A Bride for a Billionaire

“Why are you here again?”

Stretching my legs out in front of me, I lean back in the large recliner that I’m slouched in as I speak. No matter how luxurious the VIP lounge at the Palermo International Airport intended these seats to be, I can’t get comfortable.

Shifting again, I lace my fingers behind my head and crack open my eyes. Emilia is posing on the edge of my chair, all long legs and glossy hair and plump lips. Leaning forward enough to give me a good view down the front of her slinky dress, she trails a scarlet tipped fingernail over my bicep, sending a sting of pain through my skin.

I like it. I also like the view down her dress, even though I know that the move was calculated. Not willing to remain passive, I place my hand on the warm, soft skin of her bare thigh and squeeze once, just enough to make my point.

Her eyes flash with heat, and my cock responds, swelling to half-mast. The teasing between us is a game, perhaps a dangerous one, but one that we’ve played since my dad married her mom over a decade ago.

“You’re going to make me think you don’t love me.” Those perfect lips of hers, painted with man-killer red, turn down in a pout that makes me picture them wrapped around my erection.

“I don’t.” I’m satisfied by the flicker of pain in her eyes, pain that she smooths over effortlessly.

The cruel streak in me, the one I got from my father, enjoys hurting her feelings. The rest of me just doesn’t care. Truth is, I don’t have a lot of feelings for my stepsister. The ones that I do have mostly center on her tits and the heated space between her legs. Not that I’ve ever sampled the latter, of course.

There are some lines that even I won’t cross.

“What a thing to say, when I came to see you off properly.” Her lips find the taut muscle at the base of my throat, and her teeth sink in, making me shudder. The basest part of me wants to drag her astride my lap. I want to unzip my pants and shove inside of her without any foreplay at all, I want to find my release in a soulless fuck between the legs that have taunted me since I was fifteen, never mind that we’re in the VIP lounge at an airport, and that there are at least a dozen other people around us.

Only the thin sliver of humanity that remains inside of me, the tiny shard that my father wasn’t able to extract, keeps me from doing it. That, and the fact that if I do the dynamics between us will change irrevocably, in ways that I don’t want.

So, though my body wants to let her keep nibbling on my neck—wants her mouth to move lower—I shove her away irritably, the recliner rocking forward with a jolt.

She frowns. Still, undeterred, she reaches out, runs a hand through my hair.

“The meeting just won’t be the same without you.” She flicks her tongue over those glossy red lips. “You know how I love it when you lead board meetings. All that raw power.”

“You’ll handle it just fine.” Smirking, I meet her eyes. I’m not stupid. Though she pretends that all she wants is to get her hands on me, we both know that it’s Benenati Enterprises that she really loves... the company, and the billions of dollars that it generates.

She would probably make a far better CEO than me, if I were feeling honest, which I rarely am. I have the same hunger for power that Emilia does, but there are days when the baggage my father left behind in the empire that he built feels too heavy for me to carry.

Which is why I’m waiting to board our family’s private plane, which will take me to one of our vacation homes, the one on the Amalfi Coast. I do everything I can to avoid these meetings in person, instead attending by phone whenever possible.

I hate the way the board—all people who were been handpicked by my father—stare at me, their expectations weighing me down. I’m not Carmine Benenati, and I’m thankful for that fact every day. But I’m still his blood, a fact inescapable even six months after his death. The man—this company—can still mold me in his image. The very thought haunts my every waking moment, and sometimes my dreams, as well.

Shuddering inwardly, I slam my empty scotch glass on the side table, hard enough to shatter. Catching the eye of the very attractive, very scantily clad waitress, I contemplate a second drink. Possibly a quickie with her in the executive washroom.

Anything to take the edge off. But from the corner of my eye, I see Emilia taking note of my intentions toward the pretty redhead, and of the scotch that I drained too quickly.

I can’t show weakness in front of her, or it will cost me.

