the kind of man who would enjoy losing control to outside influences.

“When I walked in here, it looked like you were waiting for someone.” She took another swallow of her scotch. “Josiah.”

His voice turned cold. “Don’t be coy, Molly. It doesn’t suit you.”

Wait, what?