Now what do I do?
I can almost feel him at my back, getting closer and closer, the dread around my heart tightening like a vice.
What do I do, what do I do?
I grip the straps around my shoulders, my head held high with false confidence, my eyes darting from side to side, trying to see a way out of this situation. But there’s no one else around. Not a soul. I have a better chance of getting to the hostel or at least an open store of some sort before I get to the train station.
I should at least cross the road. If he follows me, then I know to start running. The last thing I want is to start freaking out for no reason and look like an idiot, but that would definitely be a solid sign that You need to run, bitch.
I look down the street and see a car turning onto it, the headlights illuminating the dark street just enough. I take a chance and glance down the street, hoping to get a good look at this guy just in case something happens to me.
All I see is a large bald man running toward me with his hands out, and then a glimpse of his wild eyes.
It all happens in a blur.
I cry out and turn to run from him, but just as I’m stepping off the curb, he grabs the back of my pack, yanking me to the side.
My left foot lands at an unnatural angle.
I cry out as sharp pain shoots up from my ankle, jagged bolts of hot lightning that run along my thigh, all the way to my heart, freezing me on the spot, both in terror and in pain.
And yet I’m falling anyway, my shoulder striking the pavement, my skin on fire, as the man tries to get my purse over my head, the cross-body strap digging into my windpipe.
I’m screaming and yelling, but it’s coming out garbled, and I’m trying to kick with only one leg, because my other one is exploding with pain. Through my cries and the man’s hoarse grunts as he fights for my purse and pack, I hear the screech of brakes—and then suddenly there’s another man on the scene.
As I scramble, frantically trying to get away, I see this new man tackle my attacker, bringing his gargantuan frame to the ground, and then I’m free from his grip.
But I can’t run; I can barely move. I only scramble so far, my palms and elbows scraping along the rough pavement, before I collapse onto the street in the fetal position, feeling pain run in sharp rivers all throughout my body.
The men continue to tussle—it’s like two wild beasts in a fight to the death—and then the new guy is throwing heavy, savage punches at my attacker. I hear the breaking of bone, see the spurting of blood, and I close my eyes, wishing I could wake up from this violent nightmare.
Then everything seems to grow quiet.
When a hand touches my shoulder, my eyes fly open, and I let out a high-pitched cry of pure fear.
“Est-ce que ça va?” the man asks, crouched beside me. “Are you okay?” He switches to English, his accent like velvet.
I shake my head, letting out a whimper as tears rush to my eyes.
“Where does it hurt?” he asks, looking me over. “Can you get up?”
“No,” I whisper. I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to move. I want to lie here, alone, without this stranger by my side, even if he did beat the shit out of the other guy.
Oh shit, what if my attacker is dead? Those punches were ruthless.
I raise my head to look. With the headlights half illuminating the giant of a man, I can see his chest rise and fall. His face is bloody, but he’s stirring slightly. Not dead.
“Did you know that man?” the guy asks me, following my gaze.
“No,” I whisper. “I was just walking to the train. I thought he was following me for a few blocks and—” Shit, my train. I glance at the guy with wide eyes. “I have to catch my train.”
Though I can’t make out his face properly in the shadows, I see him frown. “Train?” he repeats incredulously.
“I have to go,” I tell him, trying to roll over to push myself up, but my backpack holds me down.
The man moves more into the light, blinking at me in disbelief as he grabs my shoulders to keep me still and then slips the straps off me until I’m free of the backpack. “You’re not catching any train,” he says. “You’re going straight to the hospital.”
It takes me a moment to really look at him, and I’m momentarily stunned. Dark mussed-up hair, darker eyes, perfectly groomed facial hair over a wide jaw and dimpled chin. He looks like he could be in his late twenties or early thirties. I must be more fucked-up than I thought, because there’s no way this guy is real. This might be the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
It figures this is how I’d meet him.
Somehow I manage to tear my eyes away. Actually, the throbbing pain around my ankle makes it easier. I close my eyes tightly as I wince.
Son of a bitch.
“I can’t go to the hospital,” I say through gritted teeth.
“Why not? You’re hurt. You need to go to the hospital, then to the police station to file charges against this man.” He gestures to the beaten man with disgust before he reaches into the front pocket of his crisp, white shirt that’s now dotted with blood and pulls out his phone. “I’m calling you an ambulance.”
“Please, no,” I say quickly. “Don’t. I’m fine.” I manage to pull away from his grasp, trying to get to my feet.
His frown deepens, creating a sharp line between his low, dark brows. He tucks his phone away. “You’re not fine. Allons-y.”
He comes around behind me and puts his arms under my back, holding me tight as he lifts me to a sitting position. I’m aware of both how useless I feel and how close this stranger is to me. He smells amazing—a faint trace of cologne I can’t place—like he was born in the sea. It brings an image of a calm blue ocean, like the color the water was this morning on my jog.
That’s it, focus on his smell, I tell myself. Don’t think about that ankle. Don’t think about the pain. Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean.
Then he hooks his elbows under my arms and gently hauls me up to my feet. My left ankle screams with pain in protest, and I let out a yelp.