“What the hell is taking so long?” Scowling, I shove away thoughts of another drink, of the mind-numbing emptiness of release, and push my way to my feet. Emilia’s fuck-me lips turn down sullenly as I stride to the glassed-in door of the lounge, wanting—needing—some distraction.

I barely have time to blink before a skinny teenager dressed in black sprints by, a large straw purse clutched tightly in his emaciated arms.

“My purse! That man took my purse!” The voice wavers, clearly belonging to an elderly woman. Still, it filters through the thick glass door that separates the VIP lounge from the rest of those striding through the airport with scowls on their faces just fine.

Sucking in a breath, I push the glass door open. It slams against the wall with such force it could break, but I don’t care—if it does, I’ll buy them another. Adrenaline rushes through me as I bounce on the balls of my feet, looking from the rapidly shrinking figure clutching the handbag, to the older woman with clouds of white hair, who is trying to rise from the floor.

My instinct is to sprint after the young man who just callously preyed on the weak. But a small voice inside my head whispers, holding me back.

It’s not your problem, Matteo. These people are beneath you. Let them solve their own problems.

That voice is Carmine’s, not mine. But does it really matter?

“You’re not seriously thinking of playing the superhero, are you?” Behind me I hear Emilia laugh, the sound rich with amusement and condescension. “Who are you and what have you done with my stepbrother?”

That decides it.

“You could go help that old woman up,” I snap over my shoulder as I break into a run. She won’t, I know she won’t, but someone will.

I barely make it three steps before I’m overtaken by a woman. A girl, really, younger than me, with long chestnut hair streaming out behind her.

“I’ve got it!” She shouts as she pushes past me, picking up speed. Dio, but she’s fast, the movements of her legs highlighted by the spandex legging style pants that girls like to wear.

I race after her, my course of action decided.

This girl is maybe five foot four to my six three. She’s so small... what is she going to do when she catches up to a man mean enough to steal from an old woman? No matter how rotten I am on the inside, I can’t let that slide. So, I sprint after her, after the thief. I’m fast, but she’s faster. She’s gaining on the mugger, who casts a panicked look over his shoulder. Even from this distance I can see that his eyes are wide, crazed.

He’s high on something... he would have to be, to try a stunt like this in an international airport.

And this pazzo woman, this crazy girl, is two strides away from being in a lot of trouble.

“Stop!” I shout, but it’s too late. She jumps, lands on the unkempt man, wraps her arms around the purse as they struggle to stay upright. Horror joins the adrenaline pulsing through me as I see a flash of silver, the whites of the man’s eyes.

The girl screams, a sound full of anger more than pain, as she twists, the knife sinking into her upper arm rather than her chest. The scene plays out in slow motion before my eyes as she falls to the floor, a viscous stream of crimson staining the front of her white T-shirt.

My instinct is to drop to my knees beside her, to put pressure on her wound. But her eyes—beautiful blue eyes, brilliant as the Mediterranean—meet my own.

“I’m fine!” She wheezes at me, despite the very obvious fact that she is not. Her arms wrap ever tighter around the purse, and with one foot she kicks the knife out of range. “Go!”

I don’t usually take orders, especially from women, but I understand the fire in her stare. The mugger has already scrambled to his feet, is poised to run.

The girl managed to get the purse, but justice must be served. I appreciate this desire of hers. So without breaking my stride, I leap, wrapping my arms around the man. My muscles are burning from the sprint, but I hold tight as we crash to the floor.

“Off! Off!” The thief’s voice is high-pitched, hysterical. He thrashes beneath me, and I grunt as his knee connects with my gut. “I need that money! I need the fucking money!”

“There’s probably nothing more than pocket change and stale mints in that purse, you idiot.” My muscles strain as I grab hold of his wrists, secure them behind his back—I’m by far the bigger of us two, but he has mania on his side.

He doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on something over my shoulder as he struggles. His skin is pale and clammy, eyes bloodshot and glassy. His muscles are tight with tension and pressed against him like I am, I can feel the hammering of his pulse, unnaturally fast.

