Shadow Rider (14 page)

She shook her head, her heart stuttering hard in her chest. Her mouth went dry. “That's not possible.” But it was, of course. She could tell just by his anger that it was true. He was furious.

“I didn't look at the recordings, but I suspect those are of you showering and stripping to get ready for bed.”

She couldn't prevent the wince at the word “stripping” or the color creeping into her face all over again. “Oh. My. God.” She forgot all about holding up the sleeping bag and covered her open mouth with her palm. Her hand shook.

She didn't have anywhere else to go. Worse, her only clothes were in that apartment and she wasn't certain she could ever bear walking in there again. “Are you sure?” She knew the answer, but she still had to ask.

His eyes locked with hers. There was compassion there. Too much. She preferred his anger. Her stomach rolled and she felt the burn of tears behind her eyes. Blinking rapidly to hold them at bay, she took a deep breath to try to calm her churning stomach.

“Do you want to see what's on those DVDs? The last one, the one that is labeled
Vicki Wants It
, I'm certain is a recording of your landlord raping that girl. There were more of these recordings than I cared to count in that piece of shit's bedroom.”

She stared at him in horror, wishing she didn't believe him, but there was no doubt in her mind that he was telling her the truth. He'd saved her. This beautiful man, far too wealthy and arrogant for his own good, the one she'd been afraid was involved in organized crime, had
saved
her. She just persisted in thinking the absolute worst of him.

Francesca looked down at the floor. The shiny, beautiful marble floor. “Thank you, Stefano. I don't understand how this man could have gotten away with putting cameras in apartments, but I appreciate you making certain the recordings don't end up on the Internet.” She couldn't think about the possibility that Tidwell might have crept into her apartment and raped her. “How did you find out about this?”

“My cousin,” Stefano told her, studying her face. She looked so fragile, as if any minute she might burst into tears or just faint. He didn't know whether to hold her in his arms and comfort her or shake her until her teeth rattled.

“Emilio. He took you home, did a walk-through of your apartment and didn't like the fact that it wasn't safe. He came to me, and I decided to talk to the owner about making certain his tenants were safe. My cousins, Renato and Romano as well as Zia Rachele and Zio Alfeo immediately began gathering information on him. They're investigators. That's what they do and they don't make mistakes. When I went to Tidwell's apartment, we discovered the screens up. You were on one of them, sleeping. It was easy enough to see he was recording you while you slept. From the labels on the rest of the DVDs, it wasn't that difficult to guess what was on the other recordings he had of you.”

Her long, feathery lashes fluttered again and she shook her head. She'd gone from blushing to pale in the space of a few
moments. Every protective cell in his body responded to her. She suddenly looked terribly young and vulnerable to him.

His body reacted, something that never happened to him. He was all about control and any kind of sexual response to a woman was allowed only when he was in a bedroom, certainly not when he was discussing a sexual predator with a potential victim. Totally inappropriate, but nevertheless, all he could think about was kissing her.

“I'll have to thank Emilio.” She spoke in a small voice, barely a whisper.

“Do you want a drink?”

She pushed back the heavy fall of hair. Under the lights, the thick mass gleamed like silk, and he wanted to bury his fingers in that richness. Her lashes lifted and she met his eyes. The impact hit him low, like a wicked punch, a shot to his groin that heated his blood and made him feel primitive and a little bit savage. He was Sicilian, hot-blooded, and for the first time in his life, he knew what that meant—and it had nothing to do with his rather foul temper.

“Yes, please.”

She was completely panic-stricken and trying not to show it. He wanted to hold her. Comfort her. Take her to his bed and make her forget everything but him. He poured a small amount of brandy into a crystal glass and walked across the room to her. His shadow, cast by the overhead chandelier, reached for her. Simultaneously, her shadow threw out a feeler, and as if powerful magnets, the two tubes connected. The jolt was hard, pouring steel into his cock. He nearly burst right through his trousers.

