Page 6 of Irreplaceable
“Stai bene?”
I blinked a few times. Had I hit my head too? I was pretty sure I was in Bali, but it sounded like he was speaking Italian. He certainly looked Italian with his olive skin and intense brown eyes. And he’d asked if I was okay in a voice that flowed over me like velvet.
“Are you okay?” he asked, repeating himself in English.
“Sto bene,” I answered, my brain still struggling to catch up. I’d spent years studying Italian, and using it felt like muscle memory.I tried to stand again but couldn’t. Apparently, I wasn’t as fine as I claimed to be.
“Pensi che sia rotto?” The Italian man crouched to the ground, his brows creased in concern. A moment later, the driver joined us, twisting his hands together.
“Saya minta maaf. So sorry,” the driver said, switching between Balinese and English. I didn’t speak much Balinese—just enough to get around.
“I’ll handle it, Kadek,” the Italian barked in a burst of anger.
Kadek ducked his head and took a few steps back, almost cowering. The Italian closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing. When the Italian turned to me, his brown eyes were filled with concern.
“Rotto?” the Italian asked again, his hands hovering above my leg. Those hands. Those…fingers. My god. I shook my head. The man was a god.
I didn’t think it was rotto, or broken, but it was definitely sprained. Putting weight on it wasn’t a good idea. So much for my vacation, I sighed. How was I even going to get back to my hotel?
“Vieni con me.”
What? I jerked my head back. “Um, no.” I frowned. “I don’t know you.” There was no way I was going with this man. In his car. To god knows where. I didn’t care how hot he was.
“Ah…English,” he said, the words lilting as he spoke English with his Italian accent. “American, no?”
I nodded, noticing that people had started to gather, gawking at us. I could hear their hushed whispers, and I pushed off the ground, determined to stand. I wobbled but then nearly fell, the Italian catching me before I hit the ground.
He lifted me into his arms as if I weighed nothing, and without realizing it, my head instinctively went to the crook of his neck. I inhaled out of surprise and, damn, he smelled good. His arms tightened around me almost protectively, and I felt surprisingly safe as he carried me over to the car. He gently placed me in the back seat so my feet were resting on the road.
What the… He’d just picked me up. And I’d let him!
“Calm down,” he said, perhaps sensing my frantic thoughts. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. The Italian seemed like a man who had the power to wreck me. Definitely a bad boy with those tattoos and his dark, hungry gaze.
He knelt to the ground, appraising my ankle with surprising tenderness.
“Are you a doctor?” I asked, the concern evident in his features.
He shook his head, his hand light on my skin. “No, but I think we should take you to one. Your ankle is already starting to swell.”
My ankle was sprained at best, and I didn’t have to call my dad—a small-town general practitioner—to know what to do. Elevate it, ice it, and reduce the inflammation.
“I’m fine. Really. I’ll just head back to my hotel. My father is a doctor, and…”
“Here?” he asked.
“No.” I shook my head. “No. Um, back in the States.” I smoothed my hand over the buttery leather, surprised by such luxury. Air conditioning. Tinted windows. My eyes widened as I took it all in.
“Relax,” he said. “Please. I’ll take good care of you.” He flashed me a wicked smile, and I had no doubt that he knew how to take very good care of a woman’s body. “Promise.”
When I hesitated, he said, “You can trust me.”
I didn’t even know this man’s name.
Even so, I found myself intrigued by the Italian. I’d seen his kindness in the market earlier. The way he’d interacted with the locals. And it was clear he felt compelled to make this right. To ensure that I was okay. Still…what did I even know about him?
He liked playing soccer. He was Italian. Friendly with the locals and great with kids. He had money, from the looks of it. He was hot.