I lift my head, try to crane my neck back to get a glimpse of the girl, but she’s out of my line of sight. Instead, I see a man and a woman, both dressed in the blue uniforms of aeroporti security, running toward us.

“We need you to let go of him now,” the male says, but I don’t let go until they have a good grip on the thief, who now has saliva dribbling down his chin. It disgusts me, as so many things do, and I swivel, trying to get a good look at the girl.

The female security guard catches a full glimpse of my face, and her mouth falls open. I sigh as she emits a small squeak, leaving her partner to do their job by himself.

“Signore Benenati,” she whispers, a bright flush staining her cheeks. I shake my head in warning as I scramble to my feet.

“Not now.” My voice is harsh, and I begin to push my way through the crowd of people who have gathered. “Call an ambulanza. Now!”

She says something behind me; I don’t care. Other whispers from the crowd tell me that I’ve been recognized, not an unusual occurrence here in Palermo. While normally I enjoy the benefits that come with being one of the country’s most eligible bachelors, right now I’m focused on the girl.

There she is, propped up on her elbows, a hand held to her own wound, her fingers painted in blood. Several well-meaning citizens flutter around her, but no one has truly touched her—afraid of getting their hands dirty.

Just like you were. If you hadn’t hesitated, she wouldn’t have been stabbed.

It should have been you.

“Signorina.” I am never at a loss for words, nor do I ever feel guilty. But it seems that today is a day for firsts as I fall to my knees at the side of this strange, brave girl.

I shrug out of my light cotton sweater and press it to the wound. It soaks through, wetting my hands as well.

Her blood is sticky and warm. Full of life.

“The ambulance will be here shortly.” I’m pressing down gently on the gap in her flesh, the place where the knife sliced through her, but she winces anyway.

“No! No ambulance!” She struggles to sit up, but since she is clearly going into shock—her skin is paper white and her eyes glassy—she winds up falling back with her head in my lap.

Is she insane?

Wait—I already know the answer to that.

“You need medical attention.” Frowning, I brush an errant lock of her hair away from her forehead, scowling at both the impulsive gesture and the smudges of blood that I leave behind on her white skin.

She shakes her head—maybe she doesn’t understand.

“Ssh,” I try to soothe, but I have never soothed anyone in my life. “They’ll stitch you up, give you some pain medication. You’ll feel better.”

“No!” With surprising strength, born of adrenaline, I would guess, she wrenches herself from my grasp, rolls to her side, starts trying to get to her feet. “No ambulance. I can’t afford it.”

Aah.

“I will pay.” Maybe this will assuage some of the guilt that was building inside of me, the sensation strange and unpleasant. I hesitated. If I hadn’t, I would have been the one to tackle the thief. To be stabbed. And this strange girl would have gone on her way.

“Like hell you will.” Managing to pull herself to a sitting position, she glares at me. I can feel my mouth fall open a bit, with shock.

I can’t recall meeting a woman—ever—who refused my money. It is just a fact that has come along with the privilege of my family name.

“You’re not paying. So, no ambulance.” With that damned purse still in hand—where is the owner, anyway?—the girl rises to her knees and wobbles.

I ignore her, catching the eye of the female security guard that I shouted at. She nods to signal that she has in fact called the ambulance, then blushes again. I will pay the costs. It is the least that I can do since this situation is my fault. Besides, I have money—a lot of money. The ambulance ride, the medical expenses—they will cost less than the sweater that the girl has discarded. It lies in a bloody, deep blue heap on the floor.

“Where’s the woman this was stolen from?” I rise to my feet along with the stubborn signorina, arms around her, ready to catch her if she should fall.

Instead of thanking me, she pushes at my touch irritably—and weakly.

“Really, Matteo?” The sharp clack of a shoe tapping on marble tile has my teeth grinding together. I spare a glance in the direction of Emilia, who is standing to the side of the crowd, nose wrinkled with distaste. “You can’t get on the plane until you’ve cleaned up. I’m taking it to Milan next week, and I don’t want to wait for blood to be cleaned from the upholstery.”

