When she jerked away, one of his nails nicked her palm, and he murmured, “Excusez-moi.”

  “No problem,” Natalie said, hurrying away.

  But he’d drawn blood, dammit. Just a bead, but still. Did the guy file his nails into points or something?

  She glanced back and nearly froze. The creep was licking the blood off his finger. Or, wait. Was he innocently licking a drop of spilled cream?

  Innocent, my ass, her inner radar said.

  “Olivier.” One of the other volunteers shot the man a dark look. “I swear he has no business here. But you never know. Sometimes the best dressed are the ones who’ve lost everything.”

  Natalie wasn’t so sure, but she wasn’t about to bring up vampires, no matter how foreboding her dreams had become. Some in a good way, like the dreams that had made her move to Paris in the first place. Those dreams had been sunny and warm, with long walks along riverbanks and cobblestoned streets. Dreams so detailed and lifelike, they felt like scenes she’d already lived.

  Other dreams were weirdly empowering, like dreams of flying — and not just flying around the rooms of her childhood home as she had imagined as a kid. These strange new dreams had her swooping over a lavender-lined landscape by night with the wind whistling in her ears. In them, the world was hushed, and the moon shone orange and extra large, making her feel as if she could glide for hours.

  Lately, though, her dreams had grown darker and more chilling. Shadows followed her down dim alleys, and when she tried to run — or fly — she felt stuck in place. Sinister men stepped out of nowhere, flashing fangs. Their fingers closed over her throat, and she felt powerless to move. Then they would lean in with their jaws opened wide…

  She shivered. Most of the time, moving to Paris seemed like the best decision of her life. She felt freer, happier, and more independent than she’d ever been. But occasionally, a creep like Olivier would come along and make her wonder about the difference between premonitions and harmless dreams.

  “Merde,” a guest blurted, riveted to the TV screen.

  Yeah, shit was the word, and not just for a missed free kick. Natalie straightened her shoulders, reminding herself she could manage everything on her own. That was part of her coming to Paris, too. A new life. A new start. A new everything.

  “Any chance for a refill?” another guest asked, holding up his bowl.

  As she stepped over, the front door opened, letting in a gust of fresh night air. Curtains stirred, and the guests all glanced up at the sound of huge boots clomping confidently down the stairs from street level.

  Natalie looked too, and for a moment, time stood still. Her breath caught, and her pulse skipped as the security man backed away, revealing the newcomer’s face.

  It’s him! It’s him! part of her cheered.

  It was ridiculous, reacting to a near-stranger that way. But, hell. In three years of dating a guy named Dean in Philly, she’d never gotten as excited as she got around Mr. Tall, Dark, and distinctly Parisian. Not even when Dean would come over — late, usually, because she had never been as important to him as his job — and not on weekends, no matter how much time she put into planning a nice time. Not even in bed, if she had to admit as much.

  But one look — one breath — in the presence of this stranger had a way of making her feel reborn.

  Hi, she wanted to murmur, although he was a good thirty feet away.

  His scowl broke long enough for him to smile at her. A brief but bright smile, as if he’d located the sun in a world of constant storms. His eyes sparkled, and though his lips didn’t move, she imagined a low Hi rumble through her mind.

  The wind had whisked a few leaves in after him, and they swirled around his ankles, as happy and free as Natalie felt. Boy, was he handsome — handsome enough to pull off that musketeer beard and mustache, like a man intent on swashbuckling his way into her heart. But then one of the volunteers pranced over, calling, “Tristan!”

  His face went dull, and when he turned to the woman, the upward curl of his lips was forced.

  “Marie,” he murmured, kissing her on each cheek.

  Natalie turned away. Was that special smile just wistful thinking on her part? She barely knew the man, and they’d never exchanged more than a few words. Yet every time Tristan entered, it felt as though he was only there for her. Every time he left, part of her mourned. And as for the dreams he inspired…

  Natalie puffed a breath upward, cooling herself off.

  “Mademoiselle, du sucre, s’il vous plaît?” Some sugar, please? a guest called, pulling her back to work.

  Still, her mind stayed with Tristan. Rumors abounded about him. Some said he was an undercover gendarme, keeping an eye out for trouble. Others said he was a bounty hunter searching for deadbeats who owed money to criminals in Paris’s shady underworld. Some insisted he was an agent with the DGSI — the French equivalent of the FBI. Marie insisted he was an ultra-rich benefactor checking up on one of his pet projects. And in a way, all those theories fit. The man exuded authority, power, and a mysterious je ne sais quoi that put him a class above everyone else.

  Natalie glanced back, and miracle of miracles, Tristan’s eyes met hers. Like she was the real beauty there and not curvy Marie, who tossed back her sleek hair and giggled in one smooth, practiced move.

  Every head in the soup kitchen turned to admire Marie’s figure, but Tristan’s eyes didn’t stray from Natalie’s.

  Hi, she breathed all over again.

