Shadow Rider
Page 57
“I suppose I am,” he agreed. “Don’t be long.”
He slid off the bed, standing in one fluid motion that was all grace and power. He was dressed in a thin pair of sweatpants she was certain he didn’t wear to bed. He’d pulled on a tight T-shirt, and he looked every bit as good as he did in his three-piece suits, although the look was entirely casual.
Francesca watched him walk out of the room, mesmerized by the way he moved. She could watch him for hours. Listen to the sound of his voice. Even when he was totally angry and scaring the crap out of her, she liked the pitch, but when he was being gentle, his voice stroked like the softest of caresses over her skin. Stefano was larger than life and he dominated a room as well as everyone in it. When he walked out, he took the warmth with him.
She shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle, rocking gently to soothe herself. He was lethal to women in a way a man like Barry Anthon, for all his wealth, could never be. Stefano might snarl, he might even manhandle a woman, but he would never hurt her. Never. She knew instinctively, like that was written somewhere in stone.
She forced her stiff legs to straighten so she could scoot to the edge of the bed. After her nightmares, her body was always painful, as if she’d run a race uphill—or gotten in a physical fight and lost. She had done something so wrong, manipulating a good man into feeling responsible for her and then blurting out the name of one of his colleagues. How incredibly stupid was that? She was ashamed of herself and angry, too. She knew better. She was a better person than that. Cella had raised her, and she would have been ashamed of her.
Barefoot, she padded to the gleaming bathroom. It was large—larger than the kitchen and bedroom combined in her little apartment. The bathtub looked inviting, and she gazed at it longingly while she just stood there, trying to decide what to do. Stefano was probably calling Anthon right that moment. How could she have been so careless? Even Joanna didn’t know all the details, but Francesca had been so selfish telling Stefano the truth, needing to feel safe, wanting to stay in Ferraro territory because she liked the neighborhood, and secretly she was so attracted to him. It would serve her right if he was talking to Barry right that moment.
“Francesca, get a move on.”
He sounded impatient. Bossy. So like him. “Keep your panties on,” she called back, smiling at the exasperated sound of his voice. The minute the admonishment slipped out, she clapped a hand over her mouth. She didn’t need to make him angry by being her smart-mouthed self, or worse, have him think she was flirting. He might say he was attracted, and she definitely was, but he wasn’t the type of man for a woman like her, under any circumstances, let alone the one she found herself in.
Right now, she was the damsel in distress and he was the white knight riding to the rescue. She’d even helped to manipulate him into thinking she was just that. Until she had revealed the name of her enemy. She’d vowed to rebuild her life and find a way to take Barry Anthon down. Her. Not someone else. Now that she was thinking clearly again, she wasn’t going to shove her fight onto anyone else. It was too dangerous. In any case, the chances that Stefano Ferraro and Barry Anthon were friends were extremely high.
She pulled her hair back, braided it and, without a hair tie, just left it braided and hoped it stayed long enough to wash her face. The soap was a gel and smelled like heaven. Beside the gel was a moisturizer and she lathered it on.
When she walked out of the bedroom, Stefano was right there, draped lazily against the hall wall opposite her door. “Did you just tell me to keep my panties on?” His voice was pitched very low. Quiet.
Her heart stuttered. “I might have. That depends,” she hedged.
“Hmm.” He straightened in one of his powerful, controlled, fluid movements that could rob a woman of breath for the next century, and held out his hand. “I think you’re feeling better. You sassed me. People don’t sass me, Francesca. Not. Ever.”
“They don’t?” She tried to look innocent, staring first up at his face and then at his hand. There was no reading his expression so she slipped her hand into his. Instantly his fingers closed around hers. Warm. Tight. Firm. He gave a little tug and started down the hall with her. “Not even your sister?”
“No. Not even my mother.”
“Why not? I think sass is just what you need. I think, from observation, that you tend to get everything your way.” Her heart beat too fast. She didn’t know why he was teasing her, but it was better than having him throw her out on the street. Much better. Still, it wasn’t true that he got everything his way. He hadn’t wanted to leave the pizza parlor. He was enjoying having dinner with her, but he left for Theresa Vitale. She supposed he was dragged away often from things he wanted so he could help others.
