Fire Bound

by Christine Feehan

  "Not yet, malyshka."

  She took a breath. She was so close. So very close. She hadn't thought it was possible, not going so slow. Not with her doing all the work. She hadn't even recognized that she was coiling so tight, the pressure building, the fire burning so hot. She was so busy working him, wanting this moment for him, that she hadn't even seen that she was so close.

  "I don't want it over. Not yet."

  She breathed deeply. For him. Stopping herself. For him. She didn't want to end this moment either. She was in his arms - safe. She'd always be safe with him.

  "I love you, Giacinta Prakenskii. So much. You're my life. My everything. There's no more danger for you. No more putting yourself in harm's way. I can't ever do that again. Those hours without knowing..." His body shuddered against hers. His hand slid down to her bottom, fingers digging deep as he urged her body into a deeper, faster rhythm.

  Fire streaked through her. She actually felt the stark terror unfolding in him for her. She thought it was the worst, those hours under the desk while overhead the roof creaked and spread more debris. On the floor were the dead men, crushed beneath the heavy fall of cement, rock and dirt. His terror was worse. She knew that. He'd been safe. He hadn't known what happened to her.

  "Say it," he demanded, his other hand sliding down the curve of her back to her hip. "Say you're finished."

  "Anything for you, honey," she whispered.

  "Anything?" His hips bucked up hard into her.

  The fire turned scorching. Her breath left her lungs in a rush. "The world."

  "Babies?"

  "Anything. All of it."

  "Now, malyshka, with me now."

  She fragmented. Shattered into a million pieces. He was there. Casimir. To catch her. To keep her safe. To put all those pieces back together. He was there. She laid her head against him, gasping for breath while her body rocked around his, gripped his like a vise, a velvet, silken glove, squeezing and milking so that he was right there with her. She would have collapsed, but his arms held her tight against him. They held each other for a long time.

  "I wanted you to feel loved," she whispered.

  "I feel loved," he answered. "I want to go home. I've never had a home, and that farm of yours feels like the real thing."

  "It is the real thing. And it's ours. We're married." She lifted her head and frowned up at him, suspicion in her eyes. "You don't have a really weird chair or something ugly you're going to want to put in our front room, do you?"

  He laughed and she felt his laughter vibrate right through his body to hers. She wanted to hear his laughter until the day she died. "I love you," she whispered again. Meaning it. She had that now. Her own family. Her sisters. His brothers. Casimir Prakenskii. Her husband.

  SHADOW RIDER

  Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book

  in the new Shadow series by Christine Feehan

  Shadow Rider

  Coming in 2016 from Piatkus

  Stefano Ferraro pulled on soft leather driving gloves, his dark blue eyes taking a long, slow scan around the neighborhood. His neighborhood. His family knew everything that happened there. It was a good place to live, the people loyal. A close-knit community. It was safe because his family kept it safe. Women could walk the streets alone at night. Children could play outside without their parents fearing for them.

  He knew every shop owner, every homeowner by name. The Ferraro family territory started just on the edge of Little Italy. He knew every inch of Little Italy as well, and those residing and working there knew him and his family. Crime stopped at the edge of the Ferraro territory. That invisible line was known by even the most hardened of criminals, and no one dared to cross it because retaliation was always swift and brutal.

  He glanced at his watch, knowing he didn't have a lot of time. The jet was fueled and waiting for his arrival. He needed to get into his car and get the hell to the airport, but something held him there. Whatever it was, the feeling he had was disturbing. The compulsion to stay was strong, and anytime that happened, every Ferraro knew there was trouble coming. He carefully and very quietly shut the door to his Maserati, rounding the hood and then retreating to the sidewalk.

  Urgency was always about work, and nothing ever interfered with the Ferraro family business. Nothing. He played hard when he played, but work was important and dangerous, and he kept his head in the game when it was time to get down to business. He needed to get his ass moving, but he still couldn't force himself, in spite of all the years of discipline, to get into his car and get to the airport. The compulsion in him was strong, not to be ignored, and he had no choice but to give in to it.

