"'Tis a pleasure to meet you." With a slight bow, he offered her a crumpled business card.

Clouds had shrouded the moon once again, and she couldn't make out the small print.

"Do you happen to have a torch in your sporran?"

"Nay. I see verra well in the dark." He motioned to the card. "I own a small security company."

"Oh." She slipped the card into a pants pocket, so she could check it later. "You're like a professional bodyguard?"

"Do ye need one? A lass who wanders about the park alone at night should have protection."

"I can take care of myself." She patted her bag of stakes.

He frowned. "Ye have an unusual method for protecting yerself."

"So do you. How do you protect a client when someone's packing a gun? No offense, but your claymore is a bit outdated."

He arched a brow. "I have other skills."

She bet he did. Her throat felt dry.

He stepped toward her. "I could ask the same question. How do ye protect yerself with a wee stick when the attacker could have a gun… or a sword?"

She swallowed hard. "Are you challenging me?"

"I'd rather not. 'T would not be a fair fight."

Male arrogance, again. "You're underestimating me."

He tilted his head, studying her. "That may be true. May I see one of yer wee sticks?"

She hesitated. "I suppose." She reached into her tote bag and handed him a stake. If he got any funny ideas, she could kick it out of his hand in a second.

He closed a fist around the stake, examining it closely. "This is a sorry excuse for a stake."

"It is not. I've been very successful—" She winced. The rascal was getting her to admit too much. "I find them very useful."