I’m not surprised by Emilia’s response—for the ten years I’ve known her, she’s been inclined to lash out first, ask questions later. But while normally I would simply roll my eyes and ignore her, this time I find anger heating my veins. The girl in my arms was stabbed trying to help someone, does Emilia have no feelings at all? “Not now, Emilia.” I tighten my hold as the girl tries to pull away from me.

“I can’t miss my flight!” Her voice is full of panic. “I’ve been waiting for this seat sale forever. It’s non-refundable. All of my things are already on the plane!”

Emilia laughs, probably at the idea that all of one’s possessions could possibly fit on a plane at all, let alone in the bag or two that I suspect are all that this girl has.

Ignoring my stepsister, I try to gather the girl in my arms. Though she still fights it, when her hot, smooth skin presses against mine, something electric jolts through me, taking me by surprise.

Emilia isn’t one to be ignored. “Guess you’ll be at the board meeting after all.” Grinding my teeth together, I give in, turning to glare at her. She smirks, making even that look sexy, and in that moment I hate her.

Damn it, she’s right. I groan, as I realize that now I’m stuck. All for a stubborn scrap of a girl who’s eyeing the paramedics like they’re the spawn of Satan.

“I’m telling you, I can’t afford it.” Pushing out of my arms, she staggers a few feet, then lurches to a stop. “I’m perfectly fine.”

Turning back to me, she holds out one of her hands, which is tacky with congealing red.

“Hey, look.” Her face is full of amazement, as if she has no idea why she is bleeding, and she sways back and forth. “Blood.”

I have no choice but to catch her as she falls.

A sea of silver swims in front of my eyes when I finally pry the lids open. I blink, willing my vision to clear. But my eyelids feel gritty, raw, like sandpaper scraping over my corneas.

Pushing myself up onto my elbows, I rub my fingers over my eyes until the grainy sensation stops.

But the silver is still there. It’s everywhere, in fact… in the embossed wallpaper that stretches up fifteen feet, in the plush looking carpet that invites me to sink my toes in. It’s in the gauzy curtains that hang at the window that spans an entire wall, and in the satin covered headboard that’s propping me up from behind, the one with antique looking studs.

It’s even in the chandelier hanging over my head—holy hell, yes, that is a full-on crystal chandelier, a giant death trap, right above me.

For some reason I fixate on that first—on how this giant piece of uselessness could kill me if it falls—before my brain allows me to contemplate the fact that I have no idea where I am, and that I feel like I’ve been drugged.

Shifting on the bed, I take note of the satin sheets—silver, of course, mustn’t mess up the color scheme—and frown. My sheets, before I gave up my apartment at least, were threadbare in several places, and a heinous bright plaid. They clashed spectacularly with all the other colors that I crowded in. But I’d always craved that kind of visual chaos.

The kind that was the exact opposite of my current surroundings.

Toto, something tells me we’re not in Kansas anymore.

Sucking in a deep breath, I close my eyes, press my fingers to my temples, and try to remember. The airport—the scream of an elderly woman—bright pain—blood.

Strong arms catching me as I fell.

“Shit.” Pulling back the sheet, smoothing my snarled hair back from my shoulder, I find it—the place where the knife sliced through my flesh, concealed by a wide square of gauze secured with surgical tape.

I grimace as I peel back the sticky edges. The gauze is stuck to my skin, crusted with dried blood, and when I pull it away I can’t stop from crying out as it tugs on the wound.

The cut itself is puffy, a long line the exact shade of my favorite Cadmium Red oil paint, telling me that the blade went deeper than I’d initially thought. But it’s sewn up neatly with blue thread, the stitches marching tidily along the angry slice in my skin, and I can see the shiny gloss of ointment. The wooziness I feel likely comes from medication of some kind… an antibiotic, which always makes me nauseous, and maybe a painkiller.