He slid off the bed, standing in one fluid motion that was all grace and power. He was dressed in a thin pair of sweatpants she was certain he didn’t wear to bed. He’d pulled on a tight T-shirt, and he looked every bit as good as he did in his three-piece suits, although the look was entirely casual.
Francesca watched him walk out of the room, mesmerized by the way he moved. She could watch him for hours. Listen to the sound of his voice. Even when he was totally angry and scaring the crap out of her, she liked the pitch, but when he was being gentle, his voice stroked like the softest of caresses over her skin. Stefano was larger than life and he dominated a room as well as everyone in it. When he walked out, he took the warmth with him.
She shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle, rocking gently to soothe herself. He was lethal to women in a way a man like Barry Anthon, for all his wealth, could never be. Stefano might snarl, he might even manhandle a woman, but he would never hurt her. Never. She knew instinctively, like that was written somewhere in stone.
She forced her stiff legs to straighten so she could scoot to the edge of the bed. After her nightmares, her body was always painful, as if she’d run a race uphill—or gotten in a physical fight and lost. She had done something so wrong, manipulating a good man into feeling responsible for her and then blurting out the name of one of his colleagues. How incredibly stupid was that? She was ashamed of herself and angry, too. She knew better. She was a better person than that. Cella had raised her, and she would have been ashamed of her.
Barefoot, she padded to the gleaming bathroom. It was large—larger than the kitchen and bedroom combined in her little apartment. The bathtub looked inviting, and she gazed at it longingly while she just stood there, trying to decide what to do. Stefano was probably calling Anthon right that moment. How could she have been so careless? Even Joanna didn’t know all the details, but Francesca had been so selfish telling Stefano the truth, needing to feel safe, wanting to stay in Ferraro territory because she liked the neighborhood, and secretly she was so attracted to him. It would serve her right if he was talking to Barry right that moment.
“Francesca, get a move on.”
He sounded impatient. Bossy. So like him. “Keep your panties on,” she called back, smiling at the exasperated sound of his voice. The minute the admonishment slipped out, she clapped a hand over her mouth. She didn’t need to make him angry by being her smart-mouthed self, or worse, have him think she was flirting. He might say he was attracted, and she definitely was, but he wasn’t the type of man for a woman like her, under any circumstances, let alone the one she found herself in.
Right now, she was the damsel in distress and he was the white knight riding to the rescue. She’d even helped to manipulate him into thinking she was just that. Until she had revealed the name of her enemy. She’d vowed to rebuild her life and find a way to take Barry Anthon down. Her. Not someone else. Now that she was thinking clearly again, she wasn’t going to shove her fight onto anyone else. It was too dangerous. In any case, the chances that Stefano Ferraro and Barry Anthon were friends were extremely high.
She pulled her hair back, braided it and, without a hair tie, just left it braided and hoped it stayed long enough to wash her face. The soap was a gel and smelled like heaven. Beside the gel was a moisturizer and she lathered it on.
When she walked out of the bedroom, Stefano was right there, draped lazily against the hall wall opposite her door. “Did you just tell me to keep my panties on?” His voice was pitched very low. Quiet.
Her heart stuttered. “I might have. That depends,” she hedged.
“Hmm.” He straightened in one of his powerful, controlled, fluid movements that could rob a woman of breath for the next century, and held out his hand. “I think you’re feeling better. You sassed me. People don’t sass me, Francesca. Not. Ever.”
“They don’t?” She tried to look innocent, staring first up at his face and then at his hand. There was no reading his expression so she slipped her hand into his. Instantly his fingers closed around hers. Warm. Tight. Firm. He gave a little tug and started down the hall with her. “Not even your sister?”
“No. Not even my mother.”
“Why not? I think sass is just what you need. I think, from observation, that you tend to get everything your way.” Her heart beat too fast. She didn’t know why he was teasing her, but it was better than having him throw her out on the street. Much better. Still, it wasn’t true that he got everything his way. He hadn’t wanted to leave the pizza parlor. He was enjoying having dinner with her, but he left for Theresa Vitale. She supposed he was dragged away often from things he wanted so he could help others.
