"It's going to happen for you, Ricco," Francesca said, walking with him through the enormous open room toward the kitchen where the family usually gathered. "I know you don't think it will, but I feel it. She's close."
He glanced at her sharply. Francesca wasn't given to fantasy. He shook his head in denial. He'd given up that dream a long time ago. "Done too many things in my life to ever have a decent woman throw in with me."
"I'm a decent woman and I love you," Francesca said.
"Yeah, but you're my sister."
"I love you, too." Emmanuelle joined them, slipping her arm around his waist as well. "But then, I'm your sister, too, and it's well known by the lot of you that I have no sense."
Ricco couldn't help but laugh. Emmanuelle could always make him smile, no matter how bad his nights had been. She was a ray of sunshine to all of them.
She turned her face up to his, her eyes moving over his features, seeing things he didn't want her to see. At once the smile disappeared. "You aren't sleeping."
He shrugged, trying to look casual. "Never been good at sleeping, honey. Tell me what's happening in our neighborhood. I've been out of the loop for a while."
"Francesca knows far more than any of us. Working at Masci's she hears everything, don't you?"
Francesca went to the stove, where Taviano was turning the guinea fowl in the frying pan. Using olive oil, he'd sauteed garlic and scallions and then placed the fowl skin side down before adding sage. He glanced up and winked at Ricco. "Francesca was just going to let this burn."
"She never burns anything," Giovanni objected. He mixed the homemade pasta noodles with the artichoke sauce. "Stefano scored big-time with this one. He just needs a few bambinos running around, her pregnant and barefoot, and the man will be happy."
"He's already happy," Francesca said smugly.
"Well, I'd be happy," Giovanni clarified. "I'd make a great uncle."
Francesca blew him a kiss and sat on the barstool between her brothers-in-law. "Lucia and Amo are having the time of their lives with their new daughter, Nicoletta. Extremely happy."
"Is she going to a regular school yet?" Stefano asked, coming up behind his wife and circling her around the waist with his arms.
Ricco had noticed Stefano couldn't get near Francesca without touching her. He envied his brother that and wanted it for himself. He just wanted to feel for someone. Connect with someone.
"She's smart," Vittorio said. He stabbed his fork into the pasta and took a bite, then held up his thumb, indicating it was good. "But she doesn't want to go to a regular school. Amo asked me to talk to her. I did, but I don't think she was impressed. She didn't say much, just looked at me. I don't envy them. The girl is gorgeous. Every young man from here to hell and back is going to be knocking at their door."
"Why do you all want her in a regular school?" Taviano asked. "More trouble if you ask me. All those horny bastards leering at her. Do we really want that kind of problem? One of us would have to go scare the crap out of them and then she'd be embarrassed or pissed and we'd get the blame. Keep her home. Locked up. It's for her own good."
"It's her last year of high school," Francesca said. "She deserves to have fun."
Ricco wasn't positive Francesca was right about sending her to the local high school. Nicoletta had come from New York, from a terrible situation. She'd been brutally abused, physically, sexually and emotionally. Stefano and Taviano had rescued her, but the damage had been done and it had been severe. Ricco knew the girl, like him, didn't sleep. He knew because he often pulled guard duty at night.
Nicoletta was one of the rare potential riders, her shadow throwing out feeler tubes to connect with the other shadows around her. The riders all took turns watching over her. He took the night shift because it suited him, and she went out her bedroom window and sat on the rooftop listening to music. He kept watch, but he didn't interfere. She looked so young and alone, and he knew he'd just scare her if he suddenly appeared beside her.
"She likes being with Lucia and Amo," Stefano said. "I've talked to her often, and she wants to stay with them."
"Who wouldn't want to be with them?" Taviano asked. "They'll spoil her rotten. She's good for them as well."
"It was a cracked casing, Ricco," Stefano said abruptly. "On the shock absorber. Not you, a cracked casing. The wrong metal alloy was used and passed off to us as the real deal. I've already informed the other racing teams."
