But the flash in his eyes had dimmed all too quickly, leading her to believe that it had been nothing more than wishful thinking on her part. Then he had asked her surname, no doubt with the intent of returning her to her sire. Given her current situation that was unlikely, but Isobeille refused to take any chances. Logic suggested that if she had been brought here to this strange new world, then she could also be returned to hers as well.
Even frightened and alone, she knew which she preferred: freedom.
And perhaps his hasty departure was for the best. Despite the obvious differences in language and culture, Isobeille had recognized the look of desperation in his eyes, his need to flee apparent. So he hadn’t felt the same tingle of awareness, that sense of rightness that she had; it was what it was. Sulking over it would change nothing, and she had enough to be getting on with.
Swallowing her disappointment, Isobeille drew upon her courage. She had been given a rare gift, and she would do well not to squander it.
* * *
Nick didn’t see her at first. He paused around the corner from where he’d last seen her, looking left and right, certain that she could not have gotten very far. He was right. Barely fifty feet ahead, he caught a momentary flash of dark red. Of course, all he really had to do was watch the people in the immediate vicinity, turning around to look curiously upon the odd young woman so out of place in a city of freaks.
He slowed his pace as he came up behind her, unwilling to startle her. Her expression was clearly visible, reflected in the huge panes of glass of the display window beside her. Christ. Had anyone ever looked so lost?
“Hey,” he said. She turned at the sound of his voice. Nick refused to acknowledge the brightening in her eyes even as he rubbed absently at his chest. The relief and hope he saw in her face had nothing to do with him, really. He was just the dumbass stupid enough not to walk away.
She shivered, her arms wrapped around her midsection in a hug that made the swell of her breasts rise up above those thin leather laces holding her top together. It took a moment for him to process that, given the flare of lust that particular picture inspired.
“Are you cold?” he heard himself asking.
Brilliant. Of course she was cold. Anyone in a dress and bare feet would be at a temperature of thirty-seven degrees. The constant breeze tunneling through the skyscrapers didn’t do much for the wind chill, either.
In a chivalrous move, Nick took off his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders. He, at least, had a thermal beneath his SUNY hoodie, and fingerless gloves. Oh yeah. And boots.
She tilted her head and inhaled along the collar, her eyes shuttering down half-way as if she found the scent pleasing. Ah, hell. He didn’t need this right now, not when he and Gloria hadn’t hooked up for weeks, a situation he was hoping to remedy very soon. He looked left, then right, searching for the hidden camera or some douchebag recording on his iPhone. Maybe he was being punked.
No cameras. Lots of douchebags. But no one seemed unusually fixated on them or was pointing anything at them that he could see. She was getting lots of looks, though. Mostly leers. And why not? She was gorgeous - small, but built like the St. Paulie Girl. All she needed was a couple of tankards in each hand and she’d be a ringer for the poster that had adorned his college roommate’s wall through their junior and senior years.
Right. Not helping.
“Okay, so look. I don’t know what your deal is, but I think it’s safe to say we need to get you someplace warm and safe.” She blinked, looked up at him with those hypnotic green eyes, and smiled.
What the hell? He rubbed at his chest again. It felt like someone had just lit a charge in there or something. It was kind of like the ache in his groin, just suddenly there and not easily ignored.
“Isobeille, right?” he said, feeling like some punk teen with a hard-on. “I’m Nick. Nick Peterson.”
“Nick Peterson,” she repeated with a gentle smile, placing a breathy emphasis on the hard “k” sound at the end that he didn’t think he could recreate if he tried.
“Uh, are you lost?”
A dark cloud passed over her features. “Aye,” she admitted. “It appears that I am at that.”
Her voice was as beautiful as the rest of her, so soft and soothing. When combined with her accent – which he now guessed to be either an Irish or Scottish brogue – it sounded like music to his ears.
“Do you know anyone in the city? Have a place to go?”
Those delicate shoulders slumped slightly before straightening again. “Alas, I doona.”
Sympathy warred with anger. He felt bad for her, he really did, but how moronic was it to come to a big city like this without having a clue?
Anger edged ahead of the sympathy. “So, what – you were just planning on winging it? Maybe finding a nice cozy spot behind a dumpster till something came along?”
The moment the words were out of his mouth he felt like a dick. She was looking at him with those big, green puppy eyes and it actually hurt. He rubbed at his chest again, harder this time, in an attempt to relieve the ache.
“Christ, stop looking at me like that, will you?”
Isobeille obediently dropped her eyes. He didn’t think it was possible, but that made him feel even worse. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it in the process. Either she was one hell of an actress – which she very well might be, given the get-up, or she was, as his mother would say, right off the boat. If it was the latter, as he was beginning to suspect, she wasn’t going to last one night in the city. What the hell had she been thinking?
Nick exhaled heavily. He really should think about getting the word “SUCKER” tattooed right across his forehead, but he couldn’t help it if he had a conscience the size of Mount Rushmore. He blamed his mother; for as long as he could remember she was forever dragging him and his siblings along with her to soup kitchens and food drives, retirement homes and on Meals on Wheels deliveries.
