Page 7 of My Dark Fairy Tale
I straightened, nudging her to face forward so I could close the door before I crossed to the driver’s side. The damage to the Ferrari was nonexistent, but then, Guinevere could only have been 110 pounds soaking wet, so that wasn’t a surprise.
What was surprising was the little bubble of tenderness that had taken up residence in the hollow casing of my chest.
This girl was not my family.
She was not a friend.
She was an inconvenience I could barely afford, given the contents of my trunk.
Yet I felt moved to help her.
Not just that, I felt moved to avenge her.
Because what kind ofbastardowould take advantage of a woman in trouble?
I was the last person to pretend at having a moral conscience, butMadonna santa, women and children were sacred.
My mouth watered at the idea of finding the man who’d chased her through the countryside, and my imagination took a merry romp through the dark, picturing exactly how I’d punish him.
Composing myself, I got into the Ferrari and immediately started the engine without looking her way. I figured in the tight enclosure she would enjoy some semblance of privacy.
“You said it was the other side of this field?” I confirmed, expertly spinning the car back onto the proper side of the road before taking off into the night.
“Yes, I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”
“I grew up in this region. Each vineyard and valley might look the same to you, but not to me.”
“How do you speak English so well?”
“We do have schools in Italia,” I pointed out dryly.
Her sigh was beleaguered, and despite everything, it made the edges of my mouth curl.
“I lived in London for some time,” I explained, though I usually didn’t allow myself to think about those years of my life.
“This is my first time out of the United States,” she admitted softly, gaze fixed outside the window as if she wanted to absorb the scenery even in the dark. Her fingertips touched the pane of glass separating her from the countryside almost reverently. “But I’ve dreamed of visiting since I was a girl.”
“I am sorry we have done little to meet your expectations.” I wasn’t sorry, but it seemed the thing to say. Part of me wanted to explain that the Italy of her dreams was a romanticized version.
For every lavish villa, there was abaraccopoli.
For every Romeo, there was someone like that man who wanted to harm her.
It was, like any other place on earth, a country of steep contrasts.
She sighed. “It’s my own fault, I guess. I probably should have taken the main route to Florence, but I was excited to see the famous Tuscan countryside.”
We turned onto the road lining the other side of the field, and after a moment, a Fiat appeared on the side of the pavement, its interior lights on because the doors were open wide.
“Dammit,” she muttered, leaning forward with a wince. “I hope the bastard left my passport at least.”
“Did he give you a name?” I asked as I pulled onto the shoulder behind the Fiat.
“Galasso.” Her pretty face screwed up with self-loathing. “He was a father, so I thought he’d be less likely to hurt me.”
“Even monsters procreate,” I quipped drolly, thinking of my own father as I got out of the car. “Stay here.”
I closed the door on her protest and walked around the Fiat, surveying the damage. Galasso had left her purse on the passenger seat, open and empty, and a quick look in the trunk showed he’d taken her suitcase as well.
