Zoey was warm. So warm. When was the last time she hadn’t
woken up to her own shivers? Weariness bled out of her,
leaving only a pleasant sense of quiet, and she wondered
if she was dead. There wasn’t any other way to explain
the sudden change in her physical surroundings. She
wasn’t in a hospital.

Forcing her eyelids open, it took her some time to
adjust. She was lying on a massive, and incredibly soft,
feather bed with a thick blanket wrapped warm and snug
around her body. Like a human burrito. The thought made
her giggle. She had to be dead. This had to be heaven.
The last thing she remembered was the bright lights of
the diner. Christmas bells ringing. The flash of a knife.
Snarled words. Pain. Her heart pounded at an unsteady
rhythm, and her breath quickened.

Breath? How was she breathing? And then it all came back.
The man with the face of an angel and the voice of a
sinner, the one who could tempt her to sell her soul for
just one caress. Had he saved her? How?

Zoey’s hands started to shake as she remembered blood
oozing from the wounds in her chest. Fearful, she tugged
the blanket down and lifted her blood-stained shirt up.
The skin was clear except for two small pink slashes
between her ribs. Zoey pressed her fingertips down on the
marks, testing them. They were sore, but they felt like
an old injury, not something that would have killed her
the night before.

Suddenly remembering she was in a strange place, she
looked about the room, half hoping to find the man who’d
brought her here. The bed was huge, its frame a dark
wood, almost black. Despite the dimness, she could see
the walls had lovely black and white photos of Paris and
a few other places she thought she recognized. The crisp
contrast of the photos was stunning and made her
strangely homesick.

Before her life had fallen apart, she’d been studying
photography. It had been her dream to live her life
behind the lens, capturing moments for people. Weddings,
baby showers, children’s sporting matches. She wanted to
capture life in vibrant colors and a contrast of grays.
Nothing would have made her happier than to take photos
of the events that marked the milestones in people’s
lives.

But that was gone, all gone. Her camera was likely still
in some pawnshop collecting dust. Food and rent had been
a priority, not her future. How long ago had that been?
Zoey didn’t want to count, but it had to be somewhere
around eight months.

She sat up, pushing her hair out of her eyes, and the
memories out of her head. Had the handsome guy with the
Irish accent brought her here? His whispered words came
back to her, the promise to keep her safe and take care
of her. She vaguely recalled him asking if he could bring
her home, and she’d agreed. She didn’t think of herself
as a weak person, but after everything she’d been through
it was such a relief to think she might have help for the
first time in forever.

She did feel safe. Wherever he’d taken her, she knew he
wouldn’t let harm come to her. It was stupid to trust a
stranger, but her gut had told her to, and she’d never
ignored her instincts before.

The man who’d helped her had held her tenderly, gently,
as though he’d treasured her. Maybe he was like a Good
Samaritan, a handsome man who stopped to save a complete
stranger. If not that, he surely pitied her, enough to
show her some compassion.

She didn’t want anyone’s pity, but it was better than
apathy. She wanted to believe there were still good
people out there. After everything that had happened in
the last year, she was afraid to hope. But it was almost
Christmas. The holidays brought the best out in people.
Usually.

If only she could stay in this bed forever, wrapped in
the blanket with the peaceful quiet all around her. Too
many nights at the underpass had left her nervous and
tense while she caught a few hours of sleep. Zoey glanced
around the room, checking for a clock, but there wasn’t
one. The sky was gray through the blinds of the large
window next to the bed. It could be evening or early
morning, she couldn’t tell.

Beside her on the bed lay her black portfolio. She
snatched it up, wincing when her sore muscles complained.
The sketches and photos were all out of order, but neatly
placed back inside. She barely remembered dropping it
when the man had attacked her. Her rescuer must have gone
back and collected all of the pages. More than a few were
dried and wrinkled in places where snow had seeped
through. Hugging the portfolio to her chest a moment
longer, she set it back down on the bed.

She jumped when someone knocked at the bedroom door.

“Excuse me, love. May I come in?” That beautiful, whisky
rough voice. Definitely Irish.

“Uh…yes.”

Her hands curled into the blanket and she raised it up to
her chin. She felt oddly exposed as the man eased the
door open and slid inside. Zoey craned her neck to look
up at him. He had to be at least six-three, with black
hair long enough to touch the collar of his shirt and a
thin layer of stubble. He looked like a pirate off the
cover of a romance novel. His white shirtsleeves were
rolled up to reveal muscled forearms, and the two top
buttons were undone below his throat. She was struck by
how large he was. His shoulders alone were massive. She
had the sudden urge to touch them, feel the strength of
the muscles beneath her palm. Her mouth ran dry as a
quickening in her blood made her feel light-headed. He
was a stranger; why did she want to suddenly kiss him? It
made no sense at all.

“How are you doing?” He came to the bed and raised a hand
to her forehead. His skin was cold, shockingly so, and
she flinched from the contact. The man’s face paled and
he pulled back. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. Just…cold.” Even though she didn’t want to be
cold again, she’d suffer it just to have his hand back on
her forehead. The whisper of a secret thrill skated along
her skin, and already she missed his touch.

The man turned away and flicked on the lamp on her
nightstand. The wash of gold light illuminated her
mysterious rescuer. His face was just as beautiful as
she’d remembered. Sharp angles and masculine perfection
highlighted by dark brows above piercing winter green
eyes. Faint lines bracketed his mouth as though he smiled
often.

She met his gaze with a shy smile. Men like him never
glanced her way, not even out of pity. Ever since she’d
lost her home, she’d become almost invisible to the
world. Especially men. A blush flooded her cheeks when
she realized how she must look to him. Hair unwashed in
thick oily strands, blood staining her flannel shirt and
mud-stained jeans.

“Oh God, I must have ruined your bed!” She struggled to
get free of the blanket and flopped like a fish over the
edge. She braced herself for impact, but his arms shot
out and caught her. She was pulled up and trapped against
his upper body in a gentle embrace.

“Careful, love.” His eyes glittered with mischief. “Now,
about your stomach. It’s been grumbling for the last
several hours. How about I fix it for you?”

Zoey blinked, unsure of what he meant.

He smiled. “I could go out and get something for you to
eat?”

“That’s really not necessary. I…I should go.” But she
really wanted him to let her stay. At least for another
hour. Long enough for her to preserve some warmth before
facing the cold again.

He shook his head. “No. You’re not leaving.” His voice
brooked no argument.

Zoey clamped her lips shut, happy not to argue. It was
probably unwise to stay with a stranger, even a handsome
one. But she needed a day, at least one day away from the
cold. But she couldn’t forget his promise—she was safe
with him. And as silly as it was, she believed it.

He strode to the door with her still tucked firmly in his
arms. “Let me get you settled on the couch. Unless you’d
like to wash first?”

Zoey must have made a noise, something to indicate how
desperately she wanted a hot shower, because his chest
shook with silent laughter.

“A shower it is, then.” He changed directions and headed
down another hallway. He released her legs, letting her
stand while he opened the bathroom door. A large glass
shower stall was in the corner, and an even larger
whirlpool tub was next to it.

She started to walk to the tub. “Oh, wow.” Maybe she
wanted a bath first—a good long soak would be better.