“Right. So you’re new in town, you don’t know anybody, and you have nowhere to go. Does that about cover it?”
Isobeille nodded, but kept her eyes averted.
Nick put his finger under her chin and coaxed her face upward so he could see her eyes. “Hey, look. I’m sorry. I’m just running a little late, and my girlfriend’s going to be really pissed if I don’t – ah, shit.” He cursed as his cell phone began to ring from his leather jacket. Ignoring Isobeille’s curious looks, he reached into the pocket and extracted the phone.
“Hey baby... yeah, of course, just running a little late but ... yeah... uh-huh... Sure, sure I understand... No, I know, if I’d been on time... right... okay... no, tomorrow’s great... Talk to you then.”
He snapped the lid closed and blew out a breath. Suddenly there was a butterfly-light touch on his arm.
“Nick? Is your baby okay?”
“What? I don’t have a baby.” As he spoke, his mind was rewinding, trying to figure out what he might have said or done to give her the impression he had a kid. “Oh – no, that was my girlfriend.”
“Your girl-friend is an infant?” she asked, her brow furrowed in obvious confusion. It was kind of adorable, really.
“No, of course not. Her name is Gloria. Baby is kind of my nickname for her.”
She nodded, her expression clearing as understanding dawned. “Ah. It is a term of endearment. Like sweetling,” she said.
“Sweetling, huh?” he asked, half of his mouth turning up in a grin, despite his irritation. “I like that.”
Isobeille blushed, a pretty, light pink that highlighted her green eyes and dark red hair.
“Well,” he said, “fortunately for you, it looks like my calendar just freed up for tonight. What do you say we grab something to eat and try to figure out just what we’re going to do with you?”
Her smile was back, and strangely enough, he didn’t feel quite as disappointed about having to postpone his date with Gloria as he might have. Nick told himself it was only because nothing remotel
y interesting had happened to him for a while, nothing more. It didn’t get much more interesting than tackling a sexy Scottish peasant girl and taking her back to his place.
Nick hesitated as he realized that was what he was planning to do. Shouldn’t he take her to a police station or a hospital or a shelter or something? That would probably be better. They would know what to do with her, and be better equipped to handle this kind of thing, surely. They dealt with this kind of thing all the time.
Except... she was gazing up at him with those pretty green eyes, looking way too innocent to be left in any of those places. And maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t ready to turn her loose just yet.
In an old-fashioned gesture, Nick held out his arm. Isobeille accepted, her eyelashes fluttering slightly as she did so. Nick knew in that moment that he had made the right decision.
His mother would be so proud.
* * *
Isobeille tucked her hand into the crook of Nick’s elbow. The strange current flowed through her again, but she was better prepared for it this time. It was a sign, she thought, just like Nick’s timely intervention and subsequent return. For whatever reason, it felt right. She was meant to be here, with him.
Mayhap that explained her lack of trepidation. There was a sense of excitement, yes, but no genuine fear. Isobeille decided that any man who had gone to the effort he had to save her from the silver beast deserved a bit of trust. Besides, it wasn’t like she had a lot of other options. And he had such kind eyes. The eyes gave the best measure of a man, she thought.
It would behoove her to be on her best behavior, however. To censor her words and curtail her untoward thoughts, lest he decide to abandon her again. Thankfully, he had seen fit to give her another chance. Isobeille did her best to keep her eyes respectfully averted from his, and to do as he commanded without hesitation, for no matter the culture, he was a man, and she, naught but a woman, and a rather helpless one at that.
It was difficult, though. So many odd and wondrous things clamored for her attention that she found it nearly impossible to keep her eyes cast downward. Unable to refrain for long, she peeked up a few times, and when Nick showed no sign of displeasure, she gave up entirely. Completely entranced by this new world, she tried to see everything at once.
Wrapped in the fragrant warmth of Nick’s sleeved cloak, with the heat of his arm beneath her fingers, she barely noticed the icy nip of the air or the cold stone beneath her feet. They walked along at a fairly brisk pace. Since his legs were so much longer than hers, she was forced to skip to keep up with his strides, at least until he realized what she was doing and slowed down a bit.
She had no idea where they were going, but it mattered not. In her heart of hearts, she knew she was safe with him.
“What do you feel like?” Nick asked. It startled her a bit, caught up as she was in everything else around her. “Burgers? Pizza? Chinese? Sorry, but we’re kind of limited to take-out. You’re not really dressed for a night on the town.”
Isobeille looked down at herself, then at everyone else around them. Granted, she spied no other garments similar to her own, but it was not as if her legs were showing (as they were on so many others).
“No shoes,” he explained, pointing at her feet after obviously sensing her confusion. “It’s against the city health code to go into a restaurant – even a dive – without shoes. It’s considered a public health hazard.”
She looked doubtfully at one woman whose upper body was wrapped in some kind of fur but was sporting an exceptionally short skirt and walking into what was clearly an eating establishment.
“But baring your arse afore all the world isnae?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Following her eyes, Nick barked out a laugh. “Not if you’re wearing shoes.”
