Shadow Rider
Page 44

The long hallway was totally without light, other than what managed to spill in from the dirty windows at either end of the hall. Francesca’s door was midway between the two windows. Stefano wondered if Tidwell had deliberately given her that apartment. Probably. He had to put the single women in apartments where cameras were already set up, although it was possible he had them in all the rooms.
He raised his hand, fingers in a tight fist and controlled his impulse to pound on the door, demanding entrance. Instead, he knocked quietly, his other hand automatically dropping to the doorknob. To his shock, the door inched open. He hadn’t turned the knob. Just his gloved knuckles knocking so politely had been enough to spring the door open. What the hell was wrong with her? He glanced back at Ricco’s face. It was set in stone, just the way, he was sure, his was.
Before he could jerk open the door and confront her, something made him crouch low and examine the lock. He could see the thin piece of tape placed over the mechanism—a simple but very effective method of preventing Francesca from locking the door.
“Fucker,” he spat out, stepping back to show his brother.
“Let’s get her the hell out of here, Stefano. Even if you have to carry her out like a caveman. Taviano’s waiting in the car. Just get her and go before a bunch of us decide to burn this place to the ground with Tidwell in it.”
Ricco’s voice was strained. Stefano cursed again. The entire family was affected because he hadn’t done his job. He hadn’t taken charge of Francesca. He wanted time to court her. To give her that. To let her get to know him before he had to come clean about the shit life he was going to have to ask her to accept. He closed his eyes briefly. He knew it wasn’t about asking her. He had to find a way to get her to accept not only him, but his life and his family, because there was no other choice. Worse, he wasn’t just asking her to accept it for herself; she had to accept it for their children as well. He detested that.
He stood slowly and pushed open the door. His heart stuttered in his chest. The door opened into a very small room—so small the closet in his master bedroom was larger. There wasn’t a single stick of furniture. No chairs. No tables. Nothing at all. The room included a miniature kitchen with a single stained sink and tiny refrigerator. He detested that Francesca—or any woman—would have to stay alone in a place like this. Why hadn’t he checked before he left for his job?
He walked into the next room to find her lying on a sleeping bag, her hair spread out over the pillow. The room was freezing. There was no heat coming from the old radiator and she shivered continuously in her sleep. She would have done better to have his coat covering the sleeping bag, but instead, it was hung carefully on a hanger a few feet from her head.
She looked very small under the thin sleeping bag. Her face was turned toward him and he thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. Her lashes were exceptionally long and turned up on the ends. Black, like her hair. He crouched down beside her. Close.
“Bambina, wake up.” He kept his voice low. Soothing. Not wanting to scare her. He should have taken better care of her. None of this was her fault. He had to remember that when he wanted to put his fist through a wall—or through Tidwell—and rage at the world in general.
Her body jerked. The lashes fluttered. Lifted. He found himself staring into sea-blue eyes. Almost turquoise. Beautiful. The sight hit him low, a wicked punch to his groin. He took a breath. Fear crept into the startled blue of her eyes.
“Stefano.” Francesca breathed the name. The room was dark, but enough light came through the curtainless window to illuminate Stefano Ferraro’s very masculine features. His brooding eyes were on her face and her stomach did a slow roll. Her heart pounded so hard it actually hurt.
She couldn’t just lie there with him staring down at her with his incredible eyes. Eyes that saw everything. Eyes that saw her shabby room with no furniture. Saw that she had nothing. Color crept into her face. She swept back her hair and struggled into a sitting position, holding the sleeping bag over her chest. She wore an old threadbare T-shirt and lacy boy-short underwear, the only thing she had bought new.
“What are you doing in my bedroom?” She tried to make it a demand, but her voice wasn’t working correctly. She winced at the word bedroom, wishing she had just said apartment. God. He was scary. He didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t blink. He was hot as Hades, and every single cell in her body responded to him. Was aware of him. Her breasts felt swollen and achy and she was very, very glad for the sleeping bag she had pulled up over her chest so he couldn’t see her nipples getting hard.