Panic is a thousand tiny needles jabbing into the softness of my belly. I can’t afford medication, or the doctor’s bill—I just graduated from art school. I’m broke, having spent my last available cash on my flight home.

When the rest of the scene in the airport flashes through my mind, my heart clenches, then sinks. I scrimped and saved and aggressively hunted down that bargain airfare, my ticket back home. I gambled, knowing it was non-refundable—but I hadn’t been able to think of a single thing that would keep me away from that flight.

Now it’s gone. I have no apartment anymore, no money, no job, no way home, and no one at home to help me out.

I am well and truly fucked.

I realize as I squirm in the bed, I am naked, in what I assume is the bed of Mr. “I’ll Pay Your Bills.”

“Oh, shit.” What the hell happened after I blacked out?

A low chuckle disrupts the still air, and I whip my head in the direction of the sound. It’s him. The guy who got my blood all over his sweater, one of those garments that you just know cost more than my entire year’s tuition. I’ll never be able to replace it for him, no matter how much I hate owing anyone anything. Just like I’ll never be able to pay him back for the medical attention that I’ve clearly received. Not with money, anyway. The thought makes me stiffen, a rod of steel snapping into place in my spine.

I open my mouth to say something… probably to give him hell, because he’s done exactly the opposite of what I told him to do. Instead my brain chooses to narrow in on the one thing that’s making me super uncomfortable.

“Where are my clothes?” I blurt out, clutching the sheet tightly to my chest. I’m not a prude or anything… but this is the closest I’ve ever come to being naked with a member of the opposite sex. It’s like by taking my clothes, he’s taken away my carefully constructed defenses.

He laughs again, low in his throat. The sound sends a shiver skating over my skin, and the sensation isn’t entirely unpleasant.

Oh, who am I kidding? I haven’t even heard him speak yet, but his voice, with its mocking edge, still makes my girly parts sit up and pay attention. Combine that with the way his stare rakes over my body, which is one hundred percent naked under this thin silk sheet—the way he looks at me isn’t lecherous, but more like he has the absolute right to look, like he knows I’ll let him.

The feminist in me wants to be affronted. But the rest of me is undeniably affected by the heat in his eyes.

If I were a different kind of girl, I would be able to answer that heat with some kind of flirtation, some sexual undertones. But I’m not… I’m the kind of girl who buys her clothes from flea markets, who considers it a treat to be able to afford some salumi for the cheap bread that is available everywhere in Italy.

The kind of girl who knows only too well what this kind of man might demand as payment for the favors—the unwanted favors—that he has bestowed upon me.

“What’s going on?” I despise the shakiness in my voice. I’m stronger than that. But I’ve also been through a lot in the last… however many hours it’s been.

The thought of being unconscious, of being in the care of stranger’s hands, makes me very, very nervous. I’ve fended off enough of my mom’s sleazeball “boyfriends” to know exactly what kind of trouble can be found if a girl doesn’t have her wits about her at all times.

It was stupid, chasing down that guy in the airport. But what the hell else was I supposed to do? Somebody had to do something.

The look that this guy gives me as he leans casually against the doorframe tells me that his thoughts haven’t strayed all that far from my own. Yeah, I just bet that the women he knows wouldn’t be crazy enough to chase after a knife wielding druggie in an airport. It would wreck their Louboutins.

“What do you remember?” His lips curl upward in a smirk, the expression both arrogant and freaking hot—hot enough to that I’m momentarily distracted from his accent.

Here in Italy, I’m the one with the accent, and I’ve grown accustomed to the seductive flow of the romantic language. But hearing English, my native tongue, coming from that sexy mouth reminds of why so many women are such suckers for accents. It’s not helping the heat that’s gathering in my nether regions, and when I shift in an attempt to get myself under control, that smirk only grows wider. He knows—he knows just what effect he’s having on me. I bet there’s not a woman alive who is immune to that smile, that voice. In defense, I clutch the sheet tighter to my chest. The silk is cool against my breasts, and when I feel the tips pucker, I want to groan.