“Don’t put pressure on it, lean on me,” he says, pulling my arm up so it’s over his shoulder. Hell, he has broad shoulders built like a rock, and yet his movements are completely fluid, elegant.
I put my weight on him just as I hear a grunt and a stirring sound from behind us. We both turn to see the attacker staggering to his feet.
“Arrête!” the man yells at him, but the attacker is getting the fuck out of here. Without a glance at us, he starts stumbling down the street.
“Fuck,” Sexy French Guy swears, and I can feel him start to pull away as if he’s about to run after him.
“Go,” I tell him. “I’ll be fine.”
As much as I don’t want him to leave me here all alone, I also don’t want the attacker to get away with what he did.
But he takes one look at me and shakes his head. I see the tension in his jaw, the sharpness in his eyes. “No. I’m not leaving you like this.”
“He’ll get away.”
“No,” he says in a hardened voice. “He won’t.”
I frown. No? The attacker literally just got up and ran. What is he going to have the police do, follow the drops of blood throughout the city?
“Come on,” he says, turning us toward the car that’s stopped in the middle of the road. “If you don’t want an ambulance, then I’ll take you to the hospital myself.”
“No,” I plead. “The train station is fine.”
He takes a long look at me, and my eyes are momentarily caught in the depths of his. At first I thought maybe they were brown, but the closer we get to the headlights, the more I can see they’re a stunning dark green.
“Where are you trying to escape to?” he asks.
“Escape?” I repeat, trying to keep my voice low, considering his face is just inches from mine. The last thing I want is to breathe BBQ breath all over him.
“How is getting on a train more important than seeing a doctor? Where are you going, l
apin?”
Lapin? I don’t follow.
“Barcelona,” I tell him, grunting through the pain as he helps me hobble closer to the car, which I now notice is a shiny, new Mercedes. “Is this your car?”
“Oui,” he says. “And what is so important in Barcelona?”
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling strangely defensive. Why is this stranger all up in my grill about my business? And what was a sharply dressed, insanely handsome man with a fancy-schmancy Mercedes sports car doing in this neighborhood?
“Where are you from?” he asks, after further inspection of my face. It’s rather unnerving, the way he’s looking at me.
“Seattle,” I say automatically. “America,” I add.
“Yes, I’ve heard of it. And you’re alone?”
“Yes,” I tell him. Unfortunately.
“You’re not going to Barcelona to meet anyone?”
“What? No, why?”
He takes me around to the passenger side. “Then I’m most definitely not putting you on a train. Alone.”
I sigh heavily, hating to admit what I’m about to, especially as he’s opening the door to his spotless leather seats. “Look, I’m broke, okay? I’m just a backpacker and a college student, and long story short, I ended up with fewer funds than I needed, and I can’t afford to go to the hospital, nor can I afford to miss this train ride. I’ve already booked and paid for it.”
He nods slowly. I don’t think this guy has ever been in my shoes. From his watch to his shirt to his car, everything about him screams money.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. He gestures to the seat. “Get in.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Because you’re having trouble moving?” He takes my arm and tries to help me inside. I resist.
“No, because it’s easy for you to say I don’t have to worry about losing money on that train ticket.”
He tilts his head back, examining my face. “Are you always this stubborn with people who’ve just saved your life?”
“Saved my life?” I repeat, almost laughing. “That guy was just trying to mug me, right? Saving my life is a bit of a stretch.”
I realize how ungrateful I sound as he shrugs faintly. “Maybe, but if you fought back or made a scene, I don’t know. Nice is a safe city, but you can always be an exception. You’re lucky I was here.”
I guess all the pain and adrenaline of the situation kind of tempered that reality for me. All I could think about was making that train—the train that I’m sure has already left without me on it. It kept me from focusing on the terrifying and brutal truth that I was just attacked on the streets of Nice. If it hadn’t been for this guy, who the hell knows what might have happened to me? There’s a chance the attacker wasn’t even trying to mug me to begin with. He could have dragged me into an alley, and I would have been completely powerless.
Jesus . . .
“Hey,” Sexy Rich French Guy says after a moment, his voice growing soft. He gives my shoulder a light squeeze. “You’ve been through a lot. Let’s get you to the hospital. I promise you, you don’t have to worry about money for the next while.”
I swallow hard, arching a brow at him. After what I’ve just been through, I should be on guard with this guy, too, offering to pay for me and all. He might have saved me and fought off my attacker, but I’m not sure I can trust him either. Who knows what his agenda is?
“If you want, I can call an ambulance like I said I would,” he says after a beat, taking out his phone. “You certainly don’t have to get in this car.”
He means it. I don’t know how I can tell, but I can, and it’s nothing to do with how well put together and respectable he seems. It’s something in his eyes, some kind of softness and understanding.
And, okay, maybe the fact that the longer I stare at him, the more my heart starts to flutter.
I really should get my head on straight, because these kinds of thoughts are pretty fucking trite after what just happened, but this is also the first time I’ve found any man attractive after Tom, so I’m just going to go with it. It’s better than thinking about how royally fucked I am.
“It’s okay,” I tell him. “Let’s go get me fixed up.”
