A man was straddling her, pinning her down, a guttural roar making its way past his gritted teeth. One hand was pressed against her shoulder, and the other at her throat.
That’s it,she thought.I’m dead.
The man above her gasped, “You’re a girl!”
In return, she choked out, “Y-You’re not Gregg!”
They stayed frozen in a tableau of horror and confusion until the man eased his bulk off her without letting go. A stream of words assailed her ears, but she had no idea what he was saying. Was it Spanish? Definitely not; she knew a smattering of that. Portuguese? French? Whatever it was, the speaker was enraged.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Are you drunk? High? Crazy?”
She certainly was not drunk. Every drop of alcohol she’d consumed had evaporated the second she’d found herself on her back under this large, intimidating man. “I’m not drunk!” she protested. “And I have never done drugs in my—”
“Folle, alors!”He pounded the side of his head in a very European gesture. “Out of your mind!”
“I am not—”
“Then why have you done this to my car?” he roared. He seemed frighteningly angry.
It was only now that she was able to fully take in the size and shape of the vehicle she’d so assiduously tried to destroy. It was smaller than Gregg’s, more elegantly shaped, an arrangement of swooping curves that moved into each other like dancers in a ballet. Not only was this man not Gregg, this wasn’t his car, either.
Well, shit!
She found herself being hauled to her feet and backed against the car, and the stranger’s face was close to hers, no less irate than it had been when she’d been on the ground, on her back underneath him. “Would you mind explaining to me,mademoiselle, what the hell you thought you were doing?”
Thank God it’s raining,Jacyn thought,so he won’t be able to see my tears.
***
Dieu,she’s crying. Alexandre thought guiltily, but that didn’t reduce his ire one bit. The Ferrari wasn’t his only car, but it was one of his favorites, a recent acquisition that he’d bought to celebrate a particularly profitable merger with a company in Milan to construct an exclusive gated community there. Since the home of Ferrari, Maranello, was just kilometers to the south, he thought the purchase would be a fitting commemoration.
And now this madwoman had come along and gouged out its beauty with a dull knife. The mere idea—the sheer sense of violation—made him want to howl like a coyote. If the perpetrator of this outrage had been a man, at the very least, he would have been nursing a broken nose right now.
Still, he understood he was scaring her, so he loosened his grip on her shoulder. She was such a tiny thing; if she tried to bolt, he was sure he could take her down before she could take five steps. “I’m waiting,” he said tautly.
“I-I thought. I saw the car, and I thought it was my boyfriend’s. Uh, my ex-boyfriend’s.” A flicker of pain crossed her face as she said that.
“Your boyfriend drives a Ferrari exactly like this one?” He doubted that, because he’d had some custom refinements done to it. Now three of the tires were slashed, and the door and fender had suffered some damage. He was as hurt by that as if someone had attacked his dog.
Her eyes bugged in horror. “Ferrari?”
“Yes, Ferrari. Could you not see what it was?”
She shook her head, as if to clear it. “No. No, Gregg, my ex. He drives a Mustang.”
Her confusion was like a slap across the face. He exploded. “You confused my Ferrari for aMustang?”That was probably the most insulting thing he’d heard in forever.
“Well, it’s kind of slopey and… and red, and-”
“Custom refinements. There is no car exactly like it on the road, not here in the United States and not in Italy. Also, custom paint job,” he said tightly. “There is no other red like it.”
“Well, it’s dark and raining!” she snapped back, with a ferocity that almost made him smile. This small, pretty woman, with her glowing dark skin and beacon-red hair, had spirit. She added, “Plus, I saw the horse.”
“Horse?Vous avez vu un cheval?”He looked around, feeling stupid, half expecting to see a ghost horse canter out of the shadows.
She shook her head again, and he admired how the fine braids swung around her heart-shaped face. “No. The horse.” She stepped aside as far as he would let her and pointed at the logo at the front of the car. “The logo. The Mustang has a horse logo, too—”
This time, he did laugh; a harsh, incredulous bark. “Mademoiselle, a five-year-old wouldn’t confuse the horse on aFerrarifor the horse on aMustang.”He spat out that last word like it tasted bad.