“I—”
I shove my hand in his face before crouching next to the girl. Looking into her tear-streaked eyes eases my anger. She’s adorable, with dark hair, flawless skin, and two perfectly placed dimples. Her dress is designer and her shoes shine brightly in the afternoon sun, but she still appears vulnerable.
“Hi there.” Despite the daggers piercing my skull, I muster a friendly smile. “Are you okay?”
The wetness in her dark eyes wobbles as she shakes her head.
As I scoot closer, ready to protect her with my body, I crane my neck and glare at the man scalding me without words. “Do you know him? Is he your father?” Again, the stranger tries to reply. Again, I cut him off. “I wasn’t talking to you. I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. That wasn’t my intention. I was simply returningyourundetonated missiles while pondering why Armani-clad brutes always make communication theirlastresort.”
He frowns, his jaw tightening. “Look, I?—”
Ignoring him, I refocus on the girl. Even with a new spark of tenacity brightening her nearly black eyes, she’s still trembling. “Doyou feel safe with him? It’s okay if you don’t. You won’t get in trouble for telling me. I just want to help.”
Although hesitant, she reiterates her refusal with a sheepish headshake.
“Someone call the police,” I say loudly, hopeful that one of the many people around us will listen. “This little girl needs help.”
People stare, and a few eyeball me like I’m crazy, but no one moves. Even those recording the incident don’t use their phones for their intended purpose. They keep recording, unfazed that a child is scared.
Disgusted by society’s ignorance of abuse, I take the girl’s hand and rush toward the busier part of Palermo. Surely someone there will be more willing to help.
I barely get two feet away before the man blocks my path. He’s brooding and intimidating yet so undeniably handsome that I forget the first two points after one glance at his panty-wetting face.
If there weren’t a child present, I’d be tempted to use the skills I’ve picked up over the past two years to distract him from his anger. That’s how fast his handsome face speeds up my heart. It foolishly makes me believe I’m invincible.
Even his thick timbre is more riveting than scary. “You’re making a mistake.”
Blonde locks slap my red cheeks as I shake my head. “How can helping a distressed child be a mistake? She’s scared ofyou, not me, yet I’m apparently the one in the wrong.” Mypfftfans his meaty lips with ghastly dental-sterile breath.
For a moment, something filters through his eyes. It might be hurt—or perhaps even regret—but he pushes forward again, as stubborn as ever.
Confident I’m not a challenge for a man who exudes the command to rule an empire, I sidestep him, determined to get this little girl somewhere safe.
“Come on, let’s go find someone who can help.”
As I lead her away from the SUV, the man looms behind us like aheavy, unyielding shadow. Each step I take to widen the gap my speed should provide, his long strides erase.
My pulse pounds in my ears as I squeeze the girl’s hand tighter. I have no desire to harm her. I merely want to ensure my grip is strong enough so the man can’t snatch her away if he tries to yank her out of my grasp as he did with the SUV’s doorframe.
“It’s all right, sweetheart.” My tone is confident, though I’m unsure if I am aiming to reassure her or myself. The strange sensation I mentioned earlier is back, stronger than ever, but it isn’t thudding solely in my heart this time. It thumps several inches lower as well. “We’ll find someone to help us soon.”
I pick up the pace as the small group of onlookers turns into a crowd. We quickly move past a group more interested in online validation than the safety of our children, but no matter how fast we walk or how risky our moves are, the dark-haired stranger is never more than a step or two behind.
The crowd parts when they see him approaching, giving him a clear view of our escape.
He doesn’t utter a word while shadowing us, but his silence speaks louder than any protest. I sense the frustration radiating off him, but I don’t stop. Even as my mind races with worst-case scenarios, I stay positioned between him and the little girl, as if my body is a bulletproof shield.
My heart gallops when I see a police officer standing by the crowd. Even though he’s watching the scene unfold and doing nothing to help, he’s ethically obligated to assist.Isn’t he?
“Excuse me,” I say, almost marching. “This little girl needs help. She’s scared and doesn’t feel safe.”
The officer scarcely glances at me before his eyes dart up to the man I thought would have vanished as soon as he saw the officer’s impressive weapon collection. He’s carrying two guns, a taser, and a baton, but you wouldn’t believe that with how hard his Adam’s apple bobs when recognition dawns on his face.
His pupils dilate to the size of saucers before he shifts his focus back to me. “What do you require my help with?”
I stare at him, incredulous. “I just told you. She’s scared.”
He shrugs, his indifference maddening. “Being scared isn’t a crime. You need to be more specific.”