Chapter 2
SAbrINA
What a horrible, manipulative man.
I swiped at the raindrops tickling my cheek, silently cursing both my boss and this dreary city for the hundredth time.
My dream trip was more like a nightmare.
Fall Fashion Week in Paris with édouard Sauvage-Lafleur, the celebrated haute couture designer. The kind of opportunity that could launch my career.
I’d pictured sorting through racks of his fall collection, being consulted on color palettes and accessories.
I hadn’t pictured being screamed at over pastry.
Now here I was, soaked to the skin, clutching a half-destroyed croissant in a bag after hiking ten blocks for a pain au chocolat from one specific patisserie. Never mind the gourmet craft table ten feet from his airbrushed ego inside the dry, majestic Cour Marly at the Louvre.
I glanced down at my ruined Morin Blossier vest. The soaked silk clung to my skin.
I groaned.
There were mirrors everywhere backstage. And right now, I looked like Andy in the before montage of The Devil Wears Prada.
My black leather leggings tightened and pinched my thighs as I bent over to wrench off my gold Giuseppe Zanotti platforms. There was no point in ruining my favorite pair of heels, too.
Tucking my head down, I ran across the slick pavement—straight into a brick wall.
A warm, extremely tall brick wall that smelled like juniper and charred wood.
Strong hands gripped my upper arms to steady me.
“Please excuse me. Are you all right?”
I tilted my head back—way back—to stare into the face of a god.
Holy hell.
Men this handsome didn’t exist in real life.
Beneath a furrowed brow and sharp cheekbones were a pair of piercing brown eyes so deep they appeared almost black. His dark hair was just long enough to brush against the collar of the expensive tailored suit beneath his long cashmere coat.
The damp gave it an almost whimsical curl at the ends, which belied the air of intensity clinging to him.
Even the small white scar on his right upper lip, standing out against his tanned skin, could not diminish his overpowering male beauty.
If anything, it made him look…dangerous.
One thick eyebrow raised in a perfect arch. “Signorina, did I hurt you?”
His fingers were still on my arms, radiating warmth through my thin shirt.
I couldn’t stop staring at them. A flash of a black diamond signet ring gleamed on his ring finger, the kind only powerful rich men wore.
Reflexively, I tugged on my soggy vest so my nipples, erect from the wet chill…or from his stare…wouldn’t show.
A vision slammed into me of his hands wrapped around my wrists, pinning me to a bed, his mouth on my—
“I— Hurt me,” I blurted.
Cheeks blazing, I coughed and tried again. “Sorry. I meant no. You didn’t hurt me.”
The corner of his mouth lifted with the hint of a smile. “That is good. I would never forgive myself if I hurt a bella donna such as you.”
Wait. Fuck. He’s Italian.
Alarm bells went off in my head as my mother’s voice screeched a warning.
All my life, she'd conditioned me to fear Italian men, despite my own Italian heritage.
Italian men were dangerous.
My father was Italian.
The father I’d never met—for a reason.
The man’s hand grazed my cheek, a touch so light it should have reassured me—but it didn’t.
If anything, it confirmed all my mother’s warnings.
This man would devour me if I let him.
Say something. Anything.
“My shoes—they’re gone.”
Anything but that…
He chuckled as his gaze traveled down my body. “I can see that.”
My toes curled against the cold pavement under his scrutiny.
Then his hand slid down my arm and he took the shoes from my grasp, kneeling on the wet cement. “We can’t have you risking harm by running through the streets barefoot.”
“Wait! No. You can’t—”
His palm smoothed over the back of my calf as he lifted my right leg.
Thrown off balance, I braced against his broad shoulders, the contact sending another jolt through me.
“You’ll ruin your suit."
His palm cupped my heel as he gently pushed the gold pump back onto my foot.
Now teetering with a four-inch heel on only one foot, I dug my fingernails into the soft, thick fabric of his coat as I clung to him.
“This really isn’t necessary.”
He placed my other shoe on my foot and rose.
Despite my added height, he still loomed over me.
His finger hooked under my chin. “I’ll decide what is necessary.”
The feminist in me wanted to object to such blatant, arrogant machismo.
The female in me told her to shut the fuck up, while I resisted the urge to swoon into his arms.
Flipping my damp hair back over my shoulder, I forced the words through my stiff lips. “Thank you.”
“It was my pleasure.”
A shiver rippled through me.
I didn’t know if it was from the cold—or from him.
He noticed.
Without a word, he slipped off his coat and draped it around my shoulders.
I blinked. In the flash of movement, I’d caught a glimpse of something—black, rectangular, and definitely not a phone.
Is that a gun?
“You should not be out in this weather without a coat,” he said gently.
When I didn’t answer, he frowned.
I shook it off.
No. Not possible.
It was probably just some kind of fancy phone case.
The comforting heavy fabric of his coat settled over my shoulders. I couldn’t resist inhaling the smoky scent of his cologne.
At the expectant lift of his eyebrow, I lowered my gaze. “I know. I didn’t realize the bakery was so far from the Louvre.”
At my mention of the bakery, the man retrieved the soggy, waxed patisserie bag from where I’d dropped it on the ground when we collided.
“Yours?”
Fuck.
édouard was going to lose his damn mind when he saw the state of his precious chocolate croissant—not to mention how long it had taken me to get it.
Not that I didn’t take a sick little pleasure in knowing he’d be biting into a pastry that had hit the filthy pavement. Served the arrogant prick right for sending me on this ridiculous errand.
I shifted my shoulders to shrug out of the man’s coat. “I’m so sorry! Thanks again, but I’m really late!”
After pushing the coat at him, I turned to go.
I’d barely taken two steps before his arm wrapped around my waist, swinging me around and dragging me against his chest.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
His words sliced through the drumming rain, sharp and carrying the finality of a cage slamming shut.