He clears his throat, pulling me out of my inner monologue. I can feel my skin flush with embarrassment.

I am so out of my league here.

“You were telling me what you remember?” Pushing away from the doorframe, he crosses the room. Moving a heavy leather chair up to the side of the bed, he takes a seat, rests his elbows on his knees. My nostrils flare as his scent drifts to my nose—some kind of expensive cologne, and beneath it, a male musk that sends my hormones into overdrive.

Not that they need the encouragement.

“Ahem?” The sound is meant as a gentle prod—no, I correct myself. Gentle isn’t a word I would apply to him.

He’s tall.

He’s hard.

He’s dark.

There’s nothing gentle about him. Yet, even as my instincts scream intruder as he leans forward beside the bed, invading my space, I’m pretty sure that he won’t hurt me.

It takes a certain kind of person to throw themselves into a situation like we were in at the airport. Even though he hesitated, he nonetheless did it. He took care of me after. So much so, that I’m pretty sure we’re in his house, and that’s a good reminder to start talking.

“I remember everything that happened at the airport.” I start slowly. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed a handful of gravel, and I wince.

He reaches into what I assumed was a bedside table but turns out to be a cleverly disguised mini-fridge. Removing a bottle of water, he unscrews the cap, then hands it to me.

“Thanks.” I drink greedily, the frigid water soothing the ache in my throat. Some of the clear liquid rolls down my chin, falls onto the sheet clutched over my naked breasts, and I can feel myself turning redder still.

Classy, Tremaine.

But he doesn’t seem disturbed. No, instead he looks… intrigued.

Just wait for it, buddy. Or rather, don’t. You’re the most interesting thing that’s happened in my entire life.

“He was on drugs. The man who stole the purse.” I remember seeing the tremor in his hand as he whirled on me with the knife. Rubbing a hand over my wound, I grimace, even as pity washes over me.

I’m all too familiar with how drugs can make a person change—make them become someone else entirely.

This man, the one in front of me, scowls. “What, precisely, were you planning to do once you caught him?”

I blink, startled. This isn’t what I expected him to ask.

“I did what I planned to do,” I retorted, setting the now empty plastic bottle on the bedside table. He’d poked right at a soft spot—my tendency to act before thinking things through. “I got the purse back.”

He huffs out an exasperated breath. “You were stabbed while doing it. It could have been worse. What are you—five foot two? One hundred twenty pounds?”

One fifty, my inner voice corrects. Thanks to the local gelato. But no need to tell him that.

Besides…

“What does my size have to do with anything?” Once again, his eyes take a leisurely stroll down the length of my body.

I’m the kind of girl who always has something to say—in less polite terms, I have a big mouth. Yet when that stare of his reaches my face, I find that my command of the English language has disappeared entirely.

“You are a small woman.” Damn it, that voice. Like whiskey on ice, hot and cold at the same time. “You could have been hurt much worse. You should leave things like that to men.”

I’m floating a bit from his comment about me being small, which I’m not, not really. But the latter half of his sentence brings me crashing back down to the ground.

“Leave things like that to men?” Oh, there she is—my inner feminist coming out to play. She’s outraged. “I’m perfectly capable of doing anything that a man can do.”

He smirks again, and I see red.

“I’m not trying to keep down your right to vote, or attempting to put you barefoot in the kitchen, or whatever else it is you women folk get tied in knots about. Though the kitchen would likely be safer.”

“What did you say?” I gape; I can’t help it.

“My point is that some differences between men and women, they are biology.” His stare catches my own, and though his expression is mild, his words, the most subtle shift of his body in that chair, serve to demonstrate exactly what he means.

He is a large, well-muscled man.

I am a small, soft woman.

No matter how much of a fight I put up, he could overpower me in about three seconds.

Some cavewoman part of me purrs at the notion, and I gasp, appalled at myself.

He takes my gasp as outrage, and the expression on his face shifts… becomes darker.