  His gaze was soft and concerned, and his chest — a broad expanse that stretched the fabric of the black shirt under his jacket — rose and fell in a deep breath. But the next time he inhaled—

  His nostrils flared, and his head whipped around. He scanned the area, then pinned his gaze squarely on Olivier, the creep by the window.

  You, Tristan’s accusing gaze declared.

  You, Oliver might as well have replied. His brow furrowed, and his nails scratched at the wooden tabletop. The air grew charged as the men stared each other down.

  “Miss? Some sugar? Please?”

  Natalie blinked at the guest before her. “Oh, sorry. I’ll be right back.”

  As she hurried to the kitchen, Tristan and Olivier sized each other up like a couple of gorillas about to thump their chests. Tristan was a good six feet tall, but he seemed to grow even taller as he stared the other man down. Olivier, though slighter in build, was taller. He had a sinister aura, and his pale skin appeared to give off an effervescent glow.

  Natalie glanced around. Did no one else pick up on the testosterone-laced vibes filling the room?

  But even Madame Monet — the stout matron with a knack for squelching petty disagreements before they exploded into all-out fights — didn’t so much as give the two men a second glance.

  “Goooooal!” the television announcer hollered, and everyone leaped to their feet. Everyone but Tristan and Olivier, who continued to stare each other down.

  In the jubilation that followed the goal, Natalie lost sight of the two men. She shook herself back into action. It didn’t matter what the score was or who had walked in. Her job was to work the soup kitchen floor, and she’d been neglecting her guests. For the next few minutes, she bustled back and forth, clearing dishes and serving tea with biscuits. But when she turned away from wiping down one table—

  Oof! She bumped into a brick wall. Or rather, into someone built as solidly as a brick wall.

  “Excusez-moi,” she murmured, looking up — way up — into eyes the color of a stormy sky. Tristan?

  It was a whole new angle on him. Usually, he stood in a corner, quietly refusing food or drink while he surveyed the area. Now, she spotted all the details she’d never noticed from afar. The tiny scar on one cheek where no stubble grew. The length of his eyelashes. The curls of brown hair that reached to just beneath his ears. The depths of his pure eyes, as blue as the sea…

  For a moment, she lost track of time, and Tristan seemed equally mesmerized. Then he frowned, grabbed her elbow, and spoke in French.

  “You have to leave. Now.”

  His voice was deep. Growly. So full of authority, Natalie nearly nodded.

  Then she caught herself. “Wait. What?”

  In one deft movement, he turned her toward the kitchen, using just enough force to make his urgency clear.

  “Leave. Now. Trust me,” he said, making the strands of her hair move. “You have to go.”

  “But…”

  She’d spent many a lonely night entertaining fantasies about the mysterious cop/millionaire/secret agent, but none of them had gone anything like this. Still, when she turned to face him, she saw what had entranced her from the very start: those deep, sincere eyes. Eyes that promised, You can trust me.

  “You have to go,” he insisted, switching to English.

  His accent was almost North American, but every once in a while, a vowel would slip, and a French accent came through. Who was he, exactly? Where was he from? And why did he want her to run out on the job now?

  She motioned toward tables that needed clearing, about to protest. Then she spotted Olivier jumping to his feet, staring at her with an expression that said, Don’t you dare move.

  It was an order accompanied by a burning, unrelenting glare. Literally burning, Natalie realized, when she saw two red points of light spark where his irises should have been.

  Help. Call the police. He’s a monster, she wanted to scream. But no one seemed perturbed — not even Marie, who passed between them. Could she not see the man’s eyes glow?

  “Quick, while we still have time,” Tristan said, hustling her through the kitchen’s swinging door.

  “Hey!” Madame Monet called, but it was too late.

  Natalie squinted through the kitchen’s cloud of steam. Dishes clattered, oil splattered, and volunteer cooks called to each other over the usual kitchen din. Tristan kept hold of Natalie’s elbow — gently enough not to pinch, yet firmly enough to hurry her along. In no time, they reached the back door, which was partially blocked by a stack of wooden pallets.

  She balked. “This is crazy. Let me go.”

  She spun, staring Tristan down. The height difference made her tilt her head way back, but when her eyes locked on his…

  You can trust him, a little voice whispered. You must trust him.

  Her lips moved in protest, but no words came. Just a little squeak that made his face soften.

  Then the swinging door burst open, and Olivier appeared.

  “Hey!” one of the cooks yelled. “You can’t come back here.”

  Olivier — pale, creepy Olivier, who seemed twice as sinister as before — ignored the protest and stalked forward.

  You, his eyes promised Natalie. You are mine.

  Natalie watched in horror as Olivier’s lips peeled back, exposing long, pointy canines. The only thing that kept her from screaming was the steady grip of Tristan’s hand on her arm, propelling her toward the door.

  “That way,” he grunted. “If you want to live, get moving. Now.”

  * * *

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