  A voice drifted to him above the normal sounds of the street. Elusive. Mysterious. Musical. He turned his head as two women rounded the corner just at the very edge of his territory and began walking deeper into it. He recognized Joanna Masci immediately. Her uncle, Pietro Masci, was a longtime resident in Ferraro territory, born and raised there. He owned the local deli shop, a very popular place for residents to buy their produce and meats. Pietro had taken Joanna in when his brother died years earlier. A good man, everyone in the neighborhood liked Pietro and respected him.

  It wasn't Joanna who caught his interest. The woman walking beside her was dressed totally inappropriately for the weather. No coat. No sweater. There were rips in her blue jeans, although the jeans clung lovingly to her body. And she had a figure. She wasn't thin like most girls preferred; she actually had curves. Her hair was wild. Thick. Very shiny. She wore part of it pulled back from her face in an intricate, thick braid, but the rest tumbled down her back in waves. The color was rich. Vibrant. A true black. He couldn't see her eyes from that distance, but she was shivering in the cold Chicago weather, and for some reason he had an entirely primal reaction to her constant shivering. His gut knotted and a slow burn of rage began in his belly.

  It wasn't her looks that caught his interest or made him stand utterly still. It was her shadow. The sun was throwing light perfectly to create tall, full shadows. Hers leaked long tentacles. Thin. Like streaks reaching out toward the shadows around her. Everywhere there was a shadow, hers connected to it with the long feelers - with long tubes. His breath hitched. His lungs seized.

  She was the last thing he ever expected to happen because, frankly, a woman like her was so rare. He didn't know how to feel about it, but suddenly there was nothing else more important, not even Ferraro family business.

  He had his cell phone out and punched in numbers without taking his gaze off of her. "Franco, I'm going to need to take the helicopter this morning. I have business to attend to before I can leave. Half an hour. Yeah. I'll meet you." He ended the call, still watching the two women and the strange shadow the stranger cast as he punched in another number. "Henry, I'm not going to use the car after all. Please return it to the garage for me." The Ferraro family had a temperature-controlled garage with a fleet of various cars and motorcycles. They all liked them fast. Henry took care of all vehicles and kept them in top running order.

  Stefano snapped the phone shut and stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street. He held up his hand imperiously and of course the cars stopped for him. Everything stopped for him when he demanded it.

  Francesca Capello prayed she wouldn't pass out as she walked with Joanna toward the deli. She'd never felt so weak in her life. She was hungry. She'd made tomato soup using ketchup and water, but that was all she'd had to eat for the last two days. If she didn't get this job, she was going to have to do something desperate, like ask the homeless woman she'd given her coat to where the nearest soup kitchen was.

  Maybe it hadn't been such a great idea to give the woman her coat. Her clothes weren't the best for a job interview, but they were all she had. She needed the job and she definitely wasn't looking very professional in her faded but very soft vintage blue jeans - a perfect fit, which was rare for her to find in the thrift stores. There were holes in the knees and one small one on her upper thigh, but some
of the designer jeans featured rips. The tears in her jeans just happened to be from real wear.

  "Wow, the deli's packed," Joanna observed as they stopped in front of a glass door. She yanked it open and ushered Francesca inside.

  Francesca thought she might faint from all the smells of food. Her stomach growled and she pushed on it with one hand, hoping to quiet it. People were three deep at the counter and every small table throughout the room was filled.

  "Popular place," she observed, because she had to say something. She'd let Joanna do most of the talking because, well, she couldn't talk. She wasn't bursting into tears in front of her friend. Not after all Joanna had done for her.

  "I told you." Joanna flashed a grin, caught her arm and tugged her through the crowd to the window on the far side opposite the door. "We can wait here until Tio Pietro has a couple of minutes."

  Francesca didn't think he was going to be free anytime soon. Now all the smells blended together, making her feel nauseous. She didn't want to throw up right there in his deli. She was fairly certain that wouldn't get her the job, but her stomach was so empty.

