Emma was distracted momentarily by the bulge of his biceps, but she quickly came to her senses. "What are you doing with a sword?"
"'Tis called a claymore." He turned to face her. "Doona worry. Ye're safe now."
"I'm supposed to feel safe with a stranger who's packing a humongous weapon?"
He smiled slowly. "I told ye mine was bigger."
What typical male arrogance. "I was referring to your sword. Not your wee willie."
He gave her an injured look. "If ye're going to insult my size, I'll have to defend myself by offering ye proof."
"Don't even think about - "
"'Tis a matter of honor." His mouth twitched. "And I'm a verra honorable man."
"Very drunk is more like it. I can smell the whisky on your breath."
His eyes widened in surprise. "I've had a wee dram or two, but I'm no' drunk." He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Admit it, lass. Ye were wanting a private showing."
"Ha! Of all the... I'm going now. Good night." She strode toward the tree to retrieve her tote bag. Anger pricked at her. Shame on her. She'd had too much training to get distracted by bulging biceps or a broad chest. Or gorgeous green eyes.
"I owe ye an apology."
She hitched the bag onto her shoulder, ignoring him.
"I doona generally discuss private parts, at least until I've introduced myself first."
She stifled a grin. Something about this man was too appealing. Maybe his accent and kilt made her feel homesick. She'd been in America for only nine months. She glanced at him, and his soft smile tugged at her heart. Shit. She needed to go.
She removed the stake from her belt behind her back and dropped it into the bag. Her nerves tingled, every strand aware that he was watching her closely. Instinct told her to leave, but her curiosity was stronger. Who was this man? And why did he carry a sword? "I assume you came to town for the parade?"
He paused. "I arrived today."
An evasive answer. "To celebrate or for business?"
The corner of his mouth tilted up. "Are ye curious about me, lass?"
She shrugged. "Professional curiosity. I'm in law enforcement, so I have to wonder why you're carrying a lethal weapon."
His smile grew wider. "Perhaps ye should disarm me."
Her chin went up. "Make no mistake, I could if I needed to."
"And how would ye do that?" He pointed at her bag. "Will ye take on my claymore with yer wee sticks?"
She wasn't about to explain why she was carrying wooden stakes. So she folded her arms across her chest and changed the subject. "How did you get the sword on a plane? Or through customs?"
He mimicked her move, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why are ye wandering about the park all alone?"
She shrugged one shoulder. "I like to jog. Now it's your turn to answer."
"Dinna anyone tell ye 'tis dangerous to run with a pointed stick?"
"It's my protection. And it's still your turn to answer. Why do you have a sword?"
"'Tis my protection. It chased that wee man away."
"A loud boo would have chased him away."
He grinned. "I believe ye're right."
She bit her lip to keep from smiling back. The blasted man was aggravating and attractive at the same time. And he still hadn't answered her question. "You were about to tell me why you're wandering about Central Park with a sword?"
"'Tis called a claymore. And I like to keep it handy at all times."
An image flitted through her head of the Scotsman naked in bed with his huge weapon. And the sword. "I fail to see why you need the claymore. You certainly look muscular enough to protect yourself."
"How kind of ye to notice."
Notice? She was doing a lot more than that. Her brain was busy undressing him, and if the rascal's twinkling eyes were any indication, he'd guessed she was enjoying the view. Her gaze ventured south once again, past his blue and green plaid kilt, and this time, she noticed the hilt of a knife peeking from the edge of his sock. Her heart raced faster. The man was packing multiple weapons. Maybe she should frisk him. Maybe she should call the paramedics first. "Do you have a name?"
"Aye."
She raised her eyebrows, waiting for a response, but he merely smiled. Aggravating man. "Let me guess. You're Conan, the Barbarian?"
He laughed. "I'm Angus."
As in prime beefcake? She should have known. "Do you have a last name?"
"Aye." He opened the leather bag hanging from his belt.
She stepped back, wondering if he was packing heat. "What do you have in there?" His sporran looked well-worn, as if he used it every day.
"Doona worry, lass. I'm looking for a business card." He removed the metal flask she'd noticed earlier so he could rummage through the remaining contents of the brown leather pouch.
She folded her arms while she waited. "Whenever you need something, it's on the bottom. I have the same problem with my purse."
He shot her an irritated look. "This is no' a purse. 'Tis a fine, manly tradition amongst the Scots."
Aha. She'd found a weak spot. She gave him a wide-eyed Bambi look. "Looks like a purse to me."
He gritted his teeth. "'Tis called a sporran."
She bit her lip to keep from laughing. No wonder she found this guy appealing. He made her smile, and it had been a long time since she'd acted happy and playful. Her mission dominated her life, and she had to take it seriously. The enemy was deadly. "So, what do you keep in there? Besides the whisky. Do you have any shortbread or leftover haggis?"
"Verra funny," he grumbled, although his mouth was curling into another smile. "If ye must know, I have a cell phone, a roll of duct tape - "
"Duct tape?"
He arched a brow. "Doona mock a man's duct tape. It comes in verra handy for binding wrists and ankles."
"Why would you bind someone?" She gave him a sympathetic look. "Oh, poor baby. Is it that hard to get a date these days?"
He grinned. "'Tis also good for covering up a saucy mouth." His gaze lowered to her mouth. And stayed. His smile faded.
Her heart stuttered. His gaze moved back to her eyes with an intensity that squeezed the air out of her lungs. And made her nerves tingle. Even her toes were curling under.
There was more than desire in his dark green eyes. There was a sharp intelligence. He wasn't drunk at all, she realized. And he saw a lot more than any man she'd ever encountered before. She suddenly felt as exposed as the flasher.
He stepped closer. "And yer name?"
Name? Good heavens, the way he was looking at her, her pulse was taking off at warp speed, but her brain was barely on life support. More power to the engines, Scottie. "I - I'm Emma." She decided to play it safe and give only her first name. He'd done the same.
"'Tis a pleasure to meet you." With a slight bow, he offered her a crumpled business card.
Clouds had shrouded the moon once again, and she couldn't make out the small print. "Do you happen to have a torch in your sporran?"
"Nay. I see verra well in the dark." He motioned to the card. "I own a small security company."
"Oh." She slipped the card into a pants pocket, so she could check it later. "You're like a professional bodyguard?"
"Do ye need one? A lass who wanders about the park alone at night should have protection."
"I can take care of myself." She patted her bag of stakes.
He frowned. "Ye have an unusual method for protecting yerself."
"So do you. How do you protect a client when someone's packing a gun? No offense, but your claymore is a bit outdated."
He arched a brow. "I have other skills."
She bet he did. Her throat felt dry.
He stepped toward her. "I could ask the same question. How do ye protect yerself with a wee stick when the attacker could have a gun... or a sword?"
She swallowed hard. "Are you challenging me?"
"I'd rather not. 'Twould not be a fair fight."
Male arrogance, again. "You're underestimating me."
He tilted his head, studying her. "That may be true. May I see one of yer wee sticks?"
She hesitated. "I suppose." She reached into her tote bag and handed him a stake. If he got any funny ideas, she could kick it out of his hand in a second.