“You’re a little off course, aren’t you?”

“You mean the alley?” I moistened dry lips. “I heard something, too, so I decided to investigate.”

His head came up and I sensed a sudden tension. “What did you hear?”

“It sounds crazy now,” I said reluctantly.

He took my arm and a chill went through me, half alarm, half desire. “Tell me.”

“I heard a songbird.”

“A songbird?” Under other circumstances, his utter bewilderment might have been amusing.

“It sounded like a nightingale.”

His grasp tightened almost imperceptibly and I could have sworn I saw a shadow sweep across his handsome features. Impossible, of course. Dusk was upon us and I could make out little more than the gleam of his eyes, but I had the distinct impression that my words had touched a nerve.

“There are no nightingales in this part of the world,” he said. “You must have heard a mockingbird.”

“I thought of that. But when I was in Paris, nightingales sang almost every evening in the courtyard of my hotel. Their trill is very distinct.”

His tone sharpened. “I know what they sound like. I heard the damn things often enough in Africa.”

Yet another detail I hadn’t known about him. “When were you in Africa?”

“A lifetime ago,” he muttered as he tilted his head to stare up into the trees.

Now I was the one utterly mystified. “Why does it matter what kind of bird it was?”

“Because if you heard a nightingale in Charleston—” He broke off, his head snapping around at the soft snick of a gate. Then he drew me to him quickly, dancing us both back into the shadows along the fence. I was too startled too protest. Not that I had any desire to. The adrenaline pulsing through my bloodstream was intoxicating, and my hand crept to the lapel of his jacket, clinging for a moment until a woman’s voice invaded our paradise.

“John? Are you out here?”