Something brushed along her awareness. A car sped into view and parked beside her rental. From where she sat, she couldn’t tell what model it was, but it looked dark, low-slung, and powerful. While she waited for Josiah to emerge, she ran her gaze over the area.

A woman with a Great Dane jogged along the side of the park road a couple hundred yards away, but Molly’s and Josiah’s vehicles were the only two in sight. In the summer this picnic spot would be crowded until sunset, but now, as the evening chilled, they should have the clearing to themselves.

Josiah climbed out and strode across the open area like he was conquering it, his body loose-limbed and comfortable. Like her, he wasn’t young. He looked to be early- to midforties, but for all his maturity, his long, athletic body didn’t carry an ounce of spare fat. There was a tight, whipcord element to the breadth of his muscles. He looked nothing like Austin’s pampered, gym-built physique.

Okay, she had to be honest. The man was sex on a stick.

He wore a similar outfit, jeans, a black shirt and leather jacket, and the slanting evening sun gave his dark hair chestnut highlights. Look at that, he wasn’t quite as dark and dangerous as she’d first thought.

Then she met his hard, catlike amber eyes. A sense of his magic, dark, polished and well-honed, shimmered against her mind’s eye. It felt as sleek as his car looked and infinitely more powerful.

She threw everything into full reverse. He was every bit as dangerous as she had first thought. Every bit and more.

Maybe it hadn’t been the smartest idea to meet him in such a secluded spot. But he was a district attorney, she reminded herself, not a serial killer. By the time Josiah reached the picnic shelter, she had wrestled her reactions under control.

He climbed up to sit beside her, moving his long-limbed body with fluid ease. “Good venue for dinner.”

“I thought so too.” Digging into the first of the two bags beside her, she pulled out a six-pack of craft beer and offered it to him.

He accepted a bottle. Setting the six-pack between them, she handed him the second bag. He peered into it and then at the logo on the outside of the bag. “I’d hoped I was smelling fried chicken. Is this from a chain?”

“Nope. You will want to remember the name of this place. Best fried chicken in Atlanta.” She used the opener she’d bought to pry off the bottle cap, handed the opener to him, and took a pull from her bottle.

“Excellent. I was too busy to have a real lunch.” He selected a large piece and handed the bag back.

“How’s your job going? No nasty surprises, I hope?”

He replied lazily, “Nothing I can’t handle.”