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Hawken.
    Or where he had been before she’d made her lunge at the seat. A junior
    executive type occupied his stool. Miko slewed around to check farther back
    in the bar. Maybe he’d gone to the men’s room.
    Rising up on one knee on the bench seat, she tried to see over packed
    bodies. No use. If he’d slipped out the back, she’d never find him. If he’d
    merely stepped into the men’s room, he’d have to exit past her. So she
    flagged a waitress for a light beer.
    “I have never seen the logic in a brew with so little flavor,” a voice, rich
    with British fog, said behind her.
    Miko landed with a thump on the seat. Hawken cradled a glass of dark
    liquid between his palms on the table. He studied her from beneath dark
    lashes that cast interesting shadows.
    Shit .
    “I—I . . . Hi.” Her heart raced between her chest and her throat.
    “A Guinness on the other hand,” he lifted his glass and sipped
    appreciatively, “has flavor and . . . body.”
    His glance skimmed from her face to her waist and back, lending a
    nuance to the last word that sent a flush of heat to her face. A hint of a smile
    flickered across his lips.
    Damn it, he was teasing her. And enjoying it. He took another sip of the

    brew that was the same chocolaty brown as his eyes.
    Miko vacillated between being drawn into them and wanting nothing
    more than to flee the aura of power and sorrow that emanated from him.
    Now that Father Dan had called her attention to that particular idea—him
    having seen too much and done things he regretted—she felt a flicker of
    empathy for him. By sheer willpower, she pushed both empathy and urges
    to the back of her mind.
    She needed to remember why she was investigating him and to be on
    guard. Not only was it possible he could be dangerous, even deadly, but he’d
    just proved his observation skills by spotting her when she knew she’d
    remained behind him the whole time.
    Fortunately, her beer arrived, and she took a sip. Damned if Hawken
    wasn’t right. Bland as white bread.
    “I’m right about the beer.”
    She snorted into her beer. Did he read minds?
    “You have a very expressive face, Miko.”
    Okay, he read body language. Much better than reading my mind .
    He sipped his Guinness, watching her over the rim. “You were you
    following me.”
    Damn it, investigative reporters shouldn’t get caught. She swallowed a
    mouthful of beer. “I wasn’t.”
    He lifted one black eyebrow.
    “Okay, I saw you come in here and followed. On impulse.” Maybe
    she’d be less transparent with a half-lie.
    His eyebrow dropped to join its mate in a scowl. “Beware your
    impulses don’t lead you into danger.”
    A chill chased down her spine at the ice that clouded his eyes. From one
    breath to the next, he had changed from charming to giving what almost felt
    like a warning.
    Or maybe not so almost .
    She thrust up her chin. “I can take care of myself.”
    “You’re the Miko Jones who’s reporting on the Skid Row Murders,
    aren’t you? So you must frequent dangerous places like murder scenes.”
    “Would I have been at any murder scene if I wasn’t? What kind of
    morbid weirdo do you think I am?”
    “Not morbid.” He sipped his Guinness, drawing her attention to his
    mouth. “Compassionate. You light candles for the victims at St. Michael’s.”
    “Someone has to stand up for those poor old men.”
    He toyed with the rim of his glass, smoothing one finger back and forth
    while a trace of sweet incense teased her nose, triggering sensations that had
    nothing to do with churches and everything to do with sins needing
    confession.

    “Perhaps they’re unworthy of your compassion?”
    “Everyone deserves compassion. No matter how poor or homeless or
    deformed. Everyone deserves to be mourned by someone. Every victim
    deserves justice.” She shrugged a little defensively. “Turns out for the Skid
    Row victims, I’m that someone.”
    Hadrian Hawken contemplated his glass for several long