Ricco didn't look at his brother. That was the most Stefano was going to give him, when both knew that everything else that had been said between them still stood. He just nodded and sank down into the chair at the table beside Emmanuelle. It wasn't exactly news, anyway. Taviano had come to him immediately a good three weeks earlier and told him. Taviano preferred to race Indy cars, and he was the one, along with Vittorio and Emmanuelle, who designed their engines.
"How you coming on your hunt for a partner?" Vittorio asked, sliding into a chair at the long table.
Ricco shrugged. "I guess I've got to choose someone soon. I'm doing one more round of interviews in a few days and then I'll have to pick someone."
"Or not," Francesca said. "Seriously, hon, don't hook up with just anyone. It won't work."
He knew that, but he was determined to try.
CHAPTER TWO
Ricco sighed and raked his fingers through his hair, spilling thick dark strands over his forehead. "I guess that's it, Emilio. I didn't spot anyone I was wild about, but I'll go over the applicants again and see if anything hits me." That was pretty much a lie, and any one of his brothers or his sister would know he wasn't about to go through those applications again.
"The one whipping off her shirt was good," Emilio pointed out with a grin. "I'm keeping her phone number and address."
"She'll expect you to tie her up," Ricco warned.
"I can do that." Emilio rolled his shoulders to get the kinks out. "I hate sitting around. Even with all the models coming in, seriously, Ricco, this isn't my thing. Next time, have Enzo help out."
Ricco knew there wouldn't be a next time. He knew none of the applicants were going to work out. He was going to go home and toss every single one of the submissions in the fireplace. That last ray of hope he'd held out had died a violent death when the very last model had sat there chewing gum with her mouth open and with the top three buttons open on a shirt three sizes too small, all while her hand kept straying to Emilio to stroke his arm suggestively.
Every one of the models had thought Emilio to be the rope master. They'd advertised a good wage, stating the photographs would be used in a book but would be exclusive to the rope master. Out of three hundred applicants, only about fifteen were clearly models with experience in rope art.
A timid knock on the door had them both turning as a woman clutching a book in her arms pushed halfway in. "Am I too late?" There was a note of apprehension in her musical voice.
Ricco went absolutely still. The pitch was low and sweet. That tone pushed into his chest, right into his center, as if it were a key unlocking something tight and hard in him. He moved his hand over his heart as an unknown emotion seized it hard, wrenching, twisting, forcing that lock to open so that his own music could be heard pounding in his ear, beating like a lost drum seeking the right rhythm.
He inhaled sharply as something he didn't understand spread through him like the rays of the sun, driving out the pressure that was always with him, always weighing on him. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to. The sensation was unlike anything he'd ever known, but it was so strong it was overwhelming. He had to hear her again. Had to be close to her. It wasn't a want so much as a need.
He remained locked in place, his gaze drifting over her body, taking in every detail. She was unexpected. Not the tall, slim woman he'd always imagined he wanted. She wasn't short and delicate, either, but somewhere in between. She wasn't a redhead, and he'd always thought that his favorite. She had curves and pale skin; her eyes were large, hazel, and shaped like a cat's. Sh
e had blond hair and was graceful, a bit fragile-looking, reminding him of an exotic flower. She looked mixed race to him, part Asian--Japanese perhaps--in spite of her coloring. He never would have looked in that direction after so much trauma, yet every cell in his body responded to her.
"Sorry, sweetheart," Emilio said. "Interviews are closed."
The woman stood there, right in the center of the doorway, clutching the book to her chest. She was taller than both Emmanuelle and Francesca, but lacked the height of the supermodels he often dated. It was impossible to tell how long her hair was. The shiny blond mass was swept up with long hairpins in some intricate style he couldn't begin to figure out, but it left her neck bare and vulnerable. Her skin was flawless. Soft looking. Beautiful. Already his palms itched for his rope. Red, he thought, to complement her skin and that glossy blond hair.
