"Stefano, he can get to anyone. He has money. Power. Politicians and cops in his pocket. He has lunch regularly with the governor of California and the local district attorney. He plays golf with the senator. He runs in your . . ." She broke off, her gaze sliding from his. "Circle," she finished lamely.
"His name."
She hesitated. This was what she wanted, but it wasn't right. She would be a terrible person for involving him more than she already had. "Stefano, I'm sorry. I really shouldn't even be talking about this, especially to you." She couldn't look at him. Shame burned through her. "I can't imagine your life, the way you have to live, always thinking you have to protect and take care of everyone around you. You make it easy to shift burdens your way. You don't protest. You don't ask for space. You just take control and no one has to worry but you."
His thumb and finger gripped her chin, lifting her face so she once again had no choice but to meet his eyes. "Bambina, I am that man. Don't make me out to be a saint, because I'm anything but. You aren't going to find me easy to live with, and I assure you, Francesca, we will be living together. I knew the moment I laid eyes on you what I wanted. You can turn over those burdens to me, and you won't ever have to worry. With that comes the price of belonging to me. Above all things, I want you safe. So tell me his name."
Her breath caught in her lungs at his declaration. The idea of belonging to him was both terrifying and exhilarating. She couldn't look away from his eyes. She'd only just met him yet she felt that she'd known him forever. She knew he was dangerous, possibly more dangerous than Barry Anthon, but still, that connection between them was so strong, she couldn't imagine not having him in her life in some capacity.
"I think I manipulated you to this point. I didn't start out that way, and then I did, and now I . . ." She broke off as his eyes glittered. "Stefano, you can be scary."
"Tell. Me. His. Name." He bit out each word separately. Enunciating them. Making them a command.
"Barry Anthon." She blurted out his name, and then was shocked that she had.
There was a small silence. She knew he recognized the name. How could he not? When she said he ran in the same circles, she meant it. Anthon even had his own racing team, just as the Ferraro family did.
The silence stretched, and her belly knotted. Her fingers closed into fists on his thin tee, bunching the material. Of course. She should have known. Why would he take her word over that of the police? Over Anthon's? She had been so fogged coming out of the nightmare and feeling so guilty for involving him that she hadn't stopped to think about whether or not he would believe her. How stupid. No one else had believed her. Not the landlords who threw her out of the apartments she'd rented and supposedly damaged. Not the boss she'd worked for since her teenage years. Not the police who arrested her for destroying property. Not the judges or even the lawyers who defended her. No one believed her about Cella's murder.
She strained away from him, against the hard bar of his arm, her hands going flat on his chest to push him away.
"Settle," he commanded softly, his eyes on her, but he was clearly somewhere else. "Barry Anthon the third, I presume. He has somewhat of a reputation with women."
So did the Ferraro brothers. She'd read all about them in the magazines Joanna had given her. She didn't say a word. He would have to release her sometime, and then she'd find a way to leave. She could stay in the street like Dina. The thought made her feel a little hysterical. She'd done that and it had been awful, worse than awful.
"I need to wash my face." She needed distance. She had to put everything into perspective, and she couldn't do that when he was so close to her.
His gaze searched hers for a long time. She felt as if he saw right inside of her, saw her deepest secrets, her shame for involving him, her fear that, like everyone else, he wouldn't believe that a man like Anthon had systematically set about destroying her entire life until she had nothing left. No home. No friends. No money. No way to get a job. She crushed down the sob welling up.
Stefano ran the pad of his thumb down her face, tracing her high cheekbone and making his way slowly to her lips. He rubbed his thumb along her bottom lip, his eyes darkening until her breath caught in her lungs and just stayed there. A strange throb began deep inside her, low and insistent.
"I'll make you hot chocolate. If I don't have any, I'll call down to the kitchen."
"It's too late for room service," she pointed out.
He shook his head. "What part of 'I own the hotel' don't you understand? I call down, they get me what I want, even if they have to send out for it."