  Her lungs burned from holding her breath, waiting for Joanna's uncle to get free enough to come interview her. Joanna had promised her the job. Francesca had spent nearly every cent she had - the money she'd borrowed from Joanna - getting to Chicago and into the tiny apartment right on the very edge of Little Italy. She had nothing left for food or clothing. She had to get this job. She could survive another week if she was very, very careful, but not much longer. She'd be living on the street with Dina, the homeless woman. She'd done that once already and it wasn't fun. Truthfully, she wasn't altogether certain that her apartment was better than the street. Still, it had a roof.

  Francesca couldn't stop shivering, no matter how hard she tried. The cold was biting and penetrated right to the bone. It didn't help that after the wild storm there were puddles everywhere, impossible to avoid, and her shoes and socks were soaking wet. The soles were thin and the water had easily gotten inside her shoes. Not only were her feet wet, but her toes were numb.

  Still, if she got the job, this was the perfect place for her. The neighborhood was small. Everything was in walking distance. She didn't own a car, or anything else for that matter. She was starting over, determined to rise from the ashes like a phoenix. But seriously, if Pietro didn't hurry up, she'd be on the floor soon.

  If she didn't need food and to warm up so bad, she would have been happy with the evidence that the store was popular as a small specialty grocery store and sandwich shop. Clearly Pietro needed help. She could handle a cash register, no problem. She could make sandwiches. She'd held a job in a deli while putting herself through school and she was certain this would be a piece of cake.

  The door opened and a blast of cold air swept into the shop, chilling her further. She turned her head and froze. She had never in her life seen a man more gorgeous or more dangerous. He was tall, broad-shouldered, tough as nails and totally ripped. His hair was jet black and seemed messy, but artfully so, as if even his hair refused to disobey him.

  He wore a three-piece dark charcoal pinstriped suit that had to have been tailor-made in Italy or France and looked to be worth a fortune. His tie was a darker gray to match the thin stripes in his suit and was worn over a lighter shade of charcoal shirt. He wore butter-soft gloves and a long, dark cashmere overcoat. Even the shoes on his feet looked like he'd paid a fortune for them. He made her acutely aware of her shabby clothes.

  She wasn't the only one who noticed him. The moment he entered, all chatter in the shop ceased. Completely. No one so much as whispered. No one moved, as if they were all frozen in place. Pietro came to attention. Beside her, Joanna took a deep breath. The atmosphere in the store went from friendly chatter and light-hearted gossip to one of danger.

  His face was carved in masculine lines and set in stone. He had a strong jaw covered by a dark shadow. He was easily the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen. His eyes were such an intense blue she almost didn't believe they were natural. The blue eyes swept the room, taking in everything and everyone. She knew he did. So did everyone in the room. Just like her, they were all staring at him. The eyes came back to her. Settled. Narrowed.

  The impact was physical. Her breath rushed from her lungs. He could see right through her. She had far too many secrets for him to be looking at her and seeing so much. Worse, his gaze drifted over her, taking in the cropped sweater that molded to her breasts and just barely reached her waist. Her jeans rode a little lower than her waist, so she had to resist pulling at the hem of the sweater, although her fingers automatically curled around the hem to do just that. The sweater was one of the few things she owned that was warm.

  His gaze traveled down her holey jeans to her wet shoes and back up to her face. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her. The tension in the deli went up several more notches. Francesca knew why. Not only was this man gorgeous and dangerous, he was angry. A black wall of intense heat filled the room until no one seemed able to breathe. She could actually feel his anger shimmering in the air. The room vibrated with his fury.

  She found herself trembling and shrinking back under that brilliant blue stare. She didn't understand why he'd singled her out, but he had. His diamond-hard gaze was fixed on her, not on any of the other customers - just her. She took a deep breath and let it out, tugging self-consciously on the hem of her sweater. When she did, his scowl deepened.

  "Mr. Ferraro." Pietro stepped around the counter.

