Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

BEAU

This being New Orleans, plenty of things turn up in my yard after a hard rain. Antique marbles. Glass. Pottery. Even occasionally, a bone. But never an entire grown-ass man.

Naked. On my doorstep.

And it's not even my birthday.

The camera app on my phone isn't doing him or those gorgeous muscles justice. The man is right there within reach. But should I open my door? These are dangerous times and all. Still, where would he hide a weapon?

And would he consent to a search?

Stop perving on the man, Beau, and open the damn door.

Except…he hasn't knocked. Weird. I slip my phone into my back pocket and prepare to meet the real thing. Months ago, I installed the camera and the various locks I'm now impatient to get through. The bolt slides back with a click, and I fumble the next one, trying to push back the memories. My furniture overturned. Dishes broken. Research stolen. And a month before, Professor Jassan telling me to keep my mouth shut. Then, getting me fired.

The smart thing, the safe thing , would be to shoo the naked man away or completely ignore him.

But I've spent five months playing it safe. All I do is work. First at my two jobs and then continuing my research to salvage my career. Those bastards aren't ruining my life. I'm too close to give up now.

And a Saturday morning distraction is just what I need.

I wrench open the door, bringing in the warm, sticky air with the scents of rain, the coral honeysuckle winding up the trellis in front of my house, and this man's sweat. Intoxicating. He's visibly startled by the door opening but stands his ground. Cocking my head to the side, I grin. "I ordered a blond, but I guess you'll do."

The man is hot. Classical face with a Grecian nose, like he was carved out of marble. Firm muscles in all the right places. I feast on his glorious body. Why not if he's willing to put it out there? No weapons, but he's definitely packing.

He tilts his head and blinks. His eyes are unusual. Green with flecks of gold, or is it the other way around? The colors swirl together, and as his gaze meets mine, I'm caught in a myriad of emotions. Wild and untamed.

And confused.

Is he on something? Did he party too hard and get lost? Or did he rise up, like the bones, from the fertile sandy loams of New Orleans? I have many, many questions. But so far, this man isn't talking. "What happened to your clothes, cher?"

He stares down at himself as if just now realizing he's naked. Raising his hands, he turns them over and touches his fingertips together one by one. Those long fingers move to his arms. His face. A sigh escapes his lips, cutting through the silence, and his hands drop to his throat. His eyes widen. "Ahhhh." This sigh is slow. Deliberate. Audible.

Holy Jesus. "Look, I'm not sure what you took—and no judgment—but roaming around with your junk hanging out is not smart."

His gaze shifts to his body and returns to me just as quickly. He gracefully moves closer, those muscles tightening and flexing, working together beautifully. Instinctually. Like a wild animal. I shake loose those fanciful thoughts.

Get it together, Beau.

As he steps forward, his foot catches on the doormat, causing him to stumble. I reach out to steady him, but he catches himself. What am I doing? I jerk my hand away. This man has pretty eyes and a tempting body, but that doesn't mean I need to get stupid.

I ignore the damn warning bells in my head. I'm too curious. Why is he here? And why in the holy hell is he naked?

"This is why people take advantage of you, Beau. You don't have the sense God gave a goose."

Those are my mother's words, and I've heard them so often it's all white noise at this point. Or maybe the soundtrack of my life, playing in the background. His hand reaches out—those long fingers—does he want to shake my hand? Weird. Awkward. My lips twitch, fighting the urge to laugh.

Until he grabs my throat.

"Sh—" My embarrassing sounds cut off as his hand tightens. I'm frozen. My heart jackhammering. Predator and prey. His eyes on mine like a croc ready to snap. Blackness skirts the edges of my vision, and I blink to clear it. But the eyes watching me are mostly green and clear. Not dark and threatening.

I drag in a breath. Easily. And then I let it out.

His grip on my throat loosens, along with my panic, leaving me lightheaded. He gently brushes his thumb over my Adam's apple.

I yank his hand away and gulp in air, fighting back the lingering darkness.

"What…what the fuck?" I retreat to the sanctuary of my home.

Close the door, Beau. Call the police .

No, not the police. Never the police.

His eyes widen as he holds out his hands, palms forward.

Is he trying to calm me down? Fat chance. My heart's still galloping and I'm gripping the door so hard the wood bites into my palm. I should shut it. I really should. But he looks…vulnerable. Concern flashes in his eyes and his mouth parts. His movements are graceful one moment and stumbling the next, like the white-tailed fawns learning to walk at the wildlife refuge.