"You're spoiled, Stefano."
"I suppose I am," he agreed. "Don't be long."
He slid off the bed, standing in one fluid motion that was all grace and power. He was dressed in a thin pair of sweatpants she was certain he didn't wear to bed. He'd pulled on a tight T-shirt, and he looked every bit as good as he did in his three-piece suits, although the look was entirely casual.
Francesca watched him walk out of the room, mesmerized by the way he moved. She could watch him for hours. Listen to the sound of his voice. Even when he was totally angry and scaring the crap out of her, she liked the pitch, but when he was being gentle, his voice stroked like the softest of caresses over her skin. Stefano was larger than life and he dominated a room as well as everyone in it. When he walked out, he took the warmth with him.
She shivered and wrapped her arms around her middle, rocking gently to soothe herself. He was lethal to women in a way a man like Barry Anthon, for all his wealth, could never be. Stefano might snarl, he might even manhandle a woman, but he would never hurt her. Never. She knew instinctively, like that was written somewhere in stone.
She forced her stiff legs to straighten so she could scoot to the edge of the bed. After her nightmares, her body was always painful, as if she'd run a race uphill--or gotten in a physical fight and lost. She had done something so wrong, manipulating a good man into feeling responsible for her and then blurting out the name of one of his colleagues. How incredibly stupid was that? She was ashamed of herself and angry, too. She knew better. She was a better person than that. Cella had raised her, and she would have been ashamed of her.
Barefoot, she padded to the gleaming bathroom. It was large--larger than the kitchen and bedroom combined in her little apartment. The bathtub looked inviting, and she gazed at it longingly while she just stood there, trying to decide what to do. Stefano was probably calling Anthon right that moment. How could she have been so careless? Even Joanna didn't know all the details, but Francesca had been so selfish telling Stefano the truth, needing to feel safe, wanting to stay in Ferraro territory because she liked the neighborhood, and secretly she was so attracted to him. It would serve her right if he was talking to Barry right that moment.
"Francesca, get a move on."
He sounded impatient. Bossy. So like him. "Keep your panties on," she called back, smiling at the exasperated sound of his voice. The minute the admonishment slipped out, she clapped a hand over her mouth. She didn't need to make him angry by being her smart-mouthed self, or worse, have him think she was flirting. He might say he was attracted, and she definitely was, but he wasn't the type of man for a woman like her, under any circumstances, let alone the one she found herself in.
Right now, she was the damsel in distress and he was the white knight riding to the rescue. She'd even helped to manipulate him into thinking she was just that. Until she had revealed the name of her enemy. She'd vowed to rebuild her life and find a way to take Barry Anthon down. Her. Not someone else. Now that she was thinking clearly again, she wasn't going to shove her fight onto anyone else. It was too dangerous. In any case, the chances that Stefano Ferraro and Barry Anthon were friends were extremely high.
She pulled her hair back, braided it and, without a hair tie, just left it braided and hoped it stayed long enough to wash her face. The soap was a gel and smelled like heaven. Beside the gel was a moisturizer and she lathered it on.
When she walked out of the bedroom, Stefano was right there, draped lazily against the hall wall opposite her door. "Did you just tell me to keep my panties on?" His voice was pitched very low. Quiet.
Her heart stuttered. "I might have. That depends," she hedged.
"Hmm." He straightened in one of his powerful, controlled, fluid movements that could rob a woman of breath for the next century, and held out his hand. "I think you're feeling better. You sassed me. People don't sass me, Francesca. Not. Ever."
"They don't?" She tried to look innocent, staring first up at his face and then at his hand. There was no reading his expression so she slipped her hand into his. Instantly his fingers closed around hers. Warm. Tight. Firm. He gave a little tug and started down the hall with her. "Not even your sister?"
"No. Not even my mother."