“Shall I take that to mean you need a demonstration of just how different we are?” He slides forward, lays his palms flat on the bed. Though I do my best to suppress it, the image of him overpowering me, pressing my naked body down into the slinky sheets of this bed floods my mind.

What is wrong with me?

As he moves, the dim light of the room dances over the fine bones of his face. His left eye is cast in shadow, a shadow that doesn’t move when he does. Not a large bruise, but noticeable enough.

“Where did someone like you get a black eye?” I blurt out, mostly to break the tension. Raising an eyebrow, he eases back, and the spell is broken. I’m left with a pulse that thunders through my veins. I inhale, then exhale slowly, trying to calm it.

The question seems to set him back, if only for a second, and then he has that smooth mask back in place. He even smiles wryly. “You don’t recognize your own handiwork?” He sounds amused. I, however, am appalled.

“Shut up.” It’s American slang, using those words to say that you don’t believe something, but his affronted expression tells me that he doesn’t understand. Realizing I have shoved my foot in my mouth, I hurry on. “I’ve never punched anyone in my life.”

Not that I wouldn’t, if I had to. I try to do what’s right, what the moral compass inside each of us—the one that my mother has always so blithely ignored—says is wrong, and what is right. But I cannot think of a single reason that I would swing at this stranger. Even if he clearly got me medical attention that I do not want.

“Well, I assure you, I am not mistaken.” He rubs his hand over the stubble on his jaw, eyeing me thoughtfully. That stubble, the dark shadow, lends him a human edge that he was missing when I first saw him in the airport—a well-groomed, dark companion to Italian Barbie.

“You passed out from blood loss. The ambulance came. You woke up just as we arrived at the hospital. You were quite insistent that we not go inside, so you took a swing at me.” He shrugs, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s a bit embarrassed that I—a woman—managed to land a hit. “I did not wish to upset you further, so I asked them to instead bring you here. To my home. I had my family doctor come to treat you.”

The family doctor of some man I don’t know, examining me while I’m unconscious. Great. “Why were you in the ambulance?”

I know, from the times I’ve had to ship my mom off to the hospital to get her stomach pumped, that only family members are allowed to accompany a patient in an ambulance—and then only one.

A quick look around serves as a reminder that this man likely has enough money to bend all kinds of rules.

The air of arrogance that he wears as comfortably as he wore that dark blue sweater earlier makes me think that he wouldn’t have any problem bending them. Which is why I’m surprised to see that confidence falter, just for a split second, but impossible to miss.

“It is my fault that you needed the ambulance.” His words are stiff, colored with the faintest hint of… guilt?

Say what?

“How do you figure that?” I sit up straighter, which causes the sheet that I’m holding to me to slide down slightly. I don’t care, but I do notice that his eyes dip briefly to the hint of cleavage that I now have on display before pulling the sheet back up. “It’s not your fault. It’s the fault of the man with the knife.”

The man shakes his head, completely dismissing my words, and anger rises inside of me. “No. It is my fault. I hesitated. If I hadn’t, I would have reached him first. The blade that hurt you should have been meant for me.”

As he speaks, he reaches across my lap. Sliding the heavy locks of my hair back so that it hangs behind my shoulder, he traces a finger over the line of my cut.

I stiffen, then shudder—his finger is cool against my feverishly hot skin.

I shake my head in disagreement, knowing as I do that somehow there will be no changing his mind.

“I can’t afford any of this.” Shame, that ghost that has haunted me my entire life, becomes a visible apparition. “I am—well, was—a student. The ambulance. The doctor. The medicine.”

“Well, I can.” Pulling away from me abruptly, he stands. “It is my responsibility. My fault so you will stay until you heal.”

Hell no. I know that I don’t actually have any other options right now, but instinct is its own entity, honed over long years of watching my mother make promises that she could never fill, anything to get her next fix.

I slide over to the edge of the bed. I have to get up. I can’t owe him any more than I already do.