At Emilio's answer, the woman took two more steps inside the room, right under the blaze of lights they'd purposely set up. His heart, now a pounding drum, nearly stopped. The lights threw her shadow into sharp relief behind her on the wall. The shadow was dark and thin but threw out strong tubes, feelers reaching toward other shadows. When there were none, the feelers reached farther for connections, elongating, seeking, prompting another step from her.
His breath caught in his throat as the tube slid along the floor, moving through shadows until it connected with the shadows where he stood. It hit like a freight train. Jarred him. Shook him. Filled his cock with hot, urgent need. Lust was sharp and terrible, almost uncontrollable. He felt that same wild pounding in his heart hammering right through his cock. He knew she felt it, too. Her head came up as if scenting danger and her eyes moved around the room warily.
"Come in," Ricco managed, but he didn't know how he could speak in a normal tone. No part of his body seemed his own, not even his voice. He was grateful for his strict training. He kept all interest from his tough features when his entire being reacted to her.
Her gaze jumped from Emilio to him. He was in the shadows and she probably hadn't spotted him immediately. She hesitated, and he couldn't blame her. He was intimidating and knew it. The Ferraros were born intimidating. Time seemed to stand still as he waited for her to obey his order. It had been an order. Ricco was used to obedience from everyone around him--obedience and deference. When he spoke, he expected and got an instant reaction.
Emilio glanced at him sharply, heaved a resigned sigh and sank down into the high-backed chair at the conference table. He beckoned to the woman. "I guess you're not too late, sweetheart." He indicated the chair across the table from him. "Did you bring a portfolio? Anything with your picture?" He held his hand out for the book.
Mariko Majo could barely breathe through the need rushing through her veins like molten lava. She didn't understand what was happening. One moment she was perfectly fine, a little worried she was not going to get the extremely important interview, and the next, she was overwhelmed with need--with a hunger she'd never known. For the first time in her life she had the urge to turn around and flee. She knew danger when she saw it, and Ricco Ferraro was pure danger.
The two men were both waiting. She lifted her chin and forced her body into movement. She hadn't expected Ricco Ferraro to be in the interview room. She knew the hotel belonged to the Ferraros but not one woman had come out of the conference room talking about him. She knew it was him because, of course, she'd seen photographs of him; who hadn't? He was in all the magazines, online and paper both. He had quite a reputation as a ladies' man and she could see why he would deserve it. He was gorgeous. Stunning. Scary.
She took several steps into the room, but then the door swung closed behind her and her heart jumped and then began to pound. Fear had a distinctive taste. She glanced back at the door. She wasn't a coward, she never had been, but the Ferraros were reputed to be in organized crime, a dangerous family to have anything to do with. She felt a little desperate trapped in the room with the two very intimidating men. It was whispered that they could hear lies. She had secrets. Too many. The last thing she needed was for one of the Ferraros to ask her questions.
No one spoke, not to encourage or discourage. This was her decision and both men made that very clear. She tightened her arms around the book she held as if that could give her the necessary courage. Mariko was not a woman afraid of much, yet in the presence of Ricco Ferraro, she found herself trembling. That wasn't a good start. Straightening her shoulders, she walked across the floor toward the conference table. It was large and intimidating, just like the men.
"I didn't bring a portfolio. I've never been a model, but my mother was. She died long before I ever had the chance to know her." Her voice was low and very soft, a soothing, pleasing sound, cultivated by the elders as she grew. Now, she didn't know how to raise her voice. She wished she could. She was raised to sound seductive, pleasing to a man's ear and body. She didn't want to attract undue attention, not when she was alone in a room with the two men, one an obvious Ferraro, the other clearly related.
Emilio sighed again and glanced up at Ricco. "I can do this and catch up with you later." The idea had been not to ever allow the models to know who the rope master was. If they knew it was a Ferraro, they would have had even more women looking to fill the position, hoping they'd have a chance of seducing him.
