It was a peculiar sight: deep in a relatively quiet street, a fluffy little animal crouched in front of a well-dressed man.
The setting sun reached only the man's shoes, but Irene could clearly see that there was no danger, so she lowered the wooden stick in her hand.
As she approached, she saw that the man wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit. Even in the dim light, she could make out the sheen of the fabric.
With his back to her, he knelt on one knee, carefully feeding a tiny, filthy stray puppy. What puzzled Irene was that he was feeding it seasoned cooked meat that looked as if it had been brought home from a restaurant.
The little dog clearly couldn't digest the food. It looked listless, and even swallowing seemed to take a great deal of effort.
Irene couldn't help speaking up softly. "Excuse me, sir. I'm sorry, but you shouldn't feed it that. Cooked meat is too hard for such a small puppy to digest. It could make it sick."
The man seemed startled by the sudden voice. His body stiffened slightly before he turned around. Even Irene, who was used to seeing handsome men and beautiful women, was momentarily at a loss for words.
His good looks went beyond the ordinary, more like a carefully sculpted work of art. He had excellent bone structure, and his sharp, defined jawline spoke of inner resolve and restraint. His angular face was set off by a pair of eyes capable of drowning anyone who looked into them.
His eyes were deeply set, his long, thick lashes casting faint shadows beneath them. When he lifted his gaze to Irene, there was a hint of dazed surprise at being interrupted, along with the natural reserve of someone who had