“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. She 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.