Shadow Rider (20 page)

Stefano wrapped his arm around her, keeping her upright as he guided her off the elevator and into the foyer of the penthouse. “At least you know you belong to me,” he snapped, anger still infusing his voice.

If he could kiss like that when he was angry, he was in for trouble, because she wouldn't mind making him
really
angry if that was what she received every time. She pressed her fingers to her mouth and went with him into the spacious great room. It was long and wide and had several couches and chairs. He took her straight to the one in front of the fireplace and put her into it.

“Stay put.”

Francesca watched him through lowered lashes as he turned on the fire, using a remote control, stalked across the
room, shrugging out of his long coat and tossing it over one of the chairs before turning back to glare at her. Not just glare. She shivered. He pinned her with his piercing eyes. Seeing her. Seeing the fear she tried to hide from him. His jaw tensed, a muscle ticking there. Danger clung to his wide shoulders and defined chest. He looked both powerful and intimidating. She knew he thought the fear in her was of him, because he made a visible effort to get his anger under control.

“Dolce cuore.”
His voice was soft. Caressing. “Don't look at me like that. I would never hurt you. Never. No matter how angry I get, you will never be a target.”

She shook her head. “I know that, Stefano.” She did know it. Stefano Ferraro was a man who protected women, especially one he considered his, even if it was temporary.

“Why are you afraid? What made you run?”

He didn't take his eyes from her face and she shivered again at the intensity there. She studied him. His expression gave nothing away, yet she felt as if she had hurt him. “I don't want anything to happen to you.” The confession came out in a little rush, the words tumbling over one another, almost of their own volition. She wasn't certain she would have revealed so much to him if she'd thought about it, but the idea that she might have hurt Stefano with her actions was unacceptable to her.

He stood across the room from her for a long time, his blue gaze moving over her face. She twisted her fingers into the material of her skirt, bunching it into her fist. The atmosphere in the room changed, but she didn't know him well enough to read it.

“What do you think is going to happen to me, Francesca?”

She didn't understand how he could speak so low, so quietly and still convey so much intensity. She realized he was still angry, but the emotion was no longer focused completely on her. He held himself still, not making a move toward her. Her heart beat fast and hard, mostly because it felt a little like
being in the same room with a lion. Any moment he could choose to bring down his prey, but he held himself aloof, waiting. Making her wait.

Francesca moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Stefano, don't be angry. You would try to . . .”

He was across the room in four long strides, cutting her off, mostly because she couldn't breathe. He still reminded her of a lion, a large jungle cat, fluid and beautiful, graceful as it rushed its prey. He leaned down, his knuckles on either side of her hips. Close, so close she could feel his fingers through the thin material of her skirt.

“Stop. Talking. Bullshit.”

His face was even closer than his hands, his mouth against hers. Every movement brushed her lips with his. His eyes bore into hers, stripping her bare, seeing her when she didn't think it was safe. She couldn't hide the fact that she wanted him, and there in his penthouse, with his anger pulsing in the air, that wasn't a good thing at all.

“Stefano.” She thought to soothe him.

“We're past this. We talked about it and we both agreed. We're not going backward so tell me what the fuck happened to make you want to run from me.”

It was a demand. Nothing less. Francesca took a deep breath, desperate for air, but drew him into her lungs instead. She felt his lips against hers, soft but firm. His lips might be the only soft part of him. Every other square inch seemed to be made from pure steel. She couldn't resist the temptation, not when he surrounded her with his scent. Not when his anger pulsed in the air, feeding the sexual tension until she was squirming with need. With a terrible hunger she barely understood.

Francesca slid her arms around Stefano's neck and pressed her mouth closer against his, moving her lips along his in little kisses, using the tip of her tongue to trace and shape the curve of his mouth. His breath stilled in his throat. His blue eyes darkened. His lashes fluttered. He had beautiful lashes, full
and long and very black. His arm slid along her back and he dragged her to her feet, pulling her body into his, locking her there.

