She wasn’t sure if her credit card would have had enough to cover a night in this swanky part of town anyway, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to spend the night sleeping in the street.
Paris was just about to turn around and try to retrace her steps back to the chapel to see if the guard might still be there—he had seemed friendly enough—when two huge men stepped out of the shadows sneering at her.
“You zeem to be lost, mademoiselle.” One of the men gave her a not-so-reassuring grin.
“We can, per-haps, ’elp you…”
Her stomach dropped straight down to her feet. Danger was danger in any language.
The croque-monsieur she’d had for lunch hadn’t been sitting well with her, and now there was a decent chance she was going to be sick all over herself.
This was how she was going to die, she was sure of it.
She did a quick mental assessment of her options.
Fight? Two against one wasn’t good odds—and who knew what type of weapons they had.
Flight? The large frame of both men seemed to take up the whole alleyway. There wasn’t much of a chance she could squeeze past them, even if she was inclined to try.
Freeze? That’s probably what they would expect…
The men ambled toward her, with dangerous confidence, leering at her and saying things in French that she didn't understand. She didn’t have to understand a word though to understand their intent, and Paris knew it wasn’t going to be a pretty outcome for her—that much she understood.
She backed up as far as she could into the alley until she hit the grimy wall behind her, hoping she might be able to use it as leverage if the men came too close to her. One of the men had his hand in his pocket, and her mind started spinning over every scenario, every possibility for what he could be about to pull out.
She only had one option left.
Paris had no idea where the courage came from, but she knew she was rapidly running out of other options.
She opened her mouth and started screaming.
And she just couldn't stop.
The taller of the two men covered his ears, and started yelling at her in French and running toward her. But her survival instinct was manifesting in hysterical screaming flailing, and while, logically, she knew this might not do her any good in the long run, she also knew it might be her only shot.
Her mama’s voice rang in her memory. Sometimes you have to just out-crazy the crazy, honey.
Paris made grunting noises and jumped up and down, flinging her limbs from side to side. Her voice wouldn't quiet down.
If she was going to go down, she was going to go down screaming. And screaming. Until even her ears started to ring with the sound of her own voice.
When Paris saw the man reach back into his pocket and pull out a switchblade, she wasn’t sure if she should stop her screaming and flailing, or redouble her efforts. She wasn’t going to go down without a fight, that much was certain.
Suddenly, a large shadow loomed over the men and seemed to fill the alleyway. The shorter man with the switchblade suddenly flew forward to the ground, landing on the pavement with a violent thud, his face hitting the stones with a sickening crack.
The taller man spun around, screaming in French as the man on the ground groaned and gurgled in pain. Paris was far enough in the alley that she couldn't quite make out what was going on, but all at once the taller man was on the ground too, a splatter of blood following him through the air. Time passed in slow motion as both of the men scrambled to their feet, their hands raking against the cobblestones, and ran from the alley as fast as their feet would carry them.
Paris watched them disappear in stunned silence, and then bent over as her breath heaved and she retched several times. She sank slowly to her knees, her hands on the hard, uneven ground beneath her, grateful that she was unharmed.
It was only when she was certain they were gone that the reality of the situation fully washed over her, and she began crying hysterically. There was no holding back now—her body shook uncontrollably. She wouldn’t have been able to stop even if she had wanted to.
And then, there were arms around her.
Strong arms.
Long, muscular arms, pulling Paris tight to a hard, wide chest clad in a leather jacket and an obscenely soft shirt. He—whoever he was—smelled like heaven in the stench of the alley, his cologne subtle, but enveloping, like nothing she had ever smelled in her life.
As she sobbed into the stranger's chest, she took in deep lungfuls of him, her hands grasping his shirt, her fingers curling around the soft fabric, finding strange comfort in the anonymous man's gentleness. He ran his fingers up and down her back and whispered gently to her in an accent she couldn't place.
“Shhh... shhh... you're safe now. You're safe. Just breathe. Breathe. No one will hurt you now.”
Paris tried to breathe deep as he said, but it only came out as choked sobs. She felt his shirt soaking underneath her, and guilt over the fact that she was ruining his clothing was enough to make her pull away. She wiped away her tears, and a small amount of makeup, with her balled up fists as she locked eyes with the man who had just saved her life. And suddenly, she had trouble breathing for an entirely different reason. He was the most gorgeous person she had ever seen in person, or possibly, anywhere at all.
His chestnut brown hair was thick and wavy, with just the perfect amount of muss. His eyes were wide and curious, sparkling crystal blue with freckles of green scattered throughout. He looked as though he was cut from pure marble, chiseled cheekbones and a granite jaw made kind by a defined arch in his lip and a slight dimple in his chin. Paris had never believed in fairy tales, but if she had, this was exactly what she'd always imagined the hero of one would look like. He looked like a page torn out of a child’s picture book, and she could barely breathe just looking at him. His smile was honest and it changed the entire structure of his face; it practically lit up.
“Are you okay? Did they hurt you? Do we need to take you to a hospital? Ah, merde… Do you speak French? Avez-vous besoin d'aller à un hôpital, mademoiselle?”
Hearing French pour out of those beaut
iful lips made Paris’ knees weak. She almost wanted to pretend she did speak French, just so he'd keep using the language. But she knew she'd look pretty ridiculous just nodding at him with a goofy grin on her face. So she was forced to mumble in her very unromantic English tongue, “Uh, no. No, I'm okay. They didn't hurt me. They just scared me. Thank you... Thank you for saving me.”
He reached up and gently ran his fingers over her jaw, as if he were checking to make sure she was being truthful. Just the touch of his hand sent shivers through her entire body.
“Are you sure you're not hurt? I'd be happy to accompany you to a doctor... Miss?”
Paris realized that she'd forgotten her own name. This man, his eyes, the way he was looking at her... She'd totally forgotten her own name, and anything else about herself.
“Me? Oh... I'm... Martell. Wait, no. Sorry. I'm Paris. Paris Martell. Gah. Sorry, I think I'm still shaken up. And your name?”
His eyebrows furrowed as if she'd just made a really off-color joke, and he was waiting for a punchline. But slowly, his eyes softened again, his cheeks turning a lovely shade of rose.
“Alex. Call me Alex.”
* * *
Alexander couldn't believe he'd just pummeled two men in a scummy alley in France like a proper brute; he'd gotten into a fight like young men his age were supposed to do. Getting into rows and scrapes was what one was supposed to do in his youth, wasn’t it?
Granted, he had been able to win the fight thanks to a decade's worth of martial arts training with a master and almost twice as long at fencing, but it still was a rush to be able to do something “regular” guys did.
Once the bastards he'd beaten up were gone, and all of his senses had settled down, he became aware of the small woman cowering in the shadows. Alexander was aware he still had some blood on his fists, so he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe it away before he approached her. He didn't want her to believe he was as brutish as the men who had tried to attack her, so he cleaned himself up and tossed the dirty kerchief into a nearby trashcan.