Of course I could handle the flower shop for fifteen minutes. It was my shop.

Or so I said to Lottie, my assistant, who needed to deliver floral arrangements to the funeral home before five o'clock. Still, she was hesitant to leave me alone, and not out of fear of a burglary. Bloomers couldn't have been in a safer location. The courthouse was directly across the street, the police station a block away, and my fiance's bar, Down the Hatch, two doors north.

No, Lottie's fear was one of someone causing me physical harm B that someone being me. Because of an ankle sprain I'd suffered two days before, I'd been ordered to stay off my right foot for two weeks, forcing me into an existence ruled by crutches and a wheelchair. So far, I'd slipped twice, fallen once, gotten wedged halfway inside the shop's front door, unable to move in or out, crushed half a dozen fresh Red Beauty roses, and toppled the towering Dieffenbachia in the corner near the glass display case. That was on crutches--in my first two hours at work.

So I=d ditched the crutches and switched to the wheelchair when I was at the shop and had thus far banged into three door jambs, run over Lottie's foot, and mangled Grace's new eyeglasses. Hence Lottie's hesitation.

"I'd feel better if Grace were here,"she said from the back of the shop.

I'd feel better if I hadn't broken her glasses. Thank goodness she was able to get her new ones before Eye-Caramba closed today.

Grace Bingham was my other assistant, a slender, sixty-something Brit who had been a legal secretary in a law office where I'd clerked during my only year in law school. Grace had retired just before I bought Bloomers, then decided she was bored and came to work for me as our coffee-and-tea parlor hostess. Both Grace and the parlor were big hits with our customers.

But the parlor was empty now, and I'd be closing up shop soon anyway.

"Lottie, I'll be fine. Don't worry about me."

"It's not you I'm worried about, sweetie. It's Bloomers." She winked.

Lottie Dombowski was a big-boned Kentuckian with a soft heart, brassy curls, and a penchant for pink. She had a true gift for floral design and was in the process of passing on her knowledge to me. Lottie had owned Bloomers until her husband's health problems had nearly forced them into bankruptcy. And there I was, freshly booted out of law school and in need of employment. So I used the remainder of my grandfather's trust to make a down payment on the shop, hired Lottie and Grace to work for me, and the rest was, well, owned by the bank. "That Marco has a lot of making up to do for this," Lottie said. "I hope he's taking you somewhere special for dinner tonight."

"No, thanks. Going somewhere special for dinner is how I sprained my ankle in the first place."

Well, to be fair, it wasn't the going that had caused the sprain. It was Marco accidentally bumping me off my new, bargain-find-of the century, five-inch spike heels. To think my only desire had been to be fashionable - and taller - which hadn't seemed unreasonable, given that I was twenty-seven-years old and stood at a mere five-feet two inches. The ER doctor, however, hadn't shared my feelings on that subject. He'd seen too many women with sprains and broken bones caused by stepping off ridiculously high heels.

Marco was taking full responsibility for the accident and had been doing everything possible to make it up to me. He'd even rented the wheelchair and bought the crutches. And while I didn't mind the pampering, I did mind my loss of independence. With my right foot in a boot built for Frankenstein's monster, with miles of Ace bandage wound underneath, I couldn't fit my foot in the driver's side of my old yellow Vette to work the pedals. Even drying my hair, which involved either propping my injured foot on the bathroom counter or squeezing a chair into our tiny bathroom, was a test of endurance. But it explained why my 'do looked more like a pile of red matchsticks than a sleek bob.

The worst part was that Marco was supposed to check in at the army base in three weeks, and I'd be spending two of them immobile. But at least we had three weeks.

I still went cold all over when I recalled the moment he=d shown me the letter. It was from the Department of the Army, addressed to Lt. Marco Salvare, RA 55667591.

Dear Lt. Salvare. You are hereby notified that the current shortage of manpower mandates that we redeploy those individuals who have been previously discharged but are still committed to a six-year term. Accordingly, you will be receiving notification shortly and a set of orders as to your next assignment as an active duty officer.

Gen. I. M. Bragg, Undersecretary, Dept. of the Army

Marco had served with the Army Rangers for two years, but until his full six year commitment was up, he was subject to recall. I'd never imagined it actually happening, especially on the eve of our engagement, and now that it had, I was faced with the very real possibility of losing him. It was a thought so frightening, I struggled daily to block it from my mind.

For that reason, Marco and I had decided to let only a select few in on the news, swearing them to secrecy until we knew exactly what the army's plans were. We didn't want our parents to worry needlessly or call incessantly to see if we'd heard anything, and my mom did incessant better than anyone. For those who knew about the letter, Marco's brother and my assistants included, it was as surreal and shocking as it had been to us. No one cared to talk much about it.

