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3
Morgana
Ifocus on the stranger's voice, my gasps deepening into steady breaths.
"Good girl." My rescuer stands and extends his hand, helping me to my feet.
Holy shit.Did he justsaythat?
He's at least fifteen years my senior and a foot taller, with the build of a man who has the time and money to take care of himself. Dark wavy hair, silvery at his temples. Shadow on his sharp jaw, deep slate-grey eyes.
I'm trying not to gawp, but he doesn't belong here on the streets like an average person. He looks like he fell off Mount Olympus and crash-landed in Hugo Boss.
"I'm sorry about that," I say. I glance past him at the pond. The guy he kicked in is nowhere to be seen. "I wanted to take photos, and those assholes got other ideas."
The stranger sits on the bench, patting the seat. "You need to take a minute."
I settle beside him, clasping my hands in my lap. My skirt seems too short, and I tug it over my bare thighs.
"Are you a photographer?"
"No," I say, embarrassed. "Not a professional. But I want to be a photojournalist. Interviews, human interest stories, that kind of thing."
He smiles. "You were planning on taking Pulitzer-prize-winning photos of what? The egrets?"
I can't tell if he's just teasing or being condescending. "No. I was just trying to shake off an awful morning."
"It's only ten a.m.," he laughs. "Are things that bad already?"
A rush of nausea hits. The adrenaline is wearing off, and this day will get far worse. A few minutes of conversation with a hot stranger won't change that.
"Nothing to see here," I say with a sigh. "A day in the life of me."
"And who's you?"
"Morgana Bloom." We shake hands. "Twenty-seven, failed journalist, all-round incompetent human being. And you?"
"Vladimir Kislev. But you can call me Vlad."
His hand is large and warm. He holds on longer than appropriate, and I pull my hand back, avoiding his eyes.
"I'd better go."
"Why? You have an interview with someone other than a wading bird?"
I shrug. "No, I don't. Now I don't even have a camera. So it's all going well."
"I'll replace your camera, so you can interviewme."
Is he famous? He's so sexy. It seems impossible heisn'ta celebrity.
"Are you somebody I should recognize? I'm not good at names."
"That's a handicap for a world-class interviewer."
"I'm not a world-classanything."
"Everyone has to start somewhere." He smiles at my baffled frown. "It's no big deal, but I'm a billionaire." He sets off back along the path to the park entrance. "Walk with me."
