I stopped breathing, my mouth falling open as, with long silver-ring-lined fingers, my until-now-faceless rescuer drew back that obscuring black hood to reveal dark and unruly chin-length hair. His choppy, careless, rock star cut struck through on the right with a single lock of shock white.
That ghostly strip wisped back from his forehead, cominglingwith ebony strands that curled around his pierced ear. A small silver loop glinted in his lobe, and another hugged the cartilage.
Now that his stately, nonskeletal, kind-of-really-hot profile had been revealed, I lost my ability to blink as well as breathe. I couldn’t seem to tear my gaze away from that one visible cheekbone, either, as it actively competed with his jawline for the title of “sharpest plane” of his face. The shadows nesting below each did nothing to help me play the role of impartial judge, either.
But that wasn’t all.
A straight prominent nose gave him an ultramasculine silhouette while his lips, full and shapely enough to make me jealous, parted to murmur the words “There a problem, Officer?”
With this utterance, I reared back in my seat, stunned at the change in his voice, which had gone from the deep register of the Keeper of the Gates of Hell to the brassier, warmer baritone of a jazz-lounge singer on his cigarette break.
Top it all off with broody brows and an ocean-blue gaze fixed in a scowl, because it wasn’t like I wasn’t already attracted to him as the skeletal harvester of dead souls.
“You ask like you don’t know why I pulled you over,” said the officer through a short huffing laugh.
“My plates aren’t expired.”
“Try eighty-five in a sixty-five zone.”
“There was some trouble on the road,” said Reaper Man. “Some kind of bus swerving in and out of traffic. I’ve got a car with horsepower, so I used it to extract myself and my date from the situation.”
“Bus, huh?” said the officer, butIwas still stuck on the word “date.”
“It pulled off to the side about ten or so miles back,” said Reaper Man. “The driver seemed to be having issues. Either way, my goal was to slow down after I’d put enough distance between us.”
“I’ll call it in,” said the cop. “But where are you two headed?”
“Costume party,” Reaper Man said without missing a beat.
“Figured given your getup,” said the cop. “But can you even see with that hood on?”
This time, Reaper Man didn’t answer. Instead, he slowly turned his head to regard the officer. “Are you issuing me a ticket?”
“That depends,” said the cop, “on whether your bus story checks out. In the meantime, I’ll take your license, registration, and proof of insurance.”
Reaper Man’s scowl deepened as he reached across to the glove box. I scooted my knees to one side, though due to my shortness, they weren’t really in his way.
Still gaping, I traded my attention between his tattooed hand and that stern and very human profile. After forking over his paperwork to the cop, Reaper Man then tugged a wallet—of all things—from an inside pocket of his robes.
He flipped the billfold open and pulled out an ID before surrendering that, too.
“Wait here while I run your plates,” said the cop before pivoting to march back toward his cruiser, leaving us alone again.
“Are you okay?” Reaper Man asked after a long beat of silence, and the question popped the shell of my shock like a soap bubble.
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice quiet even to my own ears, “am I?”
For the first time, his gaze flicked my way. He still wore that scowl, one eye half lost behind the all-black portion of his hair.
“Did the blond man say anything to you?” he asked, completely ignoring my question.
“Why wouldn’t you ever talk to me when you called?” I countered.
Jaw jutting, hands gripping the steering wheel, he snapped his head forward as if I’d just slapped him, an action that confirmed once and for all the identity of my “Unknown” caller. Not that I’d ever really doubted he’d been the one behind the calls.
“Soon as I get rid of Dudley Do-Right, I’m taking you home.”
“I can’t go home,” I said, the words falling out of my mouth the exact moment they occurred to me. “Please, not yet. I… I don’teven know what’s going on, or who—or what—you really are. Or who that man was. And what he wants. Whatyouwant—”
