"Later, Pietro," he said, and walked her right out the door while she was too shocked at finding her body locked tightly against his side.
"Later, Mr. Ferraro," Pietro answered, laughter in his voice.
Francesca placed a protesting palm flat against his chest and then pulled it off of him as if his heat had burned her. "I'm not having a pizza with you."
"You don't have to eat if you're not hungry," he said, covering the pavement in long strides, his arm sweeping her along, forcing her to keep up with him.
He kept her moving, not wanting to give her the chance to protest. "Have you met Lucia and Amo Fausti? The couple sitting in the back? They own Lucia's Treasures. It's a little boutique a few stores down from the deli."
She snuck a little peek at him from under her ridiculously long lashes. She didn't have mascara on, and still her lashes were thick and long and curled upward on the end. He was fascinated even with that little detail. Her eyes were beautiful. The thought came to him unbidden that he wanted to be looking into her eyes when he took her, when he made her come apart in his arms. When they were locked together, and he was moving in her, bringing her what no other man would ever give her again.
"Yes, they're a lovely couple. You seem to be friends with them."
She sounded a little shocked that he could have friends. That made him want to smile, but he resisted, continuing to walk, nodding toward a couple of people who stepped out of their shops to greet him. He kept moving because he didn't want them to engage him in conversation and give her the opportunity to break away.
"They lost their only son. Cencio was murdered coming out of a theater across town with his fiancee. Lucia was so devastated she nearly died. Amo wasn't himself for a couple of years, either. I grew up with Cencio. He was a good man. Always laughing. Sweet, like his parents. We served together in Marine Recon. He was someone you could count on. We'd only been out two months before he was murdered."
Her face softened. The lashes swept down and back up, but the softness didn't leave her eyes. "I'm so sorry. That must have been terrible for all of you. He was their only child?"
Stefano shook his head. "They had a little girl. She died of cancer when she was three."
Francesca stopped right there in the middle of the sidewalk, her free hand covering her mouth. She looked as if she might cry. "Those poor people. To lose both children like that. I can't imagine anything worse."
He nodded, pulling her a little closer to him, keeping her under his shoulder. "They're both very brave. Sometimes tragedy tears people apart, but they seemed to grow stronger together." He started them moving again. The entrance to the pizza parlor was only a few feet away.
"They're actually my favorite customers," she admitted. "Not that I've met all that many people yet, although the store is very busy all the time. Was the murderer ever caught?"
He glanced at her sharply. There was something in her voice that caught at him. She was looking at the ground, not at him and not trying to see where they were going. She sounded skeptical, as if she didn't believe Cencio's killer would ever be brought to justice. She also sounded very, very sad. That tore him up inside. He didn't want her ever to be sad.
He reached around her to open the door of the pizza parlor, automatically stepping back to allow her to precede him. At the last moment, he pulled her out of harm's way, and then pushed her behind him as a little boy with dark wavy hair barreled right into him with full force. His body rocked back, but he caught the child in his arms, preventing the boy from falling. He heard Francesca's breath catch in her throat as if she feared for the child.
He set the boy back on his feet and ruffled his hair. "Tonio, are you chasing after Signora Moretti again?"
The boy nodded, holding up a pink handbag.
"Good man. Get to it then, but don't run into the street. Come by my table when you get back."
Tonio grinned at him and took off running. Stefano held the door open for Francesca and waved her inside.
"He's a good boy, that one," he observed. "Signora Moretti will eventually come into the deli. She'll give you a very hard time. She'll insist on watching you make her sandwich and everything you do will be wrong because she'll change it as she goes along." There was humor in his voice. Affection. He couldn't help it. "Agnese Moretti is a holy terror. Never call her anything but Signora Moretti or you'll get your ears boxed." He rubbed his right ear, remembering the woman clobbering him when he'd called her by her first name.
"She hit you?" Francesca's blue eyes went wide with shock--and humor.
"Signore Ferraro, we have your table," the girl at the desk said, menus in her hand. She sounded breathless, gazing up at him with a dazed, flirty look.
