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  Walking fast, she lost herself in the crowds on the sidewalk, putting distance between her and the shelter. Every so often she’d look behind her, just to check she wasn’t being followed. It was something she did anyway, not wanting anyone to know where her hidey-hole was, but now it seemed extra important.

  You think he’s actually going to follow you?

  No, but then people did weird things. You couldn’t trust them, not any of them.

  She went the long way around back to her alley, checking behind her the whole time, but no one followed and she managed to slip behind the Dumpster unnoticed.

  Snow had fallen all around yet the ground beneath her was dry, kept that way by the collapsed cardboard box she’d put over the concrete. She had another box wedged between the Dumpster and the building wall as a kind of a ceiling that mostly kept the snow and rain off.

  She huddled in against the pipe, waiting until a little bit of warmth penetrated through the layers she wore, relaxing her muscles and easing the fear.

  Once she felt a bit better, she pulled off her orange hat and then the beanie underneath it, holding it in her hands. She still couldn’t get enough of touching it. It was one the softest things she’d ever felt in her life and so unbelievably warm for something so thin. She should have gotten rid of it, of course, but she hadn’t been able to make herself do it. So she’d hidden it under her orange hat instead, hoping no one would see it.

  Until he had.

  She stared down at the soft thing in her hands. The color was so blue, so deep. The color of his eyes. Not that she should have noticed that, but since his eyes had been looking straight into hers, she couldn’t help it.

  She shouldn’t have looked up. She should have kept pretending he wasn’t there. But something inside her had made her do it, and she had been unable to resist the temptation.

  Tall and broad in his dark suit and vivid blue tie. Again, just like his eyes.

  Why was she noticing stuff about him? Why was she even letting his existence register? She’d hardly been able to keep looking at him, he’d been so shiny and bright and clean. He was the type of man who walked with his attention on the sky, not on the ground beneath his feet. He didn’t see people like her, those types never did, so why was he looking at her now?

  She didn’t like it. It made her feel antsy and restless and . . . wrong.

  Her fingers curled in the soft wool of the beanie. Really, she should get rid of it, throw it in the Dumpster and forget about it. But she found herself lifting it and putting it back on her head all the same.

  Tomorrow maybe. She’d give it to someone else.

  She slept poorly that night and the next day was cold, snow everywhere. Sometimes the cold made finding food easy since it didn’t go bad as quickly as it did in the summer, but her usual haunt, the trash out the back of a Starbucks, had been picked over early and there was nothing left for her.

  She didn’t let it get to her. Days were like that sometimes, and there was nothing to do but keep moving on, keep the thing that kept her going clear in her head.

  An apartment of her own. It didn’t have to be big, hell, even one room was more than she had now after all. But something that was hers, that had a door she could close and a lock. A place that was warm and dry and safe, where she didn’t have to worry about being moved on or attacked or waking up soaking wet, all of which had happened to her at one time or another.

  Sometimes, like now when it was cold and she was hungry, she wished she hadn’t left her grandmother’s, but not very often. The streets were safer in many ways and they sure gave her hell of a lot less cigarette burns.

  That afternoon she stopped by the shelter, wanting to see if Tony had received any mail for her. They were trying to get her a birth certificate, but weren’t having much luck since she didn’t know any of her mother’s details. She’d left Mia with her grandmother when she’d only been seven and her grandmother hadn’t exactly been forthcoming. In fact, the only details Mia had were that her mother’s name was Rose and she’d been born somewhere up north. She didn’t even know her surname since her grandmother never spoke about her daughter.

  But there was no mail, Tony giving her the worried, sympathetic look that always made her feel unsettled. “I’m doing a search on birth records for your mom, Mia, but without a surname or a date, or even a state, it’s going to be real tough going.”

  There was one alternative of course. That was to try and track her grandmother down, see if she was still alive, and then get the details off her. But Mia would rather have died than go back to that old bitch, so she only stared back at Tony and nodded. “I know,” she said. “I’ll see if I can remember anything.”

