Francesca stared at herself in the mirror, feeling a little as if she was a princess in a fairy tale. She smoothed her hand down her dress–the dress Stefano had bought her for tonight. He was casual about it, coming to her room, knocking once and opening the door. He walked straight to her, a large box in his hand, bent his head and brushed a kiss across her mouth.
His touch was all too fleeting. Barely there. But it was a brand and it burned right through her. He pushed the box into her hands. “Gotta go, bambina, things to do, but Emmanuelle and my cousins will be here to escort you to the club. You stick close to them until I get there. Understand?” The pad of his finger traced her lips. “I don’t want you dancing with other men. Stay with Emme.”
Stefano never got close to her without touching her. His arm snaked around her waist to pull her tightly to his side. His lips brushed her temple or her mouth. He liked being close, but he hadn’t made a move on her, not a real one. She found herself at night, lying in her bed, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, waiting. Just waiting.
She’d seen him leave tonight. As always he wore an impeccable suit. This one was charcoal gray with ultrathin lighter stripes. It was one of his inevitable three-piece suits and he looked amazing in it. He was so sweet to her. Making certain she ate meals. Insisting she text him from the deli several times throughout the day. Always, if she stepped outside, one of his cousins was close.
Stefano made her feel as if she mattered. As if she was his entire focus, even when he was at work, or wherever it was he went. Her eyes went back to the mirror and she raised her hand to her throat. She never asked him what he did. She thought about it and prepared herself to ask him, but he always distracted her before she did. He was just so intimidating and darkly sensual, filling the room with his presence until she could barely think straight.
She inspected herself very carefully. The dress was beautiful–the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, let alone worn. It was also the sexiest, most flattering dress she’d ever put on. The material clung to her like a second skin, leaving little to the imagination, and yet revealing only hints of actual skin. The dress followed every curve to her small waist before dropping away over her hips. It was short, but elegant. Sexy, but not cheap.
She stared at herself, unable to believe that it was actually Francesca Capello looking back at her in the mirror. She didn’t look like that. Hot. Beautiful even, with her hair left loose to tumble around her face and down her back. She couldn’t wear a bra with the dress, but it had a lining that gave some support because the material hugged her so tightly. In the box along with the dress was a tiny black lace thong. There was a bow on the back of the waistband, if you could call it a band; mostly it was tiny black strips of material. The thong rode low on her hips, barely there, so no lines showed beneath the clinging material of her dress.
She’d put on her makeup with an edge toward drama, but still barely there. She liked the color of her lipstick, a nice deep red that showed off her full lips and good skin tone. Her shoes were perfect black heels with complicated straps that edged up her ankles and looked superhot. The shoes had to have cost as much or more than the dress. She loved the entire look.
The elevator pinged, warning her, and she caught up her clutch and hurried out to greet Joanna and Mario Bandoni, Joanna’s date, as they stepped into the foyer. Joanna looked awesome in her hot red dress. Both she and Mario were staring around the huge room, taking in everything so she had a chance to walk right up to them. Francesca couldn’t blame them. When Stefano was there in his apartment with her, she felt at home and safe, but the moment he was gone, she felt like a fraud, an intruder. She didn’t belong in his extremely wealthy world. She was very uncomfortable there.
Joanna’s eyes widened in shock when she caught sight of Francesca. Her mouth dropped open and she stared openly. Mario made a low sound of approval.
“You look . . . so good, Francesca,” Joanna said. “Beautiful. Really beautiful. I’m not certain you should go out in that dress. Has Stefano seen you?”
Francesca laughed. Joanna and Mario had boosted her confidence level immensely just by their reactions. “Not yet, but Emmanuelle and the others should be here in a few minutes. Stefano and his brothers are already at the club. They had a meeting or something. His family is crazy large. Cousins have arrived from New York and they’re showing them around. I’ve never seen so many cousins as Stefano has.”
“Most of them are male,” Mario pointed out. “He’s got Rosina and Rigina, Romano and Renato’s sisters. They’re pretty nice, although I’ve never said more than hello to them.”
“I nod,” Joanna said. “Females can be really bitchy and I never wanted to be put in my place so I was careful around them.”
“They put people in their place?” Francesca asked. She knew she looked good, but it was the dress. She didn’t run in Stefano’s circles. If his cousins decided to be mean to her, she’d much rather stay home. She really wanted to go out wearing the dress and shoes, but not if it meant feeling awful about herself when some woman made her feel like she didn’t belong.
“No, they’ve never done that,” Joanna hastened to say. “Get that look off your face, honey. You’re with Stefano. No one would dare to be mean to you.” She looked around the large room with its high ceilings and open floor plan. “Show us around. I’ve always wanted to see where Stefa
no lived. This is . . . amazing.”
Francesca’s stomach knotted. This was Stefano’s home. His private sanctuary. Instinctively she knew he wouldn’t want anyone peeking into his private world. Joanna looked eager, nearly rubbing her hands together with glee. Mario was happy to go along with her, but Francesca just couldn’t do it. Showing them Stefano’s home felt too much like a betrayal.
She shook her head. “I can’t do that. This isn’t my home, Joanna.” She kept her voice very firm.
Joanna pouted. “Seriously, Francesca? Come on,” she wheedled. “I won’t say anything. It’s not like he’d know. I really want to see where he sleeps. At least show me his bedroom. I can imagine it’s all sexy. Big bed. Satin sheets. Very hot.”
Mario laughed. “You’re giving me ideas, Joanna.”
“Keep getting them, Mario,” Joanna flirted.
Francesca wrapped her arms around her middle and held tight. There was no way she was going to show Joanna anything at all. She hated the idea of anyone fantasizing about Stefano’s bed and sheets, let alone about him.
Stefano had shown her around the enormous suite–and it was enormous. He had his own workout room complete with every machine imaginable. There was another room that he used for training in several types of martial arts and boxing as well as street fighting. His brothers and sister and sometimes his cousins trained with him there. She’d peeked into the large rectangular room and had been in awe of the equipment there as well as the mats and floor. There were racks of swords and knives and other weapons, some wooden, some not, on the far wall.
Stefano’s hand had been on the nape of her neck, or fingers threaded through hers, arm sometimes around her waist, as he’d taken her through his home. The tour had felt intimate, Stefano showing her his private world. She wasn’t about to share that, not even with her best friend. She felt the need to guard him, to protect him. This was where he came to relax and no one was going to invade his privacy, not even her friend.
Francesca had seen him every night throughout the week and knew his life was difficult whether he was aware of it or not. The phone rang constantly with demands for his time. His cell went off as much or more than the house phone. No one left him in peace. More than once she’d been tempted to give his neck a massage while he impatiently–and dropping F-bombs liberally–listened to pleas for his help, most of which he answered positively.
“You can just forget all about seeing his bedroom, Joanna.” She glanced up at the clock, hoping it was time to go, knowing she had to change the subject. Joanna often was like a wrecