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 open a path straight 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. Nothing came out. She actually felt paralyzed with fear. Of what she wasn't certain. Joanna's fingers dug into her arm hard, 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 badly 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."
Francesca was well aware everyone in the store was staring at her, including Pietro. She was certain she looked homeless in her thrift store clothes, but really, the woman in the street had been freezing. Francesca, at least, had four walls to protect her--until the end of the month, and then she'd be sharing a cardboard box with Dina.
"I see." Stefano Ferraro said the words thoughtfully, his eyes still fixed on her. "You know her, Joanna? You vouch for her?"
Joanna nodded her head vigorously, her dark cap of hair flying around her face. Francesca could feel her trembling, which was unusual. Joanna had always had tons of confidence in herself. She'd been popular at school and always, always had an opinion to give. Everyone liked her, yet she was definitely shaking.
Stefano, still watching Francesca's face, pulled out his wallet, shoved a handful of bills into his coat pocket and then removed the coat. He held it open in front of Francesca.
Her lungs seized. She shook her head and tried to step back but she ran into Joanna's trembling body. Who was this man that everyone was so afraid of? Francesca knew the blood had drained from her face; she could feel it. She shook her head again, more vigorously so there could be no mistake the answer was a resounding, emphatic no.
Impatience crossed his face. "I don't have time to fuck around, bambina. Get your arms in the coat and come outside with me for a moment. We'll talk." He glanced at his very expensive watch. "I have about two minutes and then I have to be somewhere."
She considered stalling for the two minutes so he'd have to leave, but both Joanna and Pietro looked desperate. He had to be a criminal. Mafia. One of the strong-arm men who came in and took all the money from the stores, like on television. He looked far too elegant for that, but he also looked as if he could easily break bones and not break a sweat.
Joanna actually pushed her toward Stefano. Resigned, Francesca turned her back to him, slipping her arms in the sleeves. To her horror he reached around her to button up the long coat. Around her. Caging her in. Her back was against his chest and his arms were long, enclosing her while he buttoned the coat. She felt his warmth. His strength. For the first time that morning, she stopped shivering.
His arms felt enormously strong, his chest an iron wall. More, with every single breath she took in, she breathed him in. His scent. Very masculine. Spicy. He turned her around to face him and then stepped in close to her--too close--because again, she couldn't breathe. The coat was warm. Heaven. Soft. It smelled like him. And he smelled good. He actually made her weak in the knees, unless really, he had nothing to do with it and she was just hungry.
His hand slipped down her arm and his fingers shackled her wrist in a firm grip. She looked up at him, bracing herself for the moment their eyes would meet, but he was looking at Joanna's uncle. He wasn't smiling, but he offered his other hand.
"Pietro. Good to see you. I trust you'll take good care of what's mine." His voice was low, sexy. She actually felt a strange answering vibration move through her body, like a song, a note tuned only to him.
He looked down at her again, and the impact of his eyes was enough to send her into a mini-orgasm. It was the truth whether she liked it or not. Joanna made a little sound in her throat, saving her, allowing her to turn her head toward her friend at Stefano's declaration. Pietro's head jerked up and his gaze shot to Francesca's face. Francesca frowned, trying to read the local language, but she had no idea what had passed as conversation between Pietro and Stefano Ferraro.
Gritting her teeth, she went with Stefano because it was time to give the man a piece of her mind and she couldn't do that in front of everyone. And also because he didn't really give her any other choice. Not only were Pietro and Joanna staring at her, but once again, everyone in the store was as well. She didn't like or need attention on her.
The blast of cold hit her as Stefano opened the door and allowed her to emerge first. She was too aware of him, of that hard, muscular body moving so close to hers. He kept her close with his grip, so that when she took a step, her body brushed against his continuously.
He stopped j
ust outside the deli, to the right of the door, under the eaves. Her hands dropped to the buttons of his coat. Instantly his hand covered hers, preventing her from sliding the buttons open. His body blocked hers from the wind, crowding her. He put one hand to her belly and pushed gently until she took the three steps necessary for her back to be against the wall of the building, and then he easily caged her in.
"Use the money to eat something. Buy a decent pair of shoes. Do not give my coat away. I'm rather fond of it."
