“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.
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The Other Brother Part 2: Taboo: Stepbrother Billionaire Romance Page 8