I let him help me into the car and buckle up as he gently closes the door, then runs over to the curb where my backpack is. He hoists it up like it weighs nothing at all and then tosses it in the trunk. After he gets in and starts driving, I lean my head back against the seat and try to figure out what I’m going to do about Barcelona, but before I can form a single coherent thought, I slip away into a dark, cold sleep.
When I wake up, we’re in the parking lot of a hospital, and Sexy Rich French Guy is gently shaking me.
“We’re here,” he says softly, peering at me. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”
I’m so groggy I can barely speak, and the longer I stay awake, the worse the pain gets. “No, my shoulder took most of it,” I manage to say.
“I just want to make sure you don’t have a concussion,” he says. “You were passed out cold for the last ten minutes.”
“It’s been a hell of a night,” I tell him, trying to smile.
He doesn’t smile in return. “It’s not over yet,” he says. Then he opens his door. “I’m going to get you a wheelchair. Stay here.”
Before I can tell him both not to worry and that I won’t be going anywhere, he’s jogging over to the doors to the emergency ward.
I realize I don’t even know this guy’s name.
CHAPTER TWO
OLIVIER
“Can I get a wheelchair?” I ask the sullen woman behind the counter in the emergency room.
She raises her brow slowly. You’d think she’d be used to dealing with emergencies. “What do you need it for?”
What do you think?
“I have a woman in my car; she was attacked tonight. I think her ankle might be sprained or broken,” I tell her.
The woman’s expression doesn’t change. “Attacked?”
“Yes,” I say impatiently, tapping my fingers on the counter.
“By who?”
“I don’t know. A man.”
“You’ll have to call the police.”
“I will,” I tell her, “as soon as you admit this girl, and for that I need a damn wheelchair.”
The other brow arches. She’s obviously not used to being spoken to this way, but I’m not used to being treated this way either.
“What is her name?” she asks after a beat, looking down at her sheet.
Fuck. I have no idea.
“Jane,” I say quickly, thinking of the most American name I know. “Jane Doe. Now can I have a wheelchair, or do I have to steal one?”
She narrows her eyes at me, and they momentarily flit over my shoulder. I turn around to see a couple of wheelchairs folded and stacked against the wall.
“Thank you,” I tell her and run over to grab one before she can protest.
This certainly wasn’t how I thought I’d be spending my Friday night.
Then again, my night wasn’t shaping up like I’d planned to begin with.
First, there was my date, Celine, whom I knew was using me. They all do; I’ve known this since I was a teenager, and models are the absolute worst about it. Doesn’t seem to keep me from fucking them, but it does get tiresome after a while when I have to pretend that I didn’t see it coming.
In this case, today I was supposed to pick up Celine from her train arriving from Paris, then take her out to dinner in Cannes at one of the newest, hippest restaurants. Which, of course, is pointless, because I know models, and I know how much they only pretend to eat. Instead of taking one out to dinner, it’s best to save your money and let them have limitless champagne and coke in your hotel room, along with a couple of olives to kill their hunger pangs before you screw them senseless.
Not that wasting money matters much for me, but it’s still the principle of the matter. And in this case, not only was I taking Celine
out for a meal that she’d only pretend to eat, I was unknowingly being used as a pawn in some jealousy scheme. Turns out the owner of the new restaurant, a hotshot chef fresh from London, is Celine’s ex-boyfriend.
Suffice to say, things got a bit awkward, and I’m fairly certain that there was spit in my leek-and-scallop soup. I managed to get out of there without getting into a fistfight—which is what I’m pretty sure Celine was gunning for so that she could be front-page news with these two men brawling over her—and dropped her right back at the train station. There was no way I was taking her back to my hotel.
So I was a bit rattled and disoriented after that, especially since Celine started crying big, fat crocodile tears just as I put her on the train, and I ended up driving down the wrong street.
Or maybe it was the right street. I’ve given up on fate at this point in my life, but I shudder to think what could have happened to this girl had I not been driving through at that time.
I glance down at my bleeding knuckles as I push the wheelchair toward my car. I guess I did get my fistfight after all.
I wheel it over to her side and open the door. The American girl has fallen asleep again, which makes me a bit nervous for her. I’ll make a point to mention it to the doctor.
I clear my throat. “Lapin?” I ask, leaning over to gently shake her awake.
“That’s the second time you’ve called me that,” she says, her voice groggy, and I breathe a sigh of relief. She gingerly opens her eyes and looks at me.
Her eyes do the same thing to me as they did when I first looked into them on that darkened street. I’ve never seen such big, round, and impossibly blue eyes before. They’re mesmerizing, giving her an otherworldly quality, like she’s straight from a fable my mother used to read to me.
The way they look at you, full of wild innocence, makes something in my chest catch. And combined with her round face, full cheeks, and, well, large, somewhat pointy ears, she reminds me of a pet rabbit I had growing up, before the cook slaughtered it for dinner one evening. I loved that damn bunny.
But I’m not tactless, and I’m not about to tell this poor girl that she reminds me of a beloved pet rabbit. I give her a gentle smile instead and say, “What is your name, then?”
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