The hotel was often used by businessmen for a variety of meetings. No one would think twice about interviews being held there. It would not be unheard of for a Ferraro to be spotted in the hotel or talking to one of the men using the room. Most of the models had been disappointed that they hadn't seen one of the famous family members.
Mariko held her breath. She wanted Ricco out of the room, yet she didn't. She was confused with the way her body had suddenly come to life, every nerve ending aware of him. His eyes were dark and hooded, giving nothing away. He looked invincible. Disinterested. She was a mass of nerves and he was totally in control. She wanted to run, but she needed to do this--to convince them she was perfect for the job.
She'd watched the other models leaving one by one. They were mostly American, although not all. Some were from Brazil and Mexico. A couple had been from Spain and Argentina. There had been an Icelander. She was gorgeous.
Most were beautiful, with lots of height--something she didn't have. The moment she thought that, the voices rose to taunt her. She was mixed--Japanese and American. Nothing. A nothing. A nobody. The kanji in her last name meant "female devil." She didn't even know what her real last name was because she'd dishonored the family simply by being born.
She wasn't beautiful, or like any of the women she'd seen Ricco with in the magazines. There were two in particular he favored. Twins. The Lacey sisters--both actresses. She'd read all about them numerous times, the fact that the tabloids had caught them all naked in a hot tub together had been splashed across every tatty little rag and gossip magazine. She forced that image out of her mind. She had one shot at this and she had to make it right. Already she'd made a bad impression by being late, waiting too long to make up her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she continued forward, keeping her steps soft and light. She knew how to keep the nerves out of her face and voice, but she'd never felt under such scrutiny. Ricco had one scar across his face, a long line that ran from his left eye almost to the corner of his mouth. He was handsome, but in a rough, all-male way: the shadow along his stubborn jaw, his high cheekbones, straight nose and amazing eyes. Those dark eyes took in far too much but remained flat and ice-cold. He was reputed to be the most violent of the five brothers, and looking at him, she believed it.
"I'll stay," Ricco said. "I might have more questions."
Her heart jerked hard. She kept walking, feeling as if she might be headed to her doom. She didn't look around her, but she'd noted the exits the moment she'd entered the room. She had given the huge room a quick glance, taking in everything. She wasn't one to walk into a fancy hotel and be dazzled like most of the women leaving had been. She'd deliberately waited and watched fro
m the lobby as the hopeful models had exited. None seemed particularly certain they'd gotten the job. She hadn't been all that sure of trying out for the position and she wanted to make certain the opportunity was a legitimate one.
"Sit." Ricco waved his hand toward the chair across from the other man. "I'm Ricco Ferraro. This is my cousin, Emilio Gallo."
Ricco was definitely in charge. He was making that very clear. Emilio glanced up at him again, one eyebrow raised. So, Ricco hadn't conducted the other interviews. That wasn't good. Why had she ever thought she could do this?
She pushed the application across the table to Emilio but she knew Ricco was looking at it as well. "I'm Mariko. Mariko Majo." She bowed her head, her gaze sliding away from his in shame. That was unusual for her, she usually stared defiantly, daring anyone to notice her name. To comment. Still, she watched Ricco carefully from under her long feathery lashes. She'd perfected that particular art many, many years earlier.
His gaze drifted over her face so that she had to fight to keep color from rising. Very slowly his hand, large and strong with long fingers, turned the application toward him. All the while his eyes remained on her face, and then his gaze dropped to the writing. His features went utterly still.
He knew. He could read those characters and he knew what her last name meant. The name she'd been given, not born with. She didn't know her true last name; that had been taken away from her and her brother. Humiliation almost had her snatching the paper out from under his hand, but pride won out and she lifted her chin and her gaze to his face, steeling herself for his snide comment. Let him judge her. She was used to it. She lived with disapproval every day of her life.
"May I call you Mariko? I prefer not to be formal."