The man turned, his black overcoat flaring out around him, and walked towards me. I was still awkwardly half-sitting against the door where I’d fallen. As he came closer, I had to crane my head way back to keep him in view. He was big, a full head taller than me, and wide in the shoulders, too, and he was wearing a black suit under the overcoat. On some guys with a lot of muscle, suits look awkward and wrong: they look like kids forced to squeeze into their Sunday best. But on this man, the suit couldn’t have looked more right. The dark fabric flowed over his legs, flattened by the breeze against thickly-muscled thighs. The shirt was as white as the snow around us and beautifully tailored, following the vee-shape of his upper body and then skimming a hard, flat stomach. The black tie drew a perfect line between the broad swells of his chest, the tip pointing cheekily down towards his groin.

I craned my head further back and saw black hair cut short, the wind tousling it just a little, as if nature herself couldn’t resist him. Hard cheekbones and a strong jaw. Dangerously sexy lips, wide and full, the corners lifted into a permanent little smile, as if he didn’t take anything in life completely seriously.

And then I saw his eyes.

They were a color I’d never seen. Absinthe green, glittering and intoxicating. They were clear, honest: they didn’t play games or try to pretend he was something he wasn’t. They didn’t promise anything except a wild, filthy ride.

He looked down at me and his smile widened, turning into a full-on grin. His eyes sparkled and something in my chest just lit up and went ding ding ding, like a pinball machine hitting a super bonus multiplier.

He offered his hand to pull me up. I reached for it and saw that my palm was scraped from the sidewalk. The man noticed, too, and his eyes narrowed: a quiet, dangerous rage. He looked over his shoulder at the guy who’d stolen my bag and the guy shrank back against the wall. It was like a warm blanket was being wrapped around me: I’d never felt so protected.

The man took my hand in his big, warm one and hauled me to my feet. I’d been wrong before. He was over a foot taller than me: my eyes were level with his pecs.

“I’m Danny,” he told me in that deliciously rough London accent. “And who are you?”

2. Danny

2

DANNY

ONE MINUTE EARLIER