Her first mistake had been slowing down to have a second look. Three plus years with a vintage car enthusiast (her ex now, thank god; three months gone and good riddance to him, her mantra whenever he crossed her mind) had ingrained the habit in her. The habit, frankly, plus an appreciative eye for the sweetest of rides. Thanks to Simon (and his obsession), she could distinguish in seconds between the genuine article and that which easily fooled the masses, a cunningly detailed replica—and the sleek convertible that looked to have skidded to the side of the road, leaving a spray of gravel and black, burnt rubber in its tracks, was absolutely the real thing.

So she'd slowed down, only half meaning to, cataloguing the finer features and quickly estimating its worth, while admiring its classic lines and the bright flash of its chrome detailing. Seraphina couldn't keep from grinning, thinking about how instantly covetous Simon would be in the face of such a find, and how jealous he would feel to know that she had stumbled upon it with no effort whatsoever.

The man bending over the open hood straightened as she passed, arresting her attention with a commanding, steely gaze that left her feeling like a marked woman. As though he not only saw her, in her every visible feature, but somehow inexplicably knew her—and needed her. Vitally, and immediately. Despite the lick of common sense apprehension that fluttered through her vitals, simple curiosity and a deeply embedded tendency to act the good Samaritan had Seraphina making her second, even bigger, mistake of the afternoon-pulling over to park her hovercraft several feet in front of the antique Mustang.

She looked into her rearview mirror; he had turned to watch how she would proceed, holding his hands up with his fingers splayed wide, surely his way of expressing she could approach him safely. "Not so fast, buddy," she murmured, "I wasn't born yesterday…and I've seen your kind before." Sera cut the engine, pulling the keys from the ignition and flicking the lock mechanism off the small can of mace dangling from her keyring. She wasn't so foolhardy as to face the tall, well-built stranger unprepared; nearly a decade of travels up and down the coast of California, performing in seedy, small town dives, then upscale pubs and bars, and finally city nightclubs, had taught her well to be ever on her guard. And she'd learned a few tricks in the course of her career, for if the mace should fail; she could—and had—flipped a drunk onto his back a time or two, who'd tried to cop a feel when she passed across a darkened dancefloor; and she knew all too well how much force was necessary, knee to groin, in order to incapacitate those pigheaded brutes who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer when they followed her out to the parking lot at the end of a gig. Handsome he might be (decidedly so, she mused, angular features, piercing eyes, thick, dark hair, an errant lock strayed upon his brow; such a striking combination!) but she was not fool enough to ever judge a book by its cover.

The stranger stood motionless a moment more-clearly observing Seraphina as she closed her hatch (careful not to let it fully latch, in case a hasty retreat was required)-the light breeze ruffling that wayward lock until he brushed it back, a swift yet languid move that spoke of cat-like grace and an elegance that didn't fit the setting or the way that he was clothed. He was straight-backed, slim-hipped, long-legged in a trim pair of black jeans, beneath a plain, body-hugging white tee-and poised with a confidence befitting a prince, and not the work-a-day posture of a blue-collar joe or road-weary drifter. Yet the smile he gave her did not reach his eyes; Sera found it a little feral, and felt her pulse increase as a taste of adrenaline—that trusty "fight or flee" response—hit her system.

But she was already committed, having left the safety and cool comfort of her two-seater; if he was an actual threat, the worst that she could do was show the weakness of timidity now. Sera left her sunglasses in place, determined he would not read a bit of doubt in her eyes or bearing, the can of mace tucked neatly in the palm of her left hand, and walking forward into the dry, baking, Mojave Desert heat.

Sera gave a low but audible whistle, advancing as casually as she could, finally calling out to him, "She's a real beauty—and someone's taken serious loving care of her, too." The 300-year-old Mustang appeared as close to mint as any vintage vehicle she had ever seen; given its obvious value, she had to wonder why the hell he would even have it on the road—especially in desert conditions. That instinctive voice of warning sounded an answer in her head: that's because it's not his.

Okay Sera, she cautioned herself, give him the benefit of the doubt; he could have come by that automobile in any number of ways. She stopped a half-dozen steps short of where the stranger stood, aiming to read his reaction as she asked, "Early 21st century, right?"