"Why not? I think sass is just what you need. I think, from observation, that you tend to get everything your way." Her heart beat too fast. She didn't know why he was teasing her, but it was better than having him throw her out on the street. Much better. Still, it wasn't true that he got everything his way. He hadn't wanted to leave the pizza parlor. He was enjoying having dinner with her, but he left for Theresa Vitale. She supposed he was dragged away often from things he wanted so he could help others.
"I need instant obedience," he said.
He smiled at her and her heart nearly stopped. She found it impossible to breathe. He had the sexiest smile she'd ever seen in her life. He could get just about anything from her with that smile. Staring at him, she nearly stopped moving because she couldn't remember how to walk. Her brain short-circuited. She concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and followed him to the very spacious kitchen.
Francesca looked around her. "You live in a hotel. Why do you need a kitchen like this?" She touched the stove with reverent fingers. "This is state-of-the-art. I could do things in this kitchen."
"You cook?" He let go of her hand and indicated the high-backed leather stool at the bar.
Francesca nodded as she climbed up onto the stool. "I love to cook. Growing up, Cella worked and I took care of the house. I spent a great deal of time watching cooking channels and trying out recipes until I understood the art of cooking--and it is an art if you love it, which I do. Even after I was old enough to work, I did the cooking."
"I've never cooked," he admitted. "Not anything that wasn't packaged, and that doesn't taste so good."
"Growing up, you didn't learn? Did you and your brothers think it was woman's work? Some of the best chefs in the world are men." She was a little disappointed that he might think that way. It didn't surprise her, though.
"My brothers and my sister were too busy learning other things that were deemed necessary by the family. We didn't have much of a childhood, and we certainly weren't encouraged to learn how to cook. Although, saying that, Taviano is an excellent chef, but he learned in Europe, certainly not from our mother."
"Other things?" Now she was curious. She couldn't tell from his strictly neutral tone whether or not he was altogether happy with his childhood.
He poured chocolate from a pan on the stove, added whipped cream from a can and put the steaming mug of chocolate in front of her. "We began training from the time we were toddlers. Languages, arts, martial arts, boxing, wrestling, jujitsu, all sorts of weapons, horseback riding, eventually driving skills and of course we were expected to excel in every subject in the private schools we attended. It was top of the class or in trouble."
She didn't know what to say to that. His revelation was unexpected. It didn't sound like much of a childhood to her, and she had to once again reassess what she thought. He might have all the money in the world, but her childhood had been just that--a childhood.
"You thought we spent all of our time playing polo and racing cars?"
"Chasing women," she corrected, trying to make a joke.
His gaze jumped to her face. She took a breath. Let it out. She had to ask. Her stomach muscles were tied up in knots and she knew she was a heartbeat away from panic. "Did you call him? Barry Anthon?" Her hands tightened around the warmth of the mug, lifting it, but not taking a drink. "Did you call him and tell him I was here?"
His gaze drifted over her face. "You don't think much of me, do you?"
She stilled; her heart jerked hard. She put the mug of chocolate down on the bar and forced herself to meet his eyes. "That's not true."
"Yes it is. You think I'm like Barry Anthon. That I have too much money and I don't know what hard work is. You didn't want to take my coat because of my money. You didn't want to allow me to help you at all."
His handsome features were stony, expressionless, his blue eyes glittering at her, but it was his tone that caught at her more than anything else. There was just the slightest hint of hurt there. If they hadn't been so weirdly connected, she knew she would have missed it, but the awareness of every little nuance was there, because she was so conscious of him.
"You're nothing at all like Barry Anthon," she said. "Stefano, if I thought for one moment you were like him, I wouldn't be here in this apartment with you. I'll admit to some prejudice when I first met you, but that changed very quickly."
"You don't relax around me."
"Well, that's because you're . . ." She trailed off with a little wave of her hand, color creeping into her face.
He tilted his head to one side, a slow smile softening the hard edge of his mouth, giving him that sexy tilt that sent heat scattering through her veins.
"I'm what?"
