Shadow Rider by Christine Feehan Page A

own feet. She wasn’t watching where she was going, only watching him.
    â€œThey’re both good, Signore Ferraro. Tito said to put you at this table.” Still staring at him, she indicated a booth at the back, in the corner where the low lights cast shadows and allowed for privacy. His family always requested that booth, and he was grateful that Tito remembered. “The antipasto and breadsticks will be right up. Wine? Beer?” she asked.
    Francesca slipped into the inside of the booth because he didn’t give her much choice. He kept his attention on Berta even as his body crowded Francesca’s until she gave in and slid onto the cool leather bench seat. Stefano slid in right beside her. Close. His thigh pressed tight against hers. He inhaled her scent. She was beautiful, there in the shadows where he lived his life. So beautiful and innocent looking. He was going to take that innocence away and the thought made him sad. He resisted reaching for her hand, but he knew he would have to touch her soon.
    â€œWhat would you like,
bella
? Wine? Beer? Something else?”
    Francesca hesitated but then relaxed, some of the tension draining out of her. “Water is fine.”
    â€œYou don’t drink wine?” He raised an eyebrow.
    She nodded. “It’s been a while since I’ve had any alcohol. I don’t know how I’d react.”
    He liked her honesty. “I’ll make certain you get home safe. One glass can’t hurt.” Before she could protest he turned to Berta. “Red wine. You know my preference. Bring the bottleand two glasses.” When Berta left he turned his attention to Francesca. “My family owns a few vineyards and a winery in Italy. It’s beginning to make a name, and fortunately I enjoy the wine our family produces. I hope you do as well.”
    She nodded, a little shyly. “Thank you. I’m sure I will. Tell me about Agnese Moretti. Did she really box your ears?”
    He had never been more grateful for the older woman’s difficult and very feisty personality. His story had piqued Francesca’s interest enough that she was much more relaxed with him. She seemed to like the stories of the people around her. Good people. He liked his neighborhood and wanted her to see it through his eyes. It was where she would spend the majority of her life. Accepting their way. Accepting their rules. Living with a yoke of violence around their necks for the good of those around them. A part of him detested himself for doing that to her, but there was no way he could give her up.
    â€œOh, yes. She not only boxed my ears, but twice she grabbed me by the earlobe and marched me out of a room. Of course, I was a lot younger when the earlobe thing happened.” Deliberately he rubbed his earlobe as if he could still feel the pinch.
    Francesca laughed. She had a beautiful laugh. Melodic. Low. Almost as if the laugh was intimate, just between the two of them. His heart beat in tune to her low laughter. He wanted to hear it for the rest of his life. The sound drowned out the voices in his head that refused to die when those who owned them did.
    â€œHow old were you when she boxed your ears?”
    â€œThat was last year when I made the big mistake of getting ‘fresh’ with her by calling her by her first name. Apparently I’m not old enough yet to do that. She taught school and has never let me or any other student of hers forget it.”
    â€œShe sounds like a character.”
    â€œShe is,” Stefano said. “She’s wonderful. I can’t tell you how many students she tutored outside the classroom to help them when they had difficulties with a subject. She nevercharged their parents. There were some kids who didn’t have much and she would buy them the supplies they needed. Lunches. Jackets. She never let on that she did it, or made a big deal out of it, but they’d just find the supplies in their desk, or