"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.