Francesca's eyes widened. Clung to his. Her lips parted, and he saw the telling flush on her face. She was no longer holding the sleeping bag up and it had fallen to her waist. Beneath the thin tee, her breasts rose and fell, her nipples hard little peaks, pushing at the worn material. That same sexual jolt had hit her just as hard.

Stefano stalked across the room, put the glass of brandy down on the small table beside the couch and leaned into
her, both fists planted on either side of her hips. Close. So close he could see that her skin looked flawless and her lashes were even longer than he'd thought. Her scent caught at him, enveloping him in orange and cinnamon.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he hissed, his anger boiling to the surface all over again, this time mixing with a fireball of pure lust.

She had to shrink back, save herself, do something, anything at all to help him stay in control. She didn't move away from him. The air felt electric. Their shadows remained connected, heightening his awareness of her. Of every breath she took. The length of her lashes. Her parted lips, a soft bow of a mouth, the tip of her tongue, her high cheekbones and the vulnerable line of her jaw.

He wanted to taste her more than he wanted to breathe. He realized it wasn't a want so much as a need. He froze, his face inches from hers, imposing iron will on himself. Never, at any time in his life, had he lost control, not until the situation involved her. Francesca Capello. His brother had had to pull him back from killing the piece of crap Bart Tidwell. Here, he was, standing over the top of her, a woman who was clearly afraid of him, about to kiss her. His life was about control. Where the hell was all that famous control now?

Francesca's lips rubbed against each other, a slow, sexy,
enticing
movement that robbed him of his ability to breathe. He couldn't remember wanting a woman the way he wanted her. Her scent surrounded him until he was drowning in a field of cinnamon and orange. Every breath he drew into his lungs took her with it until he felt her inside him.

“Stefano.”

He groaned at the sound of his name. Soft. Sensual. Filled with longing. She felt it, too, that terrible pull brought on by the connection of their shadows. Brought on by the chemistry raging between them. She didn't understand it and there was fear in her eyes. Fear and longing. Need almost as great as his. She shifted her body very subtly toward his, her face lifting a fraction.

“You scared the hell out of me,” he repeated, much softer this time.

Her lashes fluttered. Long. Feathery. Gorgeous. “I'm sorry. I didn't know.”

“You shouldn't have been there, Francesca.” It took effort to stay unmoving, while he battled for control. This was going to be the greatest fight of his life. He couldn't afford to lose. He was fighting for his life. For the life of his family.

She moistened her lips so they glistened invitingly. Tempting him. Enticing him closer. Did she know what she was doing? He doubted it. There was too much innocence on her face. Too much fear in her eyes.

That fear and innocence gave him back his control. He straightened, taking himself out of danger. He stepped back, his body hard, full and painful. That part of him wasn't under control. He turned away from her and went back to the decanter, every step difficult.

“Why didn't you stay with Joanna?” He kept his back to her as he poured liquor into his glass. He didn't want her to see the rage swirling so close to the surface. Rage at her friend who would allow her to stay in such dangerous circumstances.

“She wanted me to, but I felt like she'd done too much for me already.” The confession was low.

He turned his head and looked at her over his shoulder. Her chin was up. She wasn't defeated, just frightened. “So you deliberately put yourself in danger for the sake of your pride?”

She opened her mouth to protest but snapped it closed just as quickly. Genuine confusion slid over her face. “I don't know. I guess that's exactly what I did. I didn't realize that Tidwell was such a sleaze . . .” Her voice trailed off and she looked away from him, more color creeping under her skin. She looked down at her hands. “I did know he was a sleaze, but it never occurred to me that he would put cameras in the apartments.”

“Or tape over your lock so he could come in whenever he
wanted and rape you?” There was no keeping the edge from his voice. He still wanted to shake her. “You didn't try the door to make certain it was latched. You knew you were in a dangerous situation and yet you didn't take precautions.”

There was a long silence. It stretched out between them. He knew how to use silence. He lived in silence. He worked in silence. Silence gained him the upper hand because he exercised control. He tossed back the bourbon and let the fire settle in his belly, warming him when he hadn't realized he'd been so cold.

“I don't have any clothes.” Her gaze came back to his. She'd told him the same thing in the car. Clearly she was concerned about it.