  She hadn’t yet though, and she knew she probably wouldn’t. But that didn’t keep her from trying anyway, because once she stopped trying she may as well be dead. And there was no way she was dying on the streets, no fucking way.

  “Hey,” Tony said as she was on her way out. “Mr. de Santis was asking after you. Do you know why?”

  “Mr. de Santis?” she asked automatically. “Who’s that?”

  “You don’t know him? The guy who’s been volunteering at the shelter. The rich one.”

  There could only be one man Tony meant. Blue eyes, black hair, clean suit . . .

  Mia blinked, shook her head, and walked out, her heart beating faster.

  He knew her name and now, she knew his. Of course she had his beanie, which meant he still had more of a hold on her than she on him, but still. It was something more than what she had before, a little piece of power.

  That night she peered through the windows of the shelter and sure enough, there he was. Mr. de Santis. It was chowder night and he was ladling out chowder, smiling at the people in front of him. But that intense, demanding blue gaze of his kept searching the crowd, looking for something . . .

  You. He’s looking for you.

  She felt breathless. Afraid. But not the kind of fear that came with creepy dudes following her and shouting disgusting things, or the couple of times drugged-up assholes had pulled a knife on her and taken her things. No, this was different and she couldn’t put her finger on why.

  It made her even more afraid, so she didn’t go in. Going hungry for a night wouldn’t kill her, though if it got any colder, she was going to have to rethink things.

  Sure enough, the next day it did get colder and she was forced to sidle in the doors of the shelter, needing food to keep her warm for the night. She was almost afraid to look at the volunteers manning the food stations, but she forced herself. And blinked.

  Because he wasn’t there.

  That’s good, isn’t it?

  Yeah, it was good. It was very good. Now she didn’t have to deal with that weird feeling inside her, now she could feel safe in her anonymity. Yet when she went up to get her food, she felt . . . strange. Angry almost. Angry that he wasn’t there.

  Irritated with herself, she ate her food and got out of there ASAP. He’d be back the next night probably. Or if he wasn’t, it meant he’d disappeared back into his stupid penthouse or wherever the hell people like him went back to. Which was a good thing, a really, really good thing.

  He wasn’t there the next night or the next, and she knew she’d been right. He’d finished his volunteer work and had gone back to the towers people like him lived in. She’d never see him again, which was perfect. She didn’t need people like him noticing her. She didn’t need people noticing her period.

  But that strange anger sat inside her and she couldn’t get rid of it. And the more she thought about him, the worse it seemed to get.

  He’d given her a hat. He’d shown her something new. He’d made her . . . want.

  Wanting was bad, wasn’t it?

  Then again, without want, she wouldn’t have her hope of a home of her own, would she? Besides, getting angry with him was pointless, because she was never going to see him again anyway.

  The next night everything froze and when she woke s
he was so cold she could barely move. Even the hot pipe didn’t seem to warm her up. She knew what that meant; she was going to have to go to the shelter until it got warmer.

  The knowledge put her in a foul mood the whole day, but she knew better than to try and tough it out. She’d done that a couple of times before and had nearly frozen to death. So that evening, as the sun went down and the city streets became icy, she gathered up the few, meager belongings she had and slowly made her way to the shelter.

  She always approached it from across the street, so she could check who was outside and what was happening before she got anywhere near it. But tonight she was distracted, trying to brace herself for a night of sleeping in the same room as a whole lot of other people, so she didn’t notice until she was nearly at the doors that all the windows were dark.

  Frowning, she tried to peer inside, but she couldn’t see anything. Going over to the doors, she pushed experimentally at them. They remained firmly shut. There was a notice stuck to the grubby glass. She could read, though not well, and it was difficult to make out the words, but the notice seemed to announce that the shelter was closed. There was an address underneath it, which was probably the address of the shelter in Upper Manhattan, but she didn’t want to go there. She’d been attacked the last time, in the middle of the night too, and quite frankly, she’d rather face the cold than a possible knifing.