Chapter 3
They walked the first couple of blocks, but it wasn’t easy. In a town where people typically avoided eye contact like the plague, Nick was very aware of the curious looks they were getting (more so Isobeille than him). Those from the men ranged from appreciative to outright creepy; those from the women ranked anywhere from curious to catty.
Isobeille didn’t appear to notice any of them. Wide-eyed and curious, her head swiveled as if on a stick. Nick was forced to catch her several times when she stumbled because her eyes were elsewhere, or to hold her back when she attempted to simply walk out into the middle of the street, heedless of the traffic because something else had grabbed her attention. Eventually he decided it was just too dangerous, and he needed to get her somewhere warm before she got frostbite on those cute little toes.
Nick flagged a cab and guided Isobeille into it. She was hesitant at first. For a few moments it appeared that she would refuse to get in altogether, but Nick managed to coax her in using what his partner had dubbed his “soothing voice”, which he used with great success upon frightened, panicked victims. He tried not to think too much about her apparent trust in him, because then he would have to remind himself that she was most likely a few bricks shy of a load to be blindly getting into a car with a stranger in the first place.
“First time in a taxi, I take it?” Nick asked wryly. From the moment the door closed her face had grown increasingly pale and her eyes widened. That, combined with the death grip she had on his arm, gave him his first clue.
“Is that what ye call this beast?” she managed through gritted teeth.
He shook his head, wondering again where in the hell she had come from.
Thankfully, it wasn’t a far ride and they arrived at Nick’s apartment building without further incident. He paid the driver and pried Isobeille out of the cab. She huddled close to him while he extracted his keys and unlocked the entry door. As she stood on the steps, her skirt held in her hands, he was once again stricken by the sight of her small, delicate feet.
“Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” he asked, unable to contain the question any longer.
“A woman cannae wander far without shoes now, can she?” she said with what he could have sworn was a triumphant gleam in her eye, and he couldn’t help feeling like he was missing something important.
Shaking his head, he guided her toward the elevator and pushed the up button. After several long moments of waiting, she said, “Not te be ungrateful, but why are we staring at a wall?”
He glanced down, vaguely wondering at how big he felt next to her. “We’re not staring at a wall. We’re waiting for an elevator. Haven’t you ever been in an elevator either?”
Before she could answer, the soft ding announced the arrival of the car. When the doors slid open with a swish, Isobeille jumped back. “Come on,” he coaxed, stepping in and holding the door open with one hand.
“Ye wish me te climb inte a box?” she asked, eyeing the small space with obvious suspicion.
“Fastest way to the seventh floor.”
When she remained outside, looking very much like she had when he pushed her into the back of the cab, it finally hit him. “You’re claustrophobic, aren’t you?”
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I doona ken what that is, but it sounds verra rude.”
Nick released the doors and stepped back out into the lobby. “It means you don’t like tight, enclosed spaces.”
“Aye. I doona.”
“Alright, no elevator tonight. We’ll take the stairs instead.”
The look of relief on her face when the elevator doors closed without them in it almost made the thought of walking seven flights on the heels of a twelve-hour shift worth it. Almost.
Nick liked to think he was in fairly decent shape. As a paramedic, being in good physical condition was a definite plus. On any given night he never knew what he was going to have to face. But as they came out on the seventh floor, even he was breathing a little heavily. Isobeille, however, seemed as unaffected as if she had taken the elevator after all. Definitely not as fragile as she looked then, he concluded.
“This is me,” he announced when they reached h
is door. “Come on in.” Nick entered first, flicking on the lights as he did so.
Isobeille peeked around the doorframe as if she expected to find another elevator. Even from several feet away her sigh of relief was audible. She stepped over the threshold, her eyes growing wide.
“This is yer home?”
“Yeah. Not much, I know, but it’s about all I can afford.”
“I think it is wonderful!” she said, turning around full circle.
Nick tossed his keys on the small table by the door. Not for the first time that evening, he questioned the wisdom of bringing a strange woman into his apartment, strange being the operative word. For all of her quirks, however, she seemed harmless enough.
He looked back to where Isobeille remained rooted by the door, her hand poised against the wall. “It’s all right,” he said, continuing on further into the apartment. “Come on in and let’s - ”
Whatever Nick was about to say was cut off as the room fell into sudden and complete darkness. Instinctively, Nick turned and headed back toward where he had last seen her, encountering the solid oak coffee table in the process. “Damn it! What did you do that for?!?”
Instantly, the entire room was illuminated once again. Nick was several feet in front of her, rubbing his wounded knee. He watched, annoyed, as she hit the switch repeatedly, her eyes looking at each of the lights in turn as they flicked on and off.
“Stop that!” he said, a little too harshly. And it was not because she failed to notice that she had caused him injury. He was a better man than that.
“Oh!” she said, looking surprised, as if she had forgotten he was even there. “My apologies! Are ye all right?”
“It’s nothing,” he said, straightening, his manly pride mollified now that she had recognized his pain. “So what’s next? Are you going to tell me you didn’t have electricity where you come from either?” he said half-jokingly.
Maiden in Manhattan Page 2