He smiled at her. "Grazie, Berta." He put his hand on Francesca's lower back to guide her. To make certain everyone in the restaurant knew just who she belonged to. "How are your parents?" He had to acknowledge Berta before she tripped over her own feet. She wasn't watching where she was going, only watching him.
"They're both good, Signore Ferraro. Tito said to put you at this table." Still staring at him, she indicated a booth at the back, in the corner where the low lights cast shadows and allowed for privacy. His family always requested that booth, and he was grateful that Tito remembered. "The antipasto and breadsticks will be right up. Wine? Beer?" she asked.
Francesca slipped into the inside of the booth because he didn't give her much choice. He kept his attention on Berta even as his body crowded Francesca's until she gave in and slid onto the cool leather bench seat. Stefano slid in right beside her. Close. His thigh pressed tight against hers. He inhaled her scent. She was beautiful, there in the shadows where he lived his life. So beautiful and innocent looking. He was going to take that innocence away and the thought made him sad. He resisted reaching for her hand, but he knew he would have to touch her soon.
"What would you like, bella? Wine? Beer? Something else?"
Francesca hesitated but then relaxed, some of the tension draining out of her. "Water is fine."
"You don't drink wine?" He raised an eyebrow.
She nodded. "It's been a while since I've had any alcohol. I don't know how I'd react."
He liked her honesty. "I'll make certain you get home safe. One glass can't hurt." Before she could protest he turned to Berta. "Red wine. You know my preference. Bring the bottle and two glasses." When Berta left he turned his attention to Francesca. "My family owns a few vineyards and a winery in Italy. It's beginning to make a name, and fortunately I enjoy the wine our family produces. I hope you do as well."
She nodded, a little shyly. "Thank you. I'm sure I will. Tell me about Agnese Moretti. Did she really box your ears?"
He had never been more grateful for the older woman's difficult and very feisty personality. His story had piqued Francesca's interest enough that she was much more relaxed with him. She seemed to like the stories of the people around her. Good people. He liked his neighborhood and wanted her to see it through his eyes. It was where she would spend the majority of her life. Accepting their way. Accepting their rules. Living with a yoke of violence around their necks for the good of those around them. A part of him detested himself for doing that to her, but there was no way he could give her up.
"Oh, yes. She not only boxed my ears, but twice she grabbed me by the earlobe and marched me out of a room. Of course, I was a lot younger when the earlobe thing happened." Deliberately he rubbed his earlobe as if he could still feel the pinch.
Francesca laughed. She had a beautiful laugh. Melodic. Low. Almost as if the laugh was intimate, just between the two of them. His heart beat in tune to her low laughter. He wanted to hear it for the rest of his life. The sound drowned out the voices in his head that refused to die when those who owned them did.
"How old were you when she boxed your ears?"
"That was last year when I made the big mistake of getting 'fresh' with her by calling her by her first name. Apparently I'm not old enough yet to do that. She ta
ught school and has never let me or any other student of hers forget it."
"She sounds like a character."
"She is," Stefano said. "She's wonderful. I can't tell you how many students she tutored outside the classroom to help them when they had difficulties with a subject. She never charged their parents. There were some kids who didn't have much and she would buy them the supplies they needed. Lunches. Jackets. She never let on that she did it, or made a big deal out of it, but they'd just find the supplies in their desk, or their jacket or lunch box."
"Wow." Francesca leaned her chin onto her hand, her gaze fixed on him. That sea-blue gaze that made him want to fall right into it. "She sounds incredible."
"She's a character. She forgets her purse anyplace she eats and her glasses in most stores. Tonio always rushes after her if she's anywhere around. If not Tonio, then one of the other children. He's the youngest and the most enthusiastic, which means he's a little tornado and you have to get out of his way when he's making his run."
Berta was back with the antipasto, small plates, warm, fresh breadsticks and the wine. She expertly juggled each dish and poured a small amount of wine in a glass for Stefano to taste.