  If you survive the cold.

  Mia pulled her overcoat more firmly around her, dismissing the ever present clutch of fear. No, she’d survive. She’d just fucking well have to, wouldn’t she?

  Then something made her go utterly still.

  A scent wrapping around her. Luxurious and spicy and warm.

  “Hello Mia,” said a dark voice from behind her.

  Chapter 3

  Xavier had expected a number of things on his return from Washington, but to come for his evening’s volunteer work at the shelter, only to find it closed was not one of them. It had pissed him off mightily for reasons he didn’t quite understand, especially since he hadn’t wanted to dole out slop to homeless people in the first place.

  Then, just as he was getting back into his limo, his orange-hat creature had turned up and suddenly his mood had become about ten thousand times better.

  He didn’t question the pleased feeling that rolled through him as he watched her peer at the sign on the shelter door, a ragged and dirty backpack hanging from one shoulder. Only leaned back against the side of the limo, studying her for a moment.

  She looked so small, despite the millions of layers she was no doubt wearing underneath that massively too-big overcoat. Her orange hat was pulled down low on her head, snow sparkling on top of it and the shoulders of her overcoat.

  It was cold. Freezing even. Not a night for one small homeless woman to be out and about with no shelter. So he’d said her name, because he didn’t want her vanishing back into the darkness like she’d been doing every night since he’d met her.

  She turned around sharply, her dark eyes widening as they met his. Then she looked away, her lashes coming down, veiling her gaze. One delicate hand gripped the strap of her disreputable-looking backpack and she began to sidle away.

  Oh, no, she fucking wasn’t. Not tonight.

  He stepped toward her, cutting off her escape, and she froze, giving him another wide-eyed, wary look.

  “No,” he said quietly and very firmly. “You’re not going anywhere. Not in this weather.”

  She blinked at him then backed away slowly so she stood with the shelter doors directly behind her. But he didn’t stop, he kept on coming, closer and closer until he was standing right in front of her, blocking her exit entirely.

  Her jaw went tight as she stared straight at his chest, her grip on her backpack white-knuckled.

  You’re scaring her, asshole.

  Too bad. He had the suspicion that if he were to step aside, she’d take off into the night and he’d never see her again, which wasn’t happening.

  It was weird being concerned for another person’s safety, to feel responsible for it, especially when he’d never felt anything like it before. But . . . something in him couldn’t let her leave. Not with snow falling all around them and their breath in white clouds, freezing in the cold night air.

  “The shelter’s closed,” he said, unnecessarily when it was perfectly fucking obvious the shelter was closed.

  Her head turned, her gaze directed at some point on the pavement off to his left. She didn’t say anything.

  Jesus, could she even speak? Perhaps she couldn’t. Perhaps she was deaf, or maybe she couldn’t speak English.

  “You understand, right?” he persisted. “There’s another shelter that’s open, though. The address is on that notice. I can take you there if you—”

  “No.” Her voice was light and husky, as if she didn’t use it very often.

  He blinked at the interruption. Okay then. So she could speak. “No, what? No you don’t want to go or no you don’t want me to take you there?”

  She gave him the briefest of glances through her lashes. It wasn’t flirtatious in any way and yet somehow he felt the brush of her attention like a flame against his skin.

  “Both,” she said.

  Right. Well, that was clear. Sadly, though, she wasn’t going to get her way. “The shelter’s not far and I have a car,” he said. “I can give you a ride.”

  She shook her head, looking off to the side again. “I need to go.”

  “Yeah. You need to go to the shelter with me.”

  “No.”

  Stubborn little thing, wasn’t she?

  Xavier put his hands in the pockets of his black cashmere overcoat. “No is not an option, sweetheart.”

