"You have to talk to me eventually," he said, shifting position slightly. His rich, spicy aroma stirred through the cold air, bringing on memories of the long nights I'd spent in his arms, breathing in that very same scent.
I rather violently rattled the tin at a woman running past. She shook her head without even looking at me. It was just as well I wasn't a proper collector - the children's charity wouldn't be doing very well out of me.
"What if I say I'm sorry?" he added eventually.
"What if I tell you I don't care?" I snapped back, kicking myself mentally for actually breaking my vow of silence, but unable to hold back the words regardless.
"I wouldn't believe it."
I turned around, eyeing the darkness that held him so completely. "Last Christmas, I cared. This Christmas, I just want to catch our murderer so I can get out of this stupid costume and the snow that is freezing bits of me off, and go enjoy being with my sister and her kids."
I swung away, presenting my back to him again. Which really wasn't a good thing, because I could still feel his gaze on me. Could feel the heat of it travel up my cold length, warming the ice from my bones and making my pulse skip and dance.
Where the hell was a murdering Christmas fiend when you really wanted one?
"It's nearly midnight," Brodie said. "Given that our murderer hasn't shown an inclination to attack and drain anyone after the magic hour, what do you say to us going to find a cafe and some coffee?"
"I'd prefer to go straight back to my apartment." Spending more time than necessary in this man's company was not a good idea. I might not want to talk to him, but there were bits of me that would have been happy to do a whole lot more.
"Come on, Hannah," he said softly, in that sweet, oh-so-sexy tone that could charm the pants off a virgin. At least, it had charmed the pants of this former virgin. "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve. How about showing a little Christmas spirit?"
"Would this be the same Christmas spirit you showed when you dumped me without a by-your-leave?" I said, ever so nicely.
"Ouch," he muttered. Then added, "Did I mention I was sorry for that?"
"I still don't care."
"Did I mention I realize I was an ass, but things got so crazy so quickly - "
"I'm still not caring," I interrupted, feeling like a broken record.
Another stranger appeared at the top end of the street. I rang the bell and he looked up briefly, his face ghostly in the darkness. He shook his head and huddled deeper into his coat, before crossing the road and walking down the other side of the footpath. Great, now prospective donors were avoiding me.
That said a whole lot about my appearance. Or my mood.
I took a deep breath and tried to look happy about the whole situation.
I don't think I succeeded.
"Look," Brodie tried again. "I'm a rat, I know, and I don't really have a good excuse for doing what I did. It was thoughtless and inconsiderate and I'd really like the chance to make it up to you."
No, I told my hormones, which were suddenly dancing at the thought of some hot Brodie action. Remember Christmas past? He's bad for us. We don't like him.
Unfortunately, what came out of my mouth was, "Why?"
"Because it's Christmas, and because I've missed you horribly."
Of all the damn things to say, I thought, as my treacherous heart did a little sideways lurch. It was just as well parts of me were still holding on to anger, otherwise I'd be putty in his hands. And oh, wouldn't his hands feel so good.
"Yeah, you missed me so horribly," I replied, irritated at myself, "that you couldn't pick up a phone and talk to me."
"I did," he said mildly. "You hung up on me. Several times."
Oh. Yeah. "That was when I was in my hurt and angry stage. You should have tried once I'd rolled into my not caring stage. You might have had more luck."
"You've been saying you don't care for the last ten minutes, and I'm still having no luck."
"That's because I've now rolled into the no-longer-caring-but-aiming-to-make-you-grovel stage. It's just not your night, I'm afraid."
"Ah," he said, the deepening amusement in his rich tones making my toes curl ever so slightly. "And if I do grovel? Will that get you sharing a cup of coffee with me?"
"No, because I can't stand men who beg." The wind chose that moment to blast down the street. I hunched my shoulders against it and wondered if my legs were turning as blue as they felt.
Maybe coffee was a good idea.
No. He's bad for our health and we don't like him, remember?
Across the street, the pale-faced stranger grabbed the fly-away ends of his coat and wrapped them around his body, his hands so white they almost appeared skeletal.
Gloves, I thought, even as a chill ran down my spine. Had to be. No hands were that white, no matter how cold. Unless you were a vampire.
My psychic radar hadn't yet sensed anything out of the ordinary, but I'd learned long ago never to ignore the little niggles of wrongness - and that man across the street definitely felt wrong.
"Does he smell funny to you?" I asked Brodie softly.
There was a sharp intake of breath, and I had a vision of his nostrils flaring, sucking in the scents of the night and rolling them across his taste buds, sorting and categorizing them. I'd seen him do it a hundred times in the few months we'd been together, and I found it as sexy now as I had then. Which was odd, because until I'd met him, I'd never considered nostrils to be remotely alluring.
But then, the whole package connected to this man's nostrils was beyond fine.
"He reeks of booze and cigarettes." Another intake of breath. "And he hasn't washed for a few days, either."
"So he's not the scent you've caught at the last three crime scenes?"
"No." He hesitated. "It's similar, though, meaning he could be related to our killer."
"Being related doesn't mean he knows anything about the killings."
"Doesn't mean he doesn't, either."
The stranger lumbered sideways, crashing shoulder first into a wall. He muttered something I couldn't catch, then glanced over his shoulder.
Our gazes met, and my psychic senses roared to life. There was no life in that blue gaze, but there was unlife. And hatred, so much hatred, mixed with anger, and the need to shed blood and taste revenge.
But, deeper than that, there was evil. The sort of evil that likes to rip and tear and drain.
"He may not smell exactly like our quarry," I whispered. "But I'm sure he's connected to these murders somehow."