He liked that Francesca watched him so closely, that she seemed fascinated by the conversation and by him. He nodded his approval of the wine, waited until Berta poured both glasses and left before he picked up Francesca's glass and handed it to her. Her fingers brushed his. Instantly a spark of electricity leapt from her to him. He felt their shadows connect. Merge. The pull was strong, just like the narrow slider tubes that nearly pulled apart his body when he stood in front of them--a powerful magnet drawing him close.
He heard her swift inhale. Her eyes darkened. Lashes lowered. Her breasts rose and fell. She pulled her hand away, bringing the wineglass to her mouth. She definitely felt the chemistry between them just as strongly as he did. It was explosive. His body reacted, going as hard as a rock, something that just didn't happen to a man with his kind of discipline. He knew if he leaned into her and took her mouth, he'd ignite a firestorm--they both would.
She was dangerous to both of them. He had to stay in control around her and just being this close to her threatened that. He was the one shifting slightly to put distance between them, a mere inch, but even that little inch gave him a reprieve.
Tonio ran up, his thick, curly hair wild. Eyes shining. "I caught her, Signore Ferraro. Just as she was getting into her car."
"Good man, Tonio." He slipped his wallet out and handed the boy a bill. "I'm proud of you for looking after her. What do we do?"
Tonio puffed out his chest. "We always look after our women."
"That's right. Run along now and say hello to your parents for me."
The boy took the money and slipped it into his pocket. "Grazie. Grazie." He grinned at Stefano. "Is she one of our women?" He indicated Francesca.
Stefano nodded solemnly. "Tonio, this is Francesca. Francesca, Tonio. If you should ever need assistance, he is a good man and will come to your aid. Yes, Tonio, she's very special to me. She's one of ours." He glanced at his woman. She didn't know he was claiming her publicly, but that innocent question was welcome. Tonio would tell his parents exactly what Stefano had said to him. The boy always did.
Francesca looked pleased. He knew she would. She wouldn't be thinking about the underlying implication, only that the boy was cute.
"Pleased to meet you, Tonio," she said.
He nodded shyly. "Don't worry. I'll look out for you."
"Thank you. I appreciate that."
Tonio turned with a saucy grin and raced through the restaurant back to his parents' table. Stefano watched him go just to make certain he didn't knock over any of Tito's customers.
"He's adorable." Francesca dipped a breadstick into the marinara sauce and took a bite. Her eyes closed. "Wow. This is delicious."
"No one makes pizza, antipasto or marinara like Tito's family. They've been in the business for a couple of generations and they make the best. People come from all over to eat here."
"You sound proud."
"I am. They're a good family and they deserve success."
"You aren't anything like I thought you'd be," she ventured, and took another sip of wine.
"What did you think I'd be like?"
"I don't know. You seemed so scary when I first met you. I thought you were . . ." She trailed off and shook her head, color creeping under her skin.
"Tell me."
"I don't want you to be upset. It was silly of me. I was so nervous about the interview and it seemed as if everyone in the store was a little afraid of you when you came in. You also were abrupt and a little rude, dropping F-bombs all over the place."
He nodded. "I do that a lot, I'm afraid. More than once, Signora Moretti told me she was going to wash out my mouth, and that was this year."
She laughed. He loved the way she laughed. Just in the two days he'd been away from her, she seemed much more relaxed. "Her warning didn't do any good, did it?"
"No, I suppose it didn't," he admitted ruefully. "So tell me, Francesca, what did you think I was when we met?"
CHAPTER FIVE
Francesca studied Stefano's face. He was intimidating, no question about it. Even with the way he interacted with little Tonio, he had a look about him that demanded respect. More, he commanded the room. She was acutely aware that every single person in the restaurant had turned to watch them as they made their way to their booth. Even now, people were watching. They were trying to pretend that they weren't, but she knew better. It was fairly clear that Stefano Ferrero was a well-known man. Liked by some, feared by others.