  She stiffened, giving him another of those lightning-fast glances. “I’m not your sweetheart. Don’t call me that.”

  Mesmerized, he watched as color flood into her small, narrow face, a flare of that bright, intense energy he’d seen in her leaping high. It was fascinating, beautiful. Where had she come from? And why wasn’t she the same as all those other beaten-down people? That fierceness, that determination . . . Where did she get it?

  “Okay,” he said after a moment. “You’re not my sweetheart. You’re Mia. And I’m—”

  “Mr. de Santis. Yes, I know.”

  He stared at her. “How do you know?”

  “Tony told me who you were. He told me that you were asking about me.” She kept gazing off to the side, as if she didn’t want to look directly at him.

  Ah. Tony must be the volunteer he’d been talking to, the one who’d been suspicious of him. “I was only concerned for you,” he explained, not sure why he was justifying himself when he’d never felt the need to before. “It’s cold. I didn’t want you out there in the snow.”

  Again, she said nothing, her hand white-knuckled on her backpack as if she was afraid he might take it off her. Not that he would since it looked filthy and probably had nothing in it at all.

  You dick. That’s probably all she’s got in the world.

  Xavier frowned, struck once again by the complete vulnerability of this woman. By the fact that if she was homeless, she would have nothing but the clothes she wore and whatever was in that backpack. No house, no car, no things. And it was highly unlikely she had a job either. All she had was that god-awful overcoat, that hideous orange hat and that shabby, ragged backpack.

  She should be desperate. She should be despairing. And yet . . . she just fucking wasn’t. She was . . . full of that thing he didn’t have a name for.

  She’s a survivor.

  Yeah, she was. But he couldn’t let her go off into the night, not without helping, not without doing something for her. He didn’t know why he felt that way. He just . . . did. And quite frankly, if she didn’t want his help, that was too goddamn bad. She was going to get it whether she liked it or not.

  “You can call me Xavier,” he said into the silence. “And it’s too cold to be standing around here arguing. How abo
ut you get into the car and we can argue in there about which shelter you want to go to.”

  She shook her head once, quickly.

  Xavier sighed. “Get in the car, Mia. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

  Wind swirled the snow falling around them, sliding under the thick wool of his coat and making him shiver. Christ, it was cold. And he was wearing an ultrawarm coat, so god only knew how cold she must be.

  He found himself staring at her hands. She didn’t have any gloves on. No wonder her fingers were white. She must be fucking freezing. Moving forward without thinking, he reached for her hand, only for her to rear back sharply, banging up against the glass of the shelter doors.

  Instantly he stopped.

  She had her head tipped back, staring at him full in the face and there was a half-scared, half-determined light in her black eyes. “Touch me and I’ll fucking kill you,” she said fiercely. Then she moved, reaching for something at her ankle. When she straightened, steel gleamed in her hand.

  Xavier looked down at the knife she was holding, and this time he couldn’t help grinning, because if there was one thing he knew, it was weapons. “Where did you get that? From the shelter kitchen?”

  Her dark, narrow brows drew down. “Don’t come any closer. I know how to use it.”

  “I’m sure you do. But I’m afraid that’s not going to do any damage.” He gave her a solemn look. “Sorry, little one, but that’s a fruit knife.”

  Her frown became a scowl. “I’ve used it before.”

  “On fruit?”

  “On a man.” She waved the blade at him. “I cut him.”

  Xavier sincerely doubted that she’d managed to cut anyone with that piece-of-shit blade. “I’ll take your word for it. Can we get in the car now? I’m cold.”

  “No. Leave me alone.”

  He gave her an assessing look. How the hell was he going to get her into the limo? There was the option of simply picking her up and carrying her there, but she’d probably scream and he had a feeling that his father wouldn’t be too pleased if word got out that Xavier had been seen picking up screaming women and putting them in his car. No matter that all he wanted to do was get her out of the snow.