His voice was a little impatient, definitely authoritative, as if everyone in the world would obey his every command--and they probably did. She detested that she was standing in front of the world's hottest man and he could see she had nothing. Absolutely nothing. She wasn't taking anything from him, either.
"I am not taking your money or your coat," she snapped.
His hands kept hers trapped. His thumb slid over the back of her hand and even through the soft, buttery leather of the glove, the gesture sent a tingle of awareness down her spine.
"The coat is a loan, and the money . . ." He shrugged.
"I'm not taking it," she reiterated.
"Is there a reason why you're allowed to be kind, but I'm condemned for the same gesture?" he asked softly.
Her eyes met his and that was a mistake. A huge mistake. She felt as if she was falling into those hard, piercing eyes. She knew instantly he hadn't given her the coat because he was being kind. She just didn't know why he'd given it to her. Or why he'd taken an interest in her at all.
"Francesca?" he prompted.
She tried not to scowl at him. "No, of course not. It's just difficult to accept charity." She took a breath.
"It isn't charity."
That's what she'd been afraid of. Her gaze slid away from his. "I can't accept . . . That is . . . From you . . . Because you're . . ." God. She couldn't even talk. He was too close. Surrounding her with heat. Too handsome. Too dangerous. Too everything she wasn't and would never be.
His jaw hardened even more if that was possible. She had her eyes fixed on his very sexy five-o'clock shadow so she saw very plainly his impatience. Her belly tightened into little hard, apprehensive knots. She couldn't help herself; she pressed her hand deep to try to stop the tension coiling there. His gaze dropped to her hand and then came back up to her face.
"It's because I have money." He made it a statement.
His accusation stung, mostly because it was the truth. The color deepened in her face. He made her sound prejudiced. She hated that he called her on it, but the truth was, she would have been much more able to accept the coat from someone who had far less. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Of course that wasn't the only reason, but she couldn't enumerate those reasons, either. That he was gorgeous, superhot. Or that he was dangerous and she thought he might be a member of organized crime.
"Francesca."
Her stomach somersaulted. He said her name low. Commanding. He was used to deference. Obedience. She took a breath.
"Look at me."
She let her breath out slowly and forced her gaze up his handsome face until her eyes collided with his. Then the breath slammed out of her lungs, leaving her fighting for air.
"Keep. The. Fucking. Coat." He bit out each word.
He scared the crap out of her. He wasn't touching her or threatening her, but she felt menace rolling off of him in waves. There was no use fighting him on it. He was going to get his way. Both of them knew it.
"Thank you." The words tasted a little bitter, but she managed to choke them out.
He nodded his head and glanced at his watch again. "Get something to eat," he added, turning away from her. "I'll be back for my coat."
She cleared her throat. "Mr. Ferraro?"
He spun back. Graceful. Impatient. "Got things to do, Francesca."
She didn't care. She had to know the truth. "Why is everyone afraid of you?"
His blue eyes held hers captive for so long she heard her heart pound. "Because I'm not a man you ever fuck with."
She blinked up at him, a little shocked at the honesty in his answer. She was fairly certain he was right. He'd brought an entire roomful of people to a standstill. No one had moved. No one had spoken. He definitely looked like a man no one would dare fuck with. Least of all her.
She cleared her throat. "I don't like that sort of thing."
He pressed one hand to her belly again, pushing her back against the wall, stepping in close to her until his heat and the scent of him surrounded her. "What sort of thing?" His gaze dropped to her mouth. Held there.
Her lips trembled, and a million butterflies took wing in her stomach. Her heart pounded. God. He was so close. Too close. He was taller than her by at least a head and a half. His shoulders blotted out the street behind him. He smelled--delicious. She didn't know a man could smell that good. It was freezing cold outside and he wasn't even shivering though she had his coat.
"The F-word sort of thing." She blurted it out, saying the first thing that came into her mind without thinking.
His eyebrow shot up. She hadn't thought that anyone really could do that. Shoot up one eyebrow. It was incredibly hot--at least on him.
"'The F-word'? " he repeated. "Dolce cuore, you can't even say fuck, for fuck's sake."
