Chapter 6

Sophia's POV

The hospital corridors blurred past me as I rushed toward Alfonso's wing, my heels clicking frantically against the polished floors. Please let me be in time. Please don't let them have done anything yet.

The call from Dr. Martinez kept replaying in my head, each word like a knife twisting deeper. Discontinue treatment. How could my father be so heartless? How could he use Alfonso—sweet, innocent Alfonso—as a bargaining chip?

I turned the corner toward the neurology department, my vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall. Not here. Not where the nurses might see and ask questions I couldn't answer.

Focus, Sophia. Alfonso needs you focused.

I was moving so fast, so consumed with my desperate mission, that I didn't see the small group emerging from one of the private consultation rooms until it was too late.

The collision happened in slow motion.

One moment I was rushing forward, the next I was careening directly into a wheelchair. My heel caught on something—the footrest, maybe—and suddenly I was falling.

I landed with a soft thud directly on the wheelchair's occupant, my body sprawling across strong, muscular legs encased in expensive charcoal wool. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs, leaving me gasping and disoriented.

"Madonna mia," a deep voice rumbled beneath me, the words carrying a faint Italian accent. "Where did you come from, little one?"

"Get off him this instant!"

The sharp command came from somewhere above us. A tall man in a dark suit loomed over the wheelchair, his face twisted with protective fury. His hand moved ominously toward his jacket, and I caught a glimpse of something metallic beneath the fabric.

"How dare you assault —"

"Tony, basta." The voice beneath me was calm. "She's clearly hurt."

I tried to scramble off his lap, my face burning with mortification, but strong hands settled on my waist, holding me steady.

"Easy," he murmured, his voice gentle despite Tony's continued threats. "Take a moment. Make sure you're not injured."

Those hands on my waist—large, warm, with a touch that seemed to burn through the thin fabric of my blouse. Something about the way he held me, the careful strength in his grip, sent a shock of my nervous system.

No. It's impossible.

I forced myself to look at him properly for the first time.

Even seated in the wheelchair, he was imposing. Broad shoulders filled out a perfectly tailored navy suit, the kind that cost more than most people's cars. His dark hair was styled with meticulous precision, not a strand out of place despite our collision. But it was his face that made my breath catch.

Strong jaw, high cheekbones, lips that looked like they'd been carved from marble by a master sculptor. He was devastatingly handsome in a way that belonged on magazine covers or movie screens, not in hospital corridors.

But his eyes...

His eyes were hidden behind dark designer sunglasses, the kind that revealed nothing of the person beneath. Right. He's blind. The thought should have made me feel safer, but somehow it didn't.

"I'm so sorry," I managed, finally finding my voice. "I wasn't watching where I was going, and I—"

"Clearly." Tony's voice dripped with disdain. "He is recovering from medical treatment. Your recklessness could have seriously injured him."

"Tony." There was warning in that single word, enough to make the bodyguard step back reluctantly. "Accidents happen."

The man beneath me shifted slightly, and suddenly I was intensely aware of every point of contact between our bodies. My hip pressed against his flat stomach. My palm rested on his chest, and I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart through the expensive fabric.

His scent.

Cedar and bergamot with an undertone of something purely masculine, something that made my pulse quicken and my skin flush with heat.

I knew that scent.

Two years ago...

The hotel bar. Strong hands that had touched me, lips that had whispered comfort against my skin.

He'd taken his time with me, his mouth and hands discovering places that made me gasp and arch beneath him.

When he'd settled between my thighs, his tongue finding the most intimate part of me, I'd cried out so loudly he'd had to muffle the sound with his hand over my mouth.

He brought me to the edge again and again, only to pull back when I was about to shatter, until I was sobbing with need beneath him.

When he'd finally entered me, the sensation had been so intense I'd seen stars. He'd filled me completely, stretching me in ways that bordered on too much but somehow felt perfect. For several long moments, he'd held perfectly still, letting me adjust to the invasion.

"Breathe, tesoro," he'd whispered, his forehead pressed against mine. "Just breathe."

When he'd begun to move, it had been with a controlled power that left me helpless beneath him. Each thrust had been deliberate, calculated to drive me higher, to touch places inside me I hadn't known existed.

When the climax had finally hit me, it had been with a violence that left me sobbing into the darkness.

But he hadn't stopped. He'd continued that rhythm, building me toward another peak before I'd fully recovered from the first.

"Again," he'd commanded against my ear.

Again and again, until I'd lost count of how many times he'd brought me to that shattering edge. By the time he'd finally allowed himself his own release, I'd been a trembling, incoherent mess beneath him.

I'd never forgotten. How could I? He'd ruined me for every other man, set a standard that Michael had never even come close to meeting.

The memory fragments hit me in waves.

Something about his voice... there was a quality to it that seemed familiar, though I couldn't place where I might have heard it before. The slight accent, the particular cadence... No. I was being ridiculous. Stress and exhaustion were making me imagine connections that didn't exist.

My entire body was trembling now, memories and present reality colliding in a way that made me dizzy. This couldn't be the same man. It was impossible.

The man from that night had been... normal. Healthy. He'd moved with fluid grace, had carried me to his bed, had made love to me with a passion and strength that left no doubt about his physical capabilities.

But the person in front of me is disabled, unable to walk, and cannot see.Obviously not the man who had relations with me two years ago.

"Are you quite finished cataloging my anatomy, little one?"

The amusement in his voice snapped me back to the present, and I realized I'd been sitting there for several long moments, lost in memories and confusion while his bodyguard glowered at us both.

Heat flooded my cheeks. "I... I'm sorry. I was just..."

"Just what?" He tilted his head slightly, and I had the unsettling feeling.

"You're trembling," he observed quietly. "Are you hurt? Should I call for a doctor?"

"No! No, I'm fine. Just... shaken up. I should really go—"

"Should you?" His voice was silk over steel, polite but with an undercurrent that made my skin prickle with awareness. "I have to ask..."

He paused, and I held my breath.

"How long are you planning to sit there, little one?"