The man smiled—more sincerely this time—nodding his affirmation. "That she is," he replied, sparing a brief look at the stalled car, "Unfortunately, she's not going anywhere, anytime soon." His smooth, deep voice was as pleasant to the ears as his form was easy on the eyes, and his accent distinctly British, leaving Sera to ponder how and why he'd found his way into the midst of the midst of the Mojave. "I believe it's the transmission," he added.

Sera could hear the steady tick of the internal combustion engine as it cooled, informing her he hadn't been stranded here long. Surveying the area behind the Mustang, she spotted several telltale puddles of transmission fluid in the car's wake. "Looks like you might've blown a hose," she speculated, indicating the fluid spotting the back trail. "Those kind of parts are few and far between these days…but I'll bet we can find a mechanic who might be able to jury rig something enough to get you on the road again." She turned back to find him watching her, his exotic-looking eyes narrowed. Appraising her in a way that made her feel…exposed. Unnerved. Vulnerable. Sera squeezed her hand against the reassuring weight of the small, defensive weapon cupped in her palm.

In an instant, his eyes flicked downward, as though he'd registered that small, innocuous movement. She rushed to fill the vacuum of silence that hung between them, hoping to distract him from whatever suspicions her little move might have awakened. "I know collectors," she told him, running her right hand through her hair, fluffing it a bit, hoping to draw his eyes upwards again "…fanatical ones, who would pay a small fortune to make such a treasure theirs." She leaned toward him, adopting a confidential tone, honest in her curiosity, "However did you manage it?"

He inhaled sharply, a fleeting look of calculation crossing his face. "It was an unexpected…" he paused, studying her carefully, "…but well-timed acquisition of…convenience." Such a reply was far too vague to answer her question—but didn't surprise her in the least.

"Then you must be a man of remarkable luck, Mr…" Sera let her voice trail off with the question, fully expecting there would be little truth in his answer.

And then he was moving past the safe cushion of space between them, extending a large, powerful looking hand towards her, as way of introduction. "Harrison. I'm…John Harrison." His grip was firm, not too tight, but Sera sensed—felt—a strength restrained that fit his bearing perfectly. Intimidating, but not frightening; confident—and intriguing her beyond her good sense should allow; and his eyes were locked on her, regarding her with such curiosity and healthy consideration, that she slipped her sunglasses atop her head without a moment's hesitation, meaning to meet his gaze directly.

Sera hadn't realized she was staring until he cleared his throat. "And you are?" he asked, smiling warmly, surely feeling the advantage now of having gotten past her bravado. Her mouth felt dry—it had to be the arid atmosphere, and not embarrassment over her awkward reaction to him; so that her tongue actually stuck a moment before she stammered out her name. "Seraphina." She said it rather breathlessly, then bit her lip against revealing her surname.

Harrison had not released her hand, although his grip was gentle, and the warmth of his skin pleasant against her own. "Seraphina," he repeated, the small smile creases bracketing his mouth deepening, and a hint of his true smile finally reaching his eyes. "Lovely name, Seraphina. Exotic in its way, and as rare and fetching as a desert rose."

Ordinarily, Sera would laugh off such obvious flattery; she'd had enough of it, and insincere at that, throughout her years as a torch singer. This stranger—John Harrison—looked a better class of man than those who usually tried to ply her with compliments. That was no reason, of course, to take him more seriously than any of the others. And yet she felt a sort of…solemnity…about him; a dignity and self-assurance that spoke of a far more purposeful life than those of plain, ordinary men. He was damned attractive too, enough to have her a bit flummoxed at so dear a distance.

"Seraphina," he reiterated, teasing the syllables along, the depth and richness of his voice making her shiver a little, despite the desert heat. "A derivative of seraphim, the highest order of celestial beings in religious myth. Heavenly, fiery, winged immortals, tasked with surrounding and praising the throne of god." He leaned nearer, well past that unspoken barrier of personal space, closing his eyes while inhaling deeply through his nose, seeming to seek her essence by scent alone.

