Tom Griffin had no idea why he followed the prissy, sassy socialite he’d just saved five blocks to the intersection at the edge of the hood, or why he planned on following her to wherever she parked her car or limousine.

There was no sense in killing a man to save her only to let her be attacked again before she got fully out of the neighborhood, he reasoned, as he lingered just far enough back that she didn’t notice him when she stopped to press the crosswalk button.

Griff knew this area like the back of his hand now and the kind of desperate men and women who walked these streets. Queenie was not one of them, and she didn’t have the street smarts to deal with them. He, unfortunately, did.

She crossed the street and he waited at the corner until she turned right to walk under the overhang which connected the entire block of shops and restaurants. When she stopped at Lucky’s Bar, he waited until she opened the door to walk across the street.

He hoped like hell she wasn’t stupid enough to linger there, because it would be dark in an hour or so. Walking these streets in daylight was definitely a different experience than walking them at night. Surely, she couldn’t be that clueless.

Well, she walked them before dawn this morning when she went to the church and then the shelter.

Yeah, he thought she was stupid then too, so he followed her out of the church to the shelter and waited there. Smelling the turkey and fixings cooking inside that building had almost killed him. But Griff knew better than to go inside. The men in that building might recognize him, and that turkey dinner could be his last supper, if one of them did.

You need to be worrying about your own problems, Griffin, not babysitting a woman. No, two women.

He knew that, but he could not help himself. Layla was probably wondering where in the hell he was. Hopefully, she didn’t think he’d abandoned her. Those trust issues of hers would probably be telling her that right now. She, like Queenie, put up a hard front, pretended she could take care of herself, but he knew their shells were made of aluminum, not steel.

Griff found a bench in front of a shop a few doors down from the bar and settled in to wait. He’d stay long enough for her to have one drink, but if she lingered, she would be on her own. He had to get back to the tent to make sure Layla was okay. A fifteen-year-old girl who was alone under that bridge at night was fair prey, even with the pistol he left her with in the tent.

He really needed to scout out a safer location for them to set up camp. There was a preserve he’d checked out, a government owned woodland area, but was afraid the cops would find and arrest them. Under the bridge, there was safety in numbers and it was pretty much accepted as a homeless encampment. The police only came around if there was a fight or murder, which happened about once a week.

He’d heard rumblings, though, that a local politician was fighting to have them evicted from under the bridge, so it would probably be better to move now and claim a place before that happened. When three-hundred people and animals were looking for a new place to pitch their tents, it would be hard to find a piece of ground.

Forty-five minutes later, the bar door opened and the spunky platinum blonde emerged with her shoes in her hand, looking much calmer. Holding her coat closed, she turned toward him, took a step, and her back stiffened. She looked back inside the bar, then again at him. Her chin dropped as she strode toward him, her eyes sparking.

“What are you doing? Stalking me?” she demanded, stopping beside the bench.

“No, I’m keeping you from getting yourself killed,” Griff replied, trying to keep his tone even as he met her stare.

When the florescent light under the canopy suddenly came on, he got a closer look at her and felt like he took a punch to his gut. How had he not realized before how much she looked like Glynna? That platinum hair, those eyes, that mouth. Other than a few years older, she was a dead ringer for his dead wife. His chest tightened around his heart, making it hard to breathe.

“I don’t need you to protect me. Bruno has that firmly under control now.”

Bruno? Griff averted his eyes and shook his head as he sat up straighter to expand his rib cage. “You have an imaginary friend?” he asked with a snort, because he sure didn’t see anyone with her. “I sure hope he protects you better than he did in that alley.”

“That bum caught me off guard. I assure you it won’t happen again, because Bruno is now in my pocket and I promise he isn’t imaginary. If you keep following me, you’ll meet him.”

Griff’s eyes flew to hers then darted to the pocket of her camel-colored coat. “Are you off your meds or something?” he asked, his eyes touring back to hers.

She pursed her lips and tilted her stubborn chin. He flinched when the corners of that mouth eased up into a familiar grin. He was a masochist because, even though his insides felt like they were being shredded by razor blades, he could not drag his eyes away from her mouth. A longing so deep he felt hollow inside ripped through him.

Those luscious lips moved and he was mesmerized. “I can take care of myself now, but I’d like to invite you back into the bar for a drink and a sandwich. I know you didn’t come into the shelter to eat today, so you have to be hungry.”

Griff managed to drag his eyes to hers. “I don’t drink.”

When he first got back to the states, he did. A lot. To numb the pain of having nothing left of his former life. But once he met Layla, who came from an alcoholic home, it was easy to conquer that beast.

“Well, that’s a very good thing,” she said with a laugh. “But I’m sure you eat? Please let me buy you dinner as a thank you.”

Griff looked down at himself, and for the first time saw what he was wearing. When he had extra money, he and Layla washed their clothes at the laundromat near the bridge, but that hadn’t been in a couple of weeks. Thank goodness they could walk to the truck stop and at least grab a shower twice a week. He ran his hand over the shaggy beard that covered his face both for convenience and cover.

“They’d probably throw me out on my ass,” he said with a sigh, as his stomach growled.

She harrumphed. “Trust me when I tell you they will do no such thing.”

Trust me. That was something Griff hadn’t done with anyone in a very long time. But he was hungry. And against his better judgement, he wanted to know more about this woman.

“Okay, tell me that Bruno is not your boyfriend, and I’ll let you buy me dinner,” he said, holding his breath until she laughed.

“I’m single and Bruno is my forty-five. I trust him more than any man I’ve ever met and keep him closer.” She edged her hand out of her coat pocket to show him the butt of the weapon, then pushed it back inside.

Surprise filled him as his face stretched into an unfamiliar smile. He met her eyes as he pushed up to his feet. “I guess I’ll have to take you up on your offer then, since you’re making it at gunpoint.”

“I’ve never had to convince a man to have dinner with me at gunpoint and I’m not going to start now,” she replied, her eyes on his mouth. “You shouldn’t kick a gift horse in the mouth.”

No, but Griff was damned tempted to kiss one right then.

“Lead the way, Queenie,” he said waving at the door as a weird feeling swept through him. “I accept your generous offer, but if they kick me out or call the police, you’re going to have to bail me out.”