She felt the color creeping into her face, although she didn't know why. She wasn't the one spouting off inappropriate language to a complete stranger. She wasn't staring at his mouth, although she wanted to. She resisted, because that was what was polite. She wasn't pressing him against a wall and holding him there with a hand on his belly and another by his head. She wouldn't dare touch him.
There was nothing to say to that so she didn't say anything. She just stood there, waiting for him to release her.
He glanced at his watch again. "I really have to go. Eat. I mean it, Francesca. Don't give the money or the coat to anyone else. I'll know, and I won't like it."
She made a face. "Should I be afraid of you?"
For the first time amusement softened his features. "Only if it keeps you from giving away my coat and ensures you eat today." He reached out and bunched her hair in his hand and then allowed the strands to slip out of his fist. "Don't forget to buy a decent pair of shoes."
"I'll use your coat, but the money . . . I don't know when I can pay you back."
"Pietro pays a decent wage." He turned away from her.
"I don't have the job yet."
"You have the job." He lifted a hand and started down the street, moving easily, quietly. Looking more gorgeous than ever.
"Wait. How do I return the coat?" she asked a little desperately. He'd made it clear he wanted his coat back.
"I'll find you."
She watched him striding away. Watched how people on the sidewalk moved out of his way. He seemed to flow across the sidewalk, a force to be reckoned with. She felt a little bit battered, as if she'd been in the middle of the sea during a terrible storm. She didn't move, not for a long time. She huddled there in his long coat and forced herself to breathe deeply, trying not to feel faint.
Joanna caught her by the arm. "Oh. My. God. Did that just happen? Tell me that didn't just happen." She practically shook Francesca in her shock.
Francesca glanced through the window of the deli. No one had moved. The attention of every individual in the store remained completely riveted on Stefano Ferraro. She ducked deeper into the warmth of the coat. The cashmere smelled like him. Was warm like him. Elegant like he was.
"What did just happen?" Francesca asked Joanna. "Because I have no idea."
"He just told Zio Pietro to hire you. Ordered him."
"He can't do that." Francesca frowned, alarmed.
"Yes, he can and he did. No one goes against a Ferraro. No one, Francesca."
"Great. Your uncle is going to blame me for having someone step in and tell him what to do in his own store."
"No, he won't. He's excited that he got to do a favor for Stefano. That's rare and it means some
thing. You do a favor for one and they all feel they owe you. The entire family. That's huge, to have a Ferraro owe you. Zio Pietro was practically dancing around the shop."
"Why would that man get so angry because I didn't have a coat?"
Joanna looked confused. "I have no idea. I just know it's supercool that you attracted his attention. I've been around for years, since I was a little girl, and they all know my name and they know me, but they've never taken that kind of interest in me."
Francesca clenched her teeth. "Why would that be?" Already knowing the answer and not liking it.
"We don't exactly run in the same social circles. That family is total celebrity. Everyone knows them."
That didn't make Francesca the least bit predisposed to feeling better about Stefano Ferraro's interest in her. "I don't know them. I don't want to know them." Which wasn't altogether true. She'd heard the name. She knew the name was associated with an international bank and a very prestigious hotel as well as a racing team.
Joanna caught her arm and tugged in the direction of the deli's door. "Come on, it's cold out here. Zio Pietro wants to meet you."
"You said them. There's more than one of him?" She knew a Ferraro drove a race car, but surely the name wasn't that uncommon.
Joanna nodded solemnly. "And they're all that gorgeous. I kid you not. Stefano's the oldest. He has four brothers, equally hot. One sister, totally beautiful. When they walk around together, people just stare at them. That's how hot they are. Each one of them is supercool as well, which makes them all scorching hot. I'm a little in love with them, including their sister. That's how totally gorgeous they are."
Francesca couldn't help it. She started to laugh. She hadn't laughed in months. It was good to see Joanna again. She was not in the least complicated, nor did she want to be. She always found humor in everything and she loved to party, go to clubs and dance the night away.
"I can't believe Stefano Ferraro claimed you."
The statement tumbled out, leaving Francesca feeling weak and more confused than ever. As they entered the store, all eyes turned to her. The deli was eerily silent. Color infused her face. She wanted to turn and run.
"Joanna, come behind the counter and help out while I talk to your friend," Pietro ordered, beckoning to his niece.