His mouth took over hers and it was nothing less than a takeover. His kiss was hard, and hot and delicious. She tasted his anger. It was there, adding even more heat. She gave herself up to his scorching temper and his intense hunger. To the dark passion that swept her up like a tidal wave.

She wanted this. She wanted him. She didn't care about consequences; she only knew that when she was with him, she felt alive. She felt as if she was home, where she belonged. More, her body felt sensual, and beautiful. That was Stefano. He made her feel those things when she never had.

Electricity arced between them, sizzled over her skin and sank into her bones. Her bloodstream turned molten, so hot she felt each separate connection running through her body. His mouth was possessive. Demanding. On fire. Taking rather than asking. That didn't matter, because she gave up everything to him.

His hands settled on her hips, almost as if he might set her aside. Francesca moved closer to him, needing to feel the strength in his body, the way his muscles rippled so elegantly beneath his clothes. She needed to touch him, his skin, to feel the heat scorching through her. Without thinking of the consequences, she jerked his shirt out of the waistband of his pants and slid her palms up his rib cage and over his chest.

His breath hitched in his throat. Hers caught in her lungs. A moan escaped her throat. A groan emerged from his lungs. His hand slid down her narrow waist to her hips, fingers bunching in her skirt while his mouth took hers again. She went up on her toes, reaching for more, drowning in his taste, in his dark passion. His hand slid over her bare thigh, up to her hip, and then down around to the inside. The feeling of the pads of his fingers was exquisite. All the while his mouth commanded hers. Taking her to places she hadn't known existed.

She needed to be closer,
much
closer. Skin to skin. On the far wall, over his arm, she saw their shadows merge, and felt the jolt of lightning, as if she'd been struck, as if somehow their two bodies became one inside the same skin. The blaze of fire sizzled down her spine, up through her belly to her breasts. Scorching hot. Making her hungrier for him. Addicted to his taste. His scent. The feel of his hard body against the softness of hers. She'd never been more aware of herself as a woman.

Abruptly, Stefano's hands locked around her upper arms like a vise and he put her away from him. Holding her still at arm's length, breathing heavily, shaking his head. She took a step toward him. Mesmerized by him. Completely under his spell.

“No,
bambina
. We can't do this.”

“Yes, we can. I want this,” she whispered, once again stepping toward him.

His arms locked, holding her away from him. “No.”

One word. She saw his face. Uncompromising. Without expression. She was on fire, her body not her own, but his, and yet . . . he didn't want her. She was making a fool out of herself. Never in her life had she offered herself to another man. Humiliation burned through her.

Francesca turned away from him, pressing her fingers against her mouth to still the trembling. To seal the taste and feel of him to her. He didn't want her. She'd thrown herself at him and he'd rejected her. How could she have been so stupid? She didn't have a lot of experience, but she shouldn't have convinced herself he wanted her just because she wanted him. She'd never felt more mortified in her life. She wasn't certain how to salvage the situation, or even if she could.

“Don't.” His voice was low.

She didn't turn around to face him; she didn't dare. Color had swept up her neck and into her face. She took a step toward the hall, away from him, thinking to flee to her room. She had nowhere else to go and she wanted to hide. To give herself time to pull herself back together, because he'd totally
unraveled her. She would have allowed him to take her right there in his great room. On the couch. The floor. It wouldn't have mattered as long as she had him. But he didn't want her.

She'd never thrown herself at a man in her life. Never. She'd never been rejected and she didn't know how to act. What to do or say. She wasn't sophisticated. She didn't run in his circles, and she didn't know the first thing about casual kissing. To her, those kisses had been anything but casual, but what did she know?

“Francesca, don't.” He repeated the command softly. Imperiously. “Look at me.” Another command.