The abrupt movement causes my stitches to pull tight, tugging on the healthy skin surrounding the wound, and I cry out in pain.

“Lie down.” The word is a full-on command, infused with the authority of a man who knows that he will be obeyed.

Again, instinct tells me to rail against it. But someone else—something either much smarter or much more idiotic—has me doing as he says.

He scowls down at me, an expression that suits him better than the smile, though I like the smile far better.

“I am not holding you hostage.” He points to a cordless phone that rests on the bedside table. “You are free to call whomever you wish, so that they do not worry. But you will stay until you are healed. I assure you, the money—it is nothing.”

Looking at the room around me, that is easy to believe, and easier to focus on than the fact that I have no one to call.

No one who cares.

Every fiber of my body wants to protest this arrangement. No matter how well-meaning this guy seems, he’s a stranger. I do not want to be in his debt.

I don’t see that I have a choice.

Huffing out a sigh of exasperated surrender, I flop back against the pillows. “Do you always get your way?” I’m irritated, or at least I would be if I could gather enough energy. The longer I’m awake, the more that the pleasant fog from the painkillers dissipates. Right at this moment, I kind of feel like I’ve been hit by a semi.

“Yes.” His answer is simple, and I absolutely believe him.

“Who are you, anyway?” Squinting, I study his face. He’s hot enough to be a movie star or a musician, absolutely. But I don’t recognize him—and some strange little tug inside of me tells me that I would, if I had seen him before.

He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to tell me—like he wants to keep what’s between us the way that it is now. Unbalanced.

“My name is Matteo Benenati.” Pausing, he cocks his head to one side, and I know that I’m not imagining that he is watching me for my response.

His last name sounds vaguely familiar, true enough. But I could be making that up. To my American ears, everyone in Italy has names with a similar tone. Benenati. Agnelli. Fiori. Leoni.

So probably it’s not familiar at all.

“I’m Riley.” I offer my hand, a very American custom, I know, and realize the absurdity of the gesture when he arches an eyebrow at my proffered hand, which I snatch back. I’m naked in a bed in his house, with a stab wound on my shoulder. We’re a little bit past the introductions phase of our relationship.

“Riley Tremaine. Twenty-one years old, from Coal Creek, Colorado. Here on an exchange program for your final year of college, where you have just finished studies in fine arts. Specialty is oil painting. Currently of no fixed address.” Sliding his hands into the pockets of his slacks, he rocks back on his heels, studies my face as I gape at him. I shouldn’t be shocked that he knows any of this about me—I have a Facebook account, though I rarely use it.

But I’m a bit startled that he bothered to look. That I, a stranger to him—and a troublesome one at that—was important enough to dig for information on.

He doesn’t smile as he regards my obvious confusion. Instead, I get the sense that he’s just pulled some kind of power play. He is in charge here. Not like I needed the reminder. It makes me mad, even though I suppose I should be thanking him profusely for his help.

I don’t like needing help. Don’t care for being weak.

To his credit, he doesn’t rub in the fact that, at that moment, I have no choice but to stay here, as he has ordered me to do. I’m out of options. Out of money. Across the world from my home, simply because I wanted a taste of life in a town of three hundred that saw my mother every time they looked at me.

“Rest.” He turns, strides to the door. “I will be back later.”

The rational part of my brain tries to stop the next question from leaving my mouth, but then, if that part of my grey matter was strong, I wouldn’t have gotten stabbed, wouldn’t be here in the first place.

“Matteo.” My voice still sounds rusty, and to my surprise, tired. I suddenly want nothing more than to fall back on the softest bed I’ve ever been in in my life and crash. “Who undressed me?”

Looking over his shoulder, he smirks and winks, a small gesture that nevertheless sends a flock of hormonal butterflies crashing around in my stomach.

“Sweet dreams, Miss Tremaine.” Then he is gone, though the scents of his cologne, of the musk of his skin, linger.

Holy hell.

Sweet dreams, indeed.