Such unexpected intimacy left Seraphina speechless, every instinct she had telling her to give ground a step or two—yet she remained still, for when he opened his eyes, she found herself fascinated by their changing hue. Seraphina had never seen such striking eyes on a man before; and she'd have sworn that they were blue. Pale blue when she'd seen them from a distance, in the bright, unfiltered sunlight; then a surprising, piercing, azure when she met him face to face. Now they seemed to shift unpredictably from purely blue to nearly green with however the light played upon them, with flecks of gold speckling around the pupils.

"I wonder," he mused, almost to himself, while Sera remained entranced and silent, unable to look away despite knowing she must appear utterly foolish, "Might you be the angel of mercy I'm in such desperate need of?"

Befuddled, Sera sputtered back, "I…um…what?", finally taking a step back and pulling her hand from his grasp.

"I mean to say how fortunate I am, you came along precisely as you did." Harrison shrugged and took a step back as well, his manner self-effacing enough to lend sincerity to his words, "And that your nature is a kind one—I imagine most women would have cruised by without a care for my predicament, given this isolated location and the potential threat I could embody."

Regaining her composure, Sera lifted her chin proudly, "I've managed to look after myself for many years now, and in dodgier situations." Her usual insouciance restored, she asked the most vital of questions, looking him squarely in the eyes to read the truth before he even answered, "Do I have reason to fear for my safety, Mr. Harrison?"

His eyes widened and he grinned, and then he began to laugh. Heartfelt, and deep in his throat; the rich sound of melted, dark chocolate—the rare sort of sweet that was supposed to be healthy for one, but only if consumed in moderation. A woman could lose her way in such a laugh, she realized, and I'll bet he knows it too.

"If there was any reason at all, you've quite disarmed me already." Now it seemed he was sizing her up beyond first impressions—and liking what he saw, by the look of satisfaction dawning on his face. "I promise you, Ms…"

"It's just Seraphina for now please, if it's all the same to you." Sera pressed her lips thin against the smile that wanted to break forth, enjoying both his unspoken surprise at her overall boldness—and what she dared to believe was an appreciation of her physical charms.

Harrison acquiesced with a tilt of his head, "Then I promise you, pretty Seraphina, that I harbor no ill intent towards you. And I would be deeply indebted to you for the aid I am sure you intend to offer me."

She felt her cheeks flush at his easy compliment-not taken in, but happy to accept it nonetheless. "Well, it's a shame to have to abandon her here, but the closest hope you have for a spare part—and a mechanic with working knowledge of antique cars—is at least a hundred miles away."

"Alright then," he affirmed, moving past her to slam shut the Mustang's hood, "We should probably be on our way."

"Of course." Sera turned to follow him, wanting a closer look at the rare vehicle before they drove away. "You should put the top up, too; you may not make it back here until tomorrow at least."

He nodded again, striding to the driver's side door to start the car and raise the top. Something not quite right here, she thought, frowning; I could swear this model, and the ones that followed, had a remote on the key fob to control the mechanism. It reminded her that she'd first thought the car did not belong to him—and that somehow she'd let his charm cause her to lower her guard.

Sera stepped to the passenger side, hoping for a peak inside to confirm her suspicion. "You ought to raise the windows, too," she told him, leaning close enough to peer inside the lowered passenger side window, "No telling what might find its way in her once dark falls. It gets pretty cold here at night…" She swallowed hard when she got a look at the ignition cylinder; it had been removed from its place beneath the steering wheel, and hung down from several wires; the wires themselves appeared to have been rearranged.

Her heart in her throat, Seraphina searched her memory for the word to describe exactly what she was seeing. Hotwired. That's what they called it; a quick and easy way to boost a car. Simon had educated her, marveling at the skill of those he'd read about who could do it in a less than a minute. She'd never dreamed of seeing something like it up close. Yet there is was, and the man who'd done it clearly hadn't wanted her to see it, which meant…

He was faster than her by far; almost preternaturally fast. Harrison had grabbed her left arm (damn, he had noticed she carried something there!) through the window opening, his grip digging into her flesh painfully. "Drop it," he ordered her, "Drop it now. I can explain everything if you can just remain calm, Seraphina."

She didn't mean to, but she whimpered softly, not only at the discomfort he was inflicting, but for the cold menace in his eyes. Had she thought them beautiful, compelling, alluring just minutes ago? Now it seemed to her they were the deadliest eyes she had seen in her life.

(to be continued)