She looked . . . vulnerable. Forlorn. That look tugged at his heartstrings. He turned back toward her and leaned one hip lazily against the table.

“That's not a worry. We'll get you clothes. You had the money in the coat.”

Color swept up her neck into her face. He hadn't realized a woman could blush so much.

“I didn't want to use your money. I didn't know when I could pay it back.” She cleared her throat. “I didn't mean in general. I have clothes, just not here. Just not
on
.” She put the tip of her thumb in her mouth and bit down, her gaze not meeting his, but settling on his jaw.

“I see how that could be considered a problem.” Humor crept into his gut, easing some of the worst knots. “I'll be right back.” He left her, knowing she couldn't very well hop into the elevator and make her escape.

In the master bedroom, he selected one of his favorite shirts. The material was soft and would drape on her body lovingly. Because of the difference in their sizes, she would be sufficiently covered, but she still couldn't run off when she fully realized she didn't have a place to go.

When he returned to the room, her gaze jumped to his and then shifted away as he handed her the shirt. She took it, and the movement caused the sleeping bag to drop lower,
pooling around her waist. She wore a thin T-shirt. There was a hole up by her right shoulder, allowing him to catch a glimpse of her soft skin. That little hint sent another rush of hot blood coursing through his veins.

Her breasts rose and fell beneath the material. He could see the outline of her nipples, the way they pushed hard against the restraint. She was nearly as aroused as he was. For a moment, he couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. He could only look at her and savor the moment, knowing she belonged to him.

“This will do until we get you some clothes.”

“I can't stay here.” She made the declaration, obviously having worked herself up in the short time he was gone.

“Just for tonight. I have several rooms, and you'll be safe. If you're worried, you can put a chair under the doorknob.” Not that that would ever keep him out, but he wasn't going to tell her that—yet. “You can get a good night's sleep and we'll tackle the problems in the morning.”

She took a deep breath and without realizing she was doing it, rubbed the fabric of his shirt against her cheek. He recognized it as a nervous gesture, but to him it was significant. She didn't realize it, but already she was turning to him for reassurance.

“I don't see how this situation can be resolved,” Francesca said. “I can't go back there, but I can't afford anything else.”

“A situation can always be resolved. You're
not
going back there and we'll figure it out in the morning. I'll give you a couple of minutes to change out of the sleeping bag and into my shirt.”

He allowed a trace of amusement to enter his voice. She rewarded him with a faint smile.

“I don't know, Stefano. This sleeping bag is pretty chic. The latest rage.”

“I'll admit, on you, it looks pretty good, but I don't think you can walk around—or run from me like you'd prefer.”

Her smile widened. Reached her eyes. Lit them so they glittered like gems. “I think I'm so exhausted that I'll kick off my running shoes for the night.” The smile faded. “Honestly, Stefano, thank you for rescuing me.”

His gut clenched hotly. “You're very welcome. Do me a favor and next time give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“So you think there will be a next time?”

“Without a doubt.” His phone buzzed and he glanced at the screen to identify the caller. “If you'll excuse me for a moment . . .” He turned his back on Francesca and made for the doorway. “Tell me, Vittorio.” He listened to the explanation Joanna had given to his brother and anger began to swirl like a dark, murderous shadow in his belly.

“That isn't good enough. You tell Joanna that excuse is bullshit. The minute she knew Francesca was living in that building and wouldn't listen to reason, she should have come to me. I don't give a flying fuck if I intimidate her. She could have gone to you or Giovanni,” he hissed. “She could have had her uncle call us. What she did was totally unacceptable.”

He glanced over his shoulder, feeling Francesca's eyes on him. She had crawled out of the sleeping bag and dragged her T-shirt over her head, tossing it aside on the couch. She pulled on his shirt hastily, giving him a glimpse of bare skin and full curves. Need slammed into him, in spite of the anger. It was urgent, hot and decidedly uncomfortable. He watched her slide the buttons closed, one by one. He didn't take his gaze from the sight and she didn't look away from him. Not once.