She refused to face him. She shook her head and took another step, the need to flee overcoming her pride. She whirled around, thinking to run to the elevator, but he was on her before she'd taken a single step. His hands caught at her hips and he kept moving, propelling her backward as he took her straight through the wide archway to the wall in the hallway. She would have fallen over, had he not been holding her up.

Heart pounding, back to the wall, caged in by his body, she could only stand there, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. She refused to look at his face, into his eyes. She didn't want to do this with him, listen to him try to let her down easy. That was even more humiliating.

“I want to go,” she murmured softly. “You can't keep me here.”

“Look at me, Francesca.” It was another one of his orders. Clear. Clipped. Expecting obedience.

Her breath hissed out. She braced herself to meet his eyes because she knew she had to comply with his command. He wouldn't let her go until she did. She didn't want to see pity there. Or compassion. She slowly forced her gaze up his chest to his strong jaw, that beautiful mouth, his aristocratic nose, and finally, finally, to his amazing blue eyes. At once she couldn't look away. Captured. Held prisoner there. Right in the depth of all that blue. Her breath caught in her throat. Not pity. Definitely not pity. Desire burned there. Hot and raw. Possession. Primal and a little savage.

“
Dolce cuore
, you're a runner. You've gotten in the habit of taking off when things get too hot. I'm not easy. I'll never be easy. I'll own you. You won't have one moment when I'm not aware of where you are and what you're doing. That's who I am. I'll always be that man. You have to be certain you're going to stick with me no matter what, because once I make you mine, once your body belongs to me, there's no taking it back. Not ever. You have to know what you're committing to.”

She shook her head. “Don't say things like that, Stefano. I read the magazines and you had sex a thousand times with a thousand women. They can't all belong to you.”

“It was sex, Francesca. I fucked them because I needed release and I like to fuck.” He ignored her wince and continued. “I didn't bring them home. They weren't ever going to live with me. Or know me. Or know anything about me. I didn't claim them in front of my entire family or my neighborhood. None of those women belonged to me. I didn't want them for more than a few hours. We used each other—that was it.”

Francesca bit down hard on the side of her lip, her heart pounding. She could barely believe what she was hearing. Somehow, she was different to him from all those other beautiful, sophisticated women? More to him than models? Heiresses? Actresses? The rich and beautiful?

“My life is fucked up, Francesca. It was from the moment I was born. I have no choice in what I do. I was born into a family business, trained for it, and have people depending on me. My life has never been my own. I've got all the money in the world, and nothing that I want. Until you. I want you. You're what I want for myself.”

She curled her fingers tighter around his biceps, afraid if she didn't hold on she would fall. The things he said made her weak with desire. There was stark honesty in his voice—raw emotion on his face.

“I'm not a nice man,
bambina
. I'm never going to be that nice man. If you give yourself to me, you're entering into a
world that will scare you. You'll have to trust me implicitly. Trust that always, always, before any other, I will have your back. I'll keep you safe. I'll make you happy and give you the world. It isn't going to be casual sex, Francesca. You give me your body and that's it. I won't let you take it back.”

“You're scaring me.” He was. The part about his life, entering his world and coming right out and saying his world would scare her, she was afraid of what that meant. He wasn't being dramatic, or embellishing; he was stating facts, she could tell.

“You should be scared. I want you to see me, Francesca. The real me. The man you will be spending your life with. No illusions. I'm ruthless and implacable. I get the job done with whatever means necessary. I keep what's mine. I want children. A family. A woman who will love those children and get up with them in the middle of the night and comfort them when they're upset. I want that woman for myself and for my children.”

He had said he got up with his sister when she had nightmares and he was the one who made her hot chocolate and sat up with her. Not his mother. Stefano had done that.

“I'll try to curb the way I am and give you some room, but I know myself. You're already my world. I think about you day and night. I worry about you. You'll convince yourself that once the threat to you is over and Barry Anthon has been eliminated from your life, I'll lighten up. But I won't,
dolce cuore
, I won't. I'll always need to know you're safe and that when I say something to you, you'll listen.”