She pressed her lips together hard to keep from blurting out the truth. That he was gorgeous. Sexy. Dangerous. Hot. All those things. Everything she wasn't. He was so far out of her league it wasn't funny. He was nothing like Barry Anthon, but he ran in the same circles.
"It just stands to reason that you would want information about my situation, and as you know Barry, what better way to acquire it than by speaking to him personally?" It was prudent to change the subject.
"I definitely want the information about what happened, but you're right here with me. Why wouldn't I just ask you myself?"
She ducked her head. "Maybe you think I'd lie to you."
"Would you?"
She shook her head. "I might be tempted to leave things out. Or just refuse to tell you. It's all pretty far-fetched, and no one other than Joanna has believed me. They believe Barry."
"Barry wouldn't know the truth if it hit him in the face. He's been making shit up since the day he was born. He pays people to believe him, but that doesn't make it true, Francesca."
She lifted her chin, trying not to feel hope. "You should know, aside from being arrested for damaging property, I've also been in lockup for seventy-two hours in a hospital." She didn't take her eyes from his, waiting for condemnation. Everyone else thought she'd lost her mind, so why not him? Still, deep inside, where that strange connection was, she didn't think he would believe the worst said about her, either.
He kept his gaze steady on hers. Unflinching. Expressionless. Her heart pounded. She clutched the chocolate mug so hard her knuckles turned white. His gaze dropped to her hands and he reached, gently prying her fingers from the mug. His thumb slid over her knuckles.
"When Barry does something, he's thorough, but he's repetitive. Once something works for him, he keeps using it."
"You're saying he's done this before?" Hope blossomed.
"What do you have on him?"
Her breath left her lungs in a rush. "Why do you think I've got something on him?"
"Because you're not dead. He would have killed you if he could have. If we look into the bank account of the man convicted of your sister's murder, there will be a lot of money his family inherits when he dies. This isn't the first time something like this has happened around Barry Anthon. Obviously, if you saw him at the murder scene and he's worked so hard to discredit you, he's afraid of you. He's got money and power. He's got cops and politicians in his pocket. He wouldn't be afraid
unless whatever you have could ruin him and he can't risk killing you until he gets it back."
His thumb rubbed gently at her knuckles. It felt--exquisite. Each time the pad of his thumb slid between her knuckles, she felt his touch melt through bare skin and sink into her bloodstream. She shivered. She couldn't help it. Her body was tuned to his. Came alive for his. It didn't make sense, but then chemistry never did.
She took a breath. "I don't know you, Stefano."
"You know me."
He brought her hand to his mouth, his lips moving over her knuckles in the way his thumb had, only this was so much better. Way more intense. She felt an answer coiling hot at the junction of her legs.
"You don't have to tell me . . . yet. Drink your chocolate." He let go of her hand.
She curled her fingers around the mug again because when she wasn't touching him she felt cold, and it was such a relief that he believed her--that he knew the real Barry. Deceitful, murderous Barry.
"He's done this before? Destroying property and making it look like someone else did it?" Murder? She couldn't bring herself to ask that.
"All of it, right down to the jail time and the hospital," Stefano confirmed. "He likes to brag that no one can cross him. He threatened a couple of drivers. They ended up quitting. I didn't get the story until a couple of years later, but they wouldn't drive for anyone because they were so afraid of him. It ended their careers."
"Has he ever threatened you?" Francesca asked cautiously.
"Bambina."
One word. That said it all. His tone. Amused. Arrogant. Completely confident. She shivered again, but this time because she could see the danger in him. He wasn't a man other men crossed. If Barry was too afraid to threaten Stefano, what did that make Stefano? The thought flitted through her mind unbidden.
She took a sip of chocolate to buy herself time. It was delicious. There was no way it was from a package. "You made this."
Amusement crept into the deep blue of his eyes. "Yeah. I did."
"How did you learn to make such great chocolate?"
"I have a younger sister. She often had a difficult time sleeping so she'd come into my room, wake me up and I'd make her chocolate."