Lauren lives in the Rocky Mountains of Alberta, Canada with her husband, toddler, pit bull and idiot cat, though they do not live in an igloo, nor do they drive a dogsled. In her nonexistent spare time Lauren can be found knitting (her husband claims that her snobby yarn collection is exorbitant), reading anything she can get her hands on, or sweating her way through spin class. She loves to hear from her readers!
A Bride for a Billionaire Excerpt by Lauren Hawkeye
Copyright © 2014 by Lauren Hawkeye
MATTEO
“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 smoothes 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. And the ones that I do have mostly center around 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, and 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 feel 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. And 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, 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 sil
ver, 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. And 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.
And 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.
And 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 Bride for a Billionaire- available now!
One Wild Ride Page 6