  Pietro's shoulders were square, his face a mask of concern, his tone respectful. He looked as if he might faint any moment. Everyone did. Francesca didn't understand what was happening, but clearly Joanna was very aware. Her friend trembled and put one hand on Francesca's arm as if to steady herself.

  They were all afraid of him. Francesca could see why - he looked and felt dangerous. But every single person in the store? Afraid? Of. This. Man. That was a little terrifying. She wished fervently he would stop looking at her.

  The man, Mr. Ferraro, stepped in her direction. He looked - predatory. His gaze didn't waver. Not for one moment. If she wasn't mistaken, he didn't blink either. The crowd instantly parted, just like the Red Sea, leaving a straight path open to her. She felt more vulnerable and exposed than ever. She couldn't even ask Joanna who he was and why everyone was afraid of him or even how they all knew him. Or why his anger would be directed at her.

  Everything in her stilled. Unless he knew. Oh, God. He couldn't know. She had nothing left, nowhere to go. If she didn't get this job, she'd be on the street again. Her face burned under his scrutiny. She knew he saw everything. Her thrift store clothes. Her wet shoes. Her lack of makeup. His suit easily cost thousands, as did his coat. His gloves probably cost more than her entire outfit when it had been brand-new. What he spent on his watch could probably buy a car.

  She felt her color rise and she couldn't stop it. Her gaze lowered, although she felt defiant. Just because he was wealthy - and he was more than wealthy, anyone with eyes could see that - he had no right to judge her.

  God, but he was good-looking. Italian-American. Olive skin. Gorgeous blue eyes and thick black hair that made a woman want to run her fingers through it. No man should be able to look like he did. She tried to look away from him, but something in his steady gaze warned her not to and she didn't dare defy him. She couldn't imagine anyone crossing him. He didn't exactly walk up to her. He stalked, like a great jungle cat emerging from the shadows. Silent. Fluid. Breathtaking.

  "Poetry in motion," she murmured under her breath. She'd heard the expression, but now she knew what it meant, how the words could come alive with a man moving.

  He stopped abruptly. Right in front of her. Had he heard? She felt more color creeping into her face. A deep red. She was mortified to be singled out of the crowd. That was bad enough, but if he'd heard her...

  "I'm Stefano Ferraro. You are?" It was a demand, nothing less.

  She opened her mouth. Not
hing came out. She actually felt paralyzed with fear. Of what, she wasn't certain. Joanna's fingers dug into her arm, hard enough to get her to blurt out her name. "Francesca. Francesca Capello."

  "Where the fuck is your coat?" His voice was pitched low. Soft. It sounded menacing, as if all his anger was directed at her because she didn't have on a coat.

  She winced at his language and the abruptness of his completely shocking question. She tipped her chin up and instantly his eyes were on her face, following that gesture of defiance. "It isn't your business," she said, keeping her voice as equally low.

  A collective gasp went up in the store, reminding her they weren't alone. She felt alone, as if there were only the two of them.

  "It is my business," he returned. "You're shivering so bad your teeth are chattering. Where the fuck is your coat?"

  She opened her mouth to tell him to go to hell, but nothing came out. Not one single word.

  "She gave her coat to the homeless woman," Joanna supplied hastily. "On our way here. We were walking along Franklin and there was a woman sitting under the eaves there and she was cold so Francesca gave her coat to her."

  "Dina," Francesca muttered.

  "Dina?" he repeated.

  "She has a name. It's Dina," she repeated before she could stop herself. She knew she sounded snippy, but she didn't care.

  "I'm well aware who she is," he said. "I'd like to know who you are."

  Francesca was both horrified at his interest and mortified that she was in the spotlight. She sent up a little prayer for the floor to open up and swallow her right there.

  This was met with silence, so Joanna jumped to fill the breach. "She's a friend of mine and I talked her into coming here to live from California. Uncle Pietro needed someone to help in the deli and she has tons of experience." The words tripped over one another in her haste to get the information out. "That's what we're doing now, applying for the job."