Ick.

You know you are sick when watching Julia Child cook makes you want to throw up instead of cook.

Dracula's Secret, the next page.

It didn’t make sense. His perfect, confident posture and chiseled, patrician features marked him as the kind who should be swinging a tennis racket on some blue-blood tennis court.

Why this reaction to this man on this rainy night? What was special about him? She had sworn off men for more decades than she cared to remember. Thousands of handsome, well-built, and brave men had passed in front of her over the years.

The headlights from a bus lit him up even brighter. He spotted her. Their gazes met and locked. And she saw his true nature.

A warrior, home from the front lines, sick of violence but caught in it. That eye-searing shine was not innocence, for lines of hard-won worldly knowledge bracketed his sensually-shaped lips. Exhaustion creased the corners of those extravagantly gorgeous eyes and lived between his eyebrows. Instead of purity, he lit the night with the ferocity of his spirit.

Valerie sucked in the cold, clove-scented air.

Only the best of humanity had that shine; people dedicated to making the world better for everyone, not just themselves. She’d seen that glow in such disparate people from Mother Teresa to a pubescent boy protecting two toddler girls from a rapist in Rwanda.

This one had a Higher Calling.

Bad news.

Higher Callings meant certain failure to their vehicles. Poverty still ran rampant in Kolkata. The girls and their protector died by the rapist’s denied fury. Valerie smacked her lips at the memory. Rapists were always tasty.

Worse, those well-meaning fools always tried to suck her into their cause. Those idiots dared to claim her fight was less worthy than theirs.

No promise of sunshine was worth that risk. The steady rain cooled her arousal. Time to go.