The creak of rusty hinges on the back door as Lottie let herself out jerked me to the present. The shop was quiet, so I wheeled myself to the big bay window to look outside, where a fine mist, overcast skies, and approaching dusk seemed to cast a pall of gloom over the town square. Even the stately limestone courthouse across the street seemed more of a ghost image than an actual building.

Suddenly, a figure separated itself from the gloom and strode up the sidewalk in my direction. Because of the dark hair and black coat, I thought at first it was Marco, who favored his black leather jacket no matter what the weather. But now I could see that this man wore a long black trench coat, his collar turned up against the damp, his dark hair, slicked back by the mist, a sharp contrast to his pale skin.

When I realized I was visible through the glass, I grabbed the wheels of the chair to back up -- I didn't want him to think I had nothing to do but stare outside B but before I could move, his gaze met mine through the glass. Not only had he caught me, but he was also headed straight for the shop. Abashed, I pretended as though I was actually watching something across the street, just over his shoulder, in fact, and, oh, was that my phone ringing? Pardon me while I checked.

I did a quick pivot and raced away from the window. When the bell jingled, I was arranging the floral display on a table in the center of the room. I turned around, expecting to see the man standing at the front counter. Instead, he was in front of me, so close I could see the droplets of moisture on his coat. I craned my neck to look up at him and stared straight into a pair of pale gray wolf eyes that were gazing back at me as though I were dinner.

I tried to back up but hit an armoire behind me. With nowhere to go, I found myself wishing I hadn't been so hasty in sending Lottie away. And when the stranger stepped closer and reached into his coat, all I could think was that he was going for a weapon.

I glanced around to see what artillery lay within my reach. Ceramic doves? A silk posy? Pink candles?

Get a grip, that inner voice of reason whispered in my ear. He's a customer!

"Can I help you?" I said, my voice coming out in an embarrassing squeak.

He smiled, revealing a set of even, white teeth, except for the canines, which were longer than the rest. Wolf-like, in fact. "You must be Abby."

How did he know my name?

He removed a folded piece of paper from inside his coat. "I'm told you have a good selection of houseplants. In particular, I'm looking for these specimens." He handed me the paper. On it was a list of neatly printed plant names: bloodwort; Dracula orchid; devil's tongue; wolfsbane; strangleweed; mistletoe; voodoo lily; bat Flower.

Was he serious? The only thing missing from that ghoulish list was a Venus Fly Trap. "I don't have any of these plants in stock but I'm sure I can order them from my suppliers."

"How soon would they arrive?"

He had a mere hint of an accent, but I couldn't place it. Czech perhaps? "Usually in three to four days."

"That will do."

"They may be expensive."

He shrugged. "Cost isn't a factor."

"I'll need to take down your name and phone number." I pointed to the cashier's counter, seizing the opportunity to put some distance between us. "My order pad is over there."

Instead of moving, he studied me with those icy wolf eyes. "Irish or Scottish?"

"Excuse me?"

"Red hair, green eyes, light skin and freckles. You have to be Irish or Scottish."

"Irish. And English -- Mother's side." Why was I telling this stranger my background?

He crouched in front of my chair and picked up my injured foot. "Bad sprain, eh? Did you break the skin?"

"No." How did he know it was a sprain?

"Good. Always a risk of a blood infection when the skin is broken. Get some staphylococcus in there and you're in for a rough ride."

Who was this guy?

I removed my booted foot from his grasp. Being in a vulnerable position made me extremely edgy -- not that he was giving off any bad vibes however. Quite the opposite in fact. He was strikingly good looking, virtually thrumming with virility and sex appeal, reminding me very much of my fiancé Marco.

"Do you want me to order those plants?" I asked, trying not to betray my jitteriness.

He smiled again as he rose. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

The bell jingled and Marco walked in, looking undeniably male in his black leather jacket, lean jeans, and black boots. Steely-eyed and iron-jawed, he swept the room with his dark gaze, gauging the stranger's close proximity to me, no doubt assessing my immediate danger.

I was so relieved to see him that I wanted to leap out of my wheelchair and hop across the room to throw myself in his arms.

"There you are," I called, maneuvering my chair around the stranger.

Marco gave the clock behind the cashier's counter a quick glance. "Am I late?"

"I'm early," the wolfman said. "I wanted to order some houseplants for my apartment."

Early for what?

"Ah. Then you've already met Abby," Marco said.

"We haven't been formally introduced," the man said, giving me a dazzling smile.

"Abby Knight," Marco said, "this is Vlad."

Wait. What? This was the man Marco was training to take over the bar? His foxhole buddy when he was in the army? The guy he described as average looking?

Vlad walked up to me and bowed from the waist. Then he took my hand, removed his list from my tightly clasped fingers, pocketed it, then brought my hand to his lips. "Vladimir Serbanescu, at your service. Vlad Serban, to make it easy." He pressed his lips against my fingers.

"Or New Chapel's resident vampire, if you'd prefer."