Still, there was an underlying sadness about him that she caught glimpses of, and everything in her rose to soothe him. Needed to do that. She wasn't altogether certain how or why she came to be sitting beside him, but she was fascinated by his take on the people in the neighborhood. There was genuine affection in his voice when he spoke of them. She liked that he knew so much about them and seemed to care.
Up close, he was hot, hot, hot. A gorgeous man. She couldn't believe how handsome he was. Tough looking. Confident. Even a bit arrogant, but one could forgive that when his face was so perfect. The angles and planes, the strong jaw and straight nose. His mouth fascinated her and she had to work not to stare at it. Twice she found herself doing just that and wondering what it would be like to feel his mouth on hers. A really stupid fantasy to have about a man she thought was mafia two days earlier.
Francesca was a little ashamed of herself that she'd thought that of him, even when he'd had a foul mouth and was so abrupt. Clearly she'd read the silence in the deli as something it wasn't. It felt like fear, but looking back, she had been terrified of everything that day and probably had just projected what she was feeling onto the crowd in Masci's.
She couldn't decide if she liked his eyes the best, or his voice. His eyes were a beautiful blue, dark and mysterious, with long black lashes that matched his thick, wavy hair. His voice was soft, pitched low, a warm honey that moved over her, promising all sorts of sinful things.
"Francesca."
His voice startled her right out of her fantasy. She blinked rapidly and brought him into focus. She hadn't had time to go over the things about his body that appealed to her, but it was probably just as well. She lifted her gaze to his, and everything in her stilled. Stefano stared straight into her eyes, capturing her without even trying. He held her there--she was unable to look away. She was totally mesmerized by him.
Francesca felt his power. Felt a connection between them. Her heart stuttered and then began to pound. He leaned toward her, frowning. His finger slid along her skin, right at her throat, skimming lightly over the shallow laceration where the knife had burned as it went into her flesh. She shivered at the way the blue of his eyes darkened so intimately.
"This is obscene. Someone putting hands on you. A knife to your throat. I'm sorry this happened, Francesca. This is normally a safe neighborhood. We
have small things, petty, teenagers drinking too much and getting a little out of hand, but this . . ." He broke off, shaking his head.
Without warning he leaned into her and brushed her throat with his mouth. Her heart stopped beating. She was certain it had. She froze, unable to move. Unable to think because her brain had short-circuited. His hair brushed her chin and along her shoulder. She'd never felt anything so sensual in her life.
Her breasts ached. Needed. Her nipples pushed into the lace of her bra and suddenly the little lace panties she wore were damp. Her sex clenched hard. Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn't move even to save herself--and she had a feeling she needed to save herself. She wanted desperately to run her fingers in his thick dark hair. She knew it was soft because the thick strands moved against her chin and throat. She blinked and he lifted his head.
"I'm sorry," he repeated. "You must have been so scared." His voice whispered over her like the intimate brush of fingers.
She touched her tongue to her lips, trying not to imagine his mouth on hers. "I'll admit, I was afraid, but mostly because I didn't want them to get blood on your coat."
His eyebrow shot up. "You what?"
Her mouth curved in a rueful smile, although her heart hammered hard in her chest. "I didn't want to get any blood on your coat. I was wearing it and when he cut me, all I could think about was that the blood might run down my neck into your coat."
His eyes went scary dark. His face stilled. His fingers curled around the nape of her neck and he pulled her head toward his. "Are you telling me that you were so afraid of me that when a mugger put a knife to your throat, the thing you feared most was getting blood on my fucking coat?"
His voice had gone scary soft to match the devil shining in his eyes. Her heart jumped and then thudded hard. She was acutely aware of his fingers curled around her neck--of every detail of him. His warmth. His broad shoulders. His enormous strength. The way the pads of his fingers felt possessive on her skin. His scent enveloped her, surrounded her, until there was only him and the other people in the restaurant faded away. He was too close to her to breathe, the shadows in the booth enfolding them in an unexpected intimacy.
"Dolce cuore." He breathed it.
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