Shadow Rider
Page 33
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That was the worst. That a man like Stefano, so arrogant, so confident, strong and absolutely a rock could be so shaken. She couldn’t help herself. She shook her head, her eyes meeting his. She had to take that pain from him, she didn’t know why, but she had no choice. “I know what grief is, Stefano. To suffer the loss of a loved one through murder. To feel responsible when really, there was nothing I could have done. You can’t look out for every single person in your neighborhood. It’s impossible. You aren’t responsible for me or the attack on me.” Her voice was soft, persuasive.
She couldn’t believe she’d given away what she had. She didn’t talk about her past; she didn’t dare. Still, she had to take the pain from his eyes. Her heart hurt just looking at the pain.
His eyes changed. Focused completely on her. Saw too much. Took her breath. Made her heart flutter and her stomach do a slow roll.
“Someone you loved was murdered?”
She nodded. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I just don’t want you to think that you have to protect the entire world because your friend died. You can’t, Stefano.”
“Not the entire world, Francesca.” He picked up her hand and idly played with her fingers.
She should have pulled her hand away, but she couldn’t make herself be that mean, not when she was trying to make him see reason. It was just that, with his fingers moving through hers, brushing along and between them, her body reacted, making her all too aware of secret places and a growing hunger—for him.
“Just my neighborhood. Just the people in my world. Someone has to look after them, and that’s my job.”
She wanted to cry for him. It was no wonder that that first time he’d walked into Masci’s he’d seemed so alone. So remote. He had taken on an impossible task, even to the point of looking out for a total stranger. She shook her head and reached for the wineglass, needing to do something to counteract the empathy and awareness of him.
“Where is your family?” he asked.
She knew sooner or later he’d ask. It was a natural enough question. “I don’t have any family. My parents died in a car wreck when I was fourteen. I didn’t have any aunts or uncles or grandparents. You have a big family, but it was just my sister, Cella, and me. She was older by nine years so she raised me.”
There was a silence. He leaned back in the booth, his arm sliding along the back of the seat. “Are you telling me Cella was the one murdered?” There was an edge to his voice.
“I don’t like to talk about it.” She took another sip of wine. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“You were trying to make me feel better. That just pisses me off. Someone fucking murders my best friend, Cencio, as he walks out of a theater, and someone murders your only sister.”
The vibe around them got a little scary, as if his anger was so oppressive it could weigh down the entire room.
“Was it random? A stranger?”
Like Cencio? he was asking. She shook her head before she could stop herself. How had she allowed such personal information to slip out? They’d been having a good conversation, and just like that she’d ruined the mood. Stefano was intense. His anger was intense. He’d gone from being sweet and easygoing to vulnerable and then dangerous in the space of a couple of minutes.
“I’m sorry I spoiled the mood,” she said, trying to backpedal. “You were relaxing and I just . . .” She broke off when his fingers went to her neck, massaging the knots there, in an effort to ease the tension out of her.
“You didn’t kill the mood, Francesca. You were trying to help me and I appreciate it. Very few people would have even seen that I’m still carrying that load around with me. I appreciate you sharing.”
His voice was very low. Intimate. His eyes met hers and her stomach did another somersault. He was just plain beautiful.
“Signore Ferraro,” a voice called from across the room.
She saw impatience cross his face, but it was swiftly masked. When Stefano turned to see the woman standing in the doorway, a good distance from them, he did so with a smile. The woman looked every day of eighty. She was short and a little bent, her skin thin and her face still beautiful in spite of the few wrinkles proclaiming she’d lived her life. She wore a long black dress and matching shawl and she wrung her hands together as she hurried through the restaurant toward them, weaving her way through the tables and ignoring Berta, who tried to stop her.
Stefano raised his hand to Berta and she skidded to a halt and then went back to her station. Stefano rose as the older woman made it to them. He towered over her, settling his arm around her shoulders with a gentleness that took Francesca’s breath. No one would ever guess that he was the least bit impatient with the interruption. To Francesca’s dismay the woman had tears in her eyes and her lips trembled.
She couldn’t believe she’d given away what she had. She didn’t talk about her past; she didn’t dare. Still, she had to take the pain from his eyes. Her heart hurt just looking at the pain.
His eyes changed. Focused completely on her. Saw too much. Took her breath. Made her heart flutter and her stomach do a slow roll.
“Someone you loved was murdered?”
She nodded. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I just don’t want you to think that you have to protect the entire world because your friend died. You can’t, Stefano.”
“Not the entire world, Francesca.” He picked up her hand and idly played with her fingers.
She should have pulled her hand away, but she couldn’t make herself be that mean, not when she was trying to make him see reason. It was just that, with his fingers moving through hers, brushing along and between them, her body reacted, making her all too aware of secret places and a growing hunger—for him.
“Just my neighborhood. Just the people in my world. Someone has to look after them, and that’s my job.”
She wanted to cry for him. It was no wonder that that first time he’d walked into Masci’s he’d seemed so alone. So remote. He had taken on an impossible task, even to the point of looking out for a total stranger. She shook her head and reached for the wineglass, needing to do something to counteract the empathy and awareness of him.
“Where is your family?” he asked.
She knew sooner or later he’d ask. It was a natural enough question. “I don’t have any family. My parents died in a car wreck when I was fourteen. I didn’t have any aunts or uncles or grandparents. You have a big family, but it was just my sister, Cella, and me. She was older by nine years so she raised me.”
There was a silence. He leaned back in the booth, his arm sliding along the back of the seat. “Are you telling me Cella was the one murdered?” There was an edge to his voice.
“I don’t like to talk about it.” She took another sip of wine. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“You were trying to make me feel better. That just pisses me off. Someone fucking murders my best friend, Cencio, as he walks out of a theater, and someone murders your only sister.”
The vibe around them got a little scary, as if his anger was so oppressive it could weigh down the entire room.
“Was it random? A stranger?”
Like Cencio? he was asking. She shook her head before she could stop herself. How had she allowed such personal information to slip out? They’d been having a good conversation, and just like that she’d ruined the mood. Stefano was intense. His anger was intense. He’d gone from being sweet and easygoing to vulnerable and then dangerous in the space of a couple of minutes.
“I’m sorry I spoiled the mood,” she said, trying to backpedal. “You were relaxing and I just . . .” She broke off when his fingers went to her neck, massaging the knots there, in an effort to ease the tension out of her.
“You didn’t kill the mood, Francesca. You were trying to help me and I appreciate it. Very few people would have even seen that I’m still carrying that load around with me. I appreciate you sharing.”
His voice was very low. Intimate. His eyes met hers and her stomach did another somersault. He was just plain beautiful.
“Signore Ferraro,” a voice called from across the room.
She saw impatience cross his face, but it was swiftly masked. When Stefano turned to see the woman standing in the doorway, a good distance from them, he did so with a smile. The woman looked every day of eighty. She was short and a little bent, her skin thin and her face still beautiful in spite of the few wrinkles proclaiming she’d lived her life. She wore a long black dress and matching shawl and she wrung her hands together as she hurried through the restaurant toward them, weaving her way through the tables and ignoring Berta, who tried to stop her.
Stefano raised his hand to Berta and she skidded to a halt and then went back to her station. Stefano rose as the older woman made it to them. He towered over her, settling his arm around her shoulders with a gentleness that took Francesca’s breath. No one would ever guess that he was the least bit impatient with the interruption. To Francesca’s dismay the woman had tears in her eyes and her lips trembled.