I've seen Star Man . My last boyfriend was nerdy. And I mean, beaucoup nerdy. Who plays Dungeons and Dragons every damn day? No wonder he barely lasted two months—and that was a year ago.

Anyway…back to my point. This guy could be…what? An alien from another planet? Beau, you're officially losing it.

Statistically, there has to be life on other planets, so I can't dismiss it entirely. And how cool would that be? But logic—damn logic—dictates that this guy is not from Mars or any other planet, only high on some unknown substance. But besides the confusion, his eyes are clear. He isn't displaying any symptoms—not counting his nudist impression. No tremors. No picking at his skin. No frantic movements.

"Ah," he says as if testing out his voice. "Ahh…umm."

"Are you okay?" My hand tightens on the door, ready to slam it in his face if he tries to grab me again.

His eyes narrow, causing a tiny crease in his forehead.

"Are you okay?" he asks, but not like he's really asking.

Is he mimicking me? Well, hell. Maybe he is an alien.

"No, I'm not okay." I point my finger at him, glad my hand is steady and not shaking. "A naked man on my doorstep grabbed me. Not okay."

"I'm…" He stops and swallows. "Sorry. I'm sorry. That was not my indication." He shakes his head, and his brows knit together. "Intention," he says slowly, touching on every syllable.

"Who in the hell are you?"

He steps closer and I back up. "Where…?" He stops and nods. Is he testing the word? Approving it? "Where am I?"

A laugh, wild and untamed, bubbles up, and I force it back down. "Are you for real right now? I think you need to go."

But do I really want him to leave? My life has sucked balls for the last six months. Job after job, never working anywhere too long. What's the point when the world is being destroyed? When hundreds of species go extinct every day? When the people you trust the most let you down or leave?

"I am…for real." He pushes the wild curls of brown hair from his forehead and stops, pulling his hand out and staring at it. His eyes return to my face. "I'm not sure where I am."

"Cummings Street." At his blank look, I add, "Metairie. Jefferson Parrish?" Nothing. "New Orleans?" His eyes flicker with recognition. "And I suspect you partied a little too hard last night."

But the thing is, he doesn't look hungover. The opposite. His skin glows with a freshness I envy. No scars or blemishes. Nothing visible. Just a few freckles across his nose. He swallows and glances around. Houses line the empty streets. Not surprising. It's eight in the morning on a Saturday. People are inside nursing their hangovers and their coffee.

"America?" His head tilts. "The United States?"

My mouth drops open, and I choke back a laugh. Is he messing with me? Acting all innocent while his plan is to rob me or something. And my traitorous body heats as I think about what else a naked man standing on my doorstep might be interested in. I give my body and my visitor a clear signal by taking another step back.

The music from my speakers flows over us as the song reaches its crescendo. I'd totally forgotten it was on.

"M-m-music." He steps closer, crowding me, and I reach out to stop him. My hand fits perfectly between his pecs. His skin is hot against my palm and his heart beats wildly like a startled bird. When I was a kid, a hummingbird got stuck in our house, frantically flying from room to room, trying to get out. It took me forever to free it while my mom thrashed around with a broom, trying to kill it.

Another part of me, a part I'm not proud of, notices the firm muscle beneath my fingers. The soft smattering of silky chest hair. The stranger's gaze turns hot as his attention focuses on me. The air around us crackles. His earthy scent intoxicates me. I flex my fingers, wanting to touch him everywhere. If I kissed him, would he taste like sunshine?

I push down the overwhelming need to have him. Sure, the man is scorching hot. But so what? It's chemistry. Biology. A result of using my hand for far too long.

It means nothing. I repeat the mantra I perfected over the last six months. Don't trust men or my body. Because they both fucking lie.

His fingers curl around my wrist and my knees turn to jelly. His grip is strong. Protective. Any blood left in my upper body surges south. Thank the Lord, I'm not the naked one. I keep my eyes forward, resisting the urge to check his reaction. His quick intake of breath tells me plenty enough.

What the hell am I doing? Same ol' Beau. Easily distracted by a pretty face.

I jerk my hand back and move out of his reach.

"I would like to hear the music." His eyes plead with me, but I can't give in. Shouldn't give in.

I clear my throat. "First, tell me your name, cher."

His shoulders sag, but he doesn't look away. The green of his eyes sharpens like a crystal while the gold specks pulse like molten lava. "I'm sorry. I can't."

What the hell? "Why not?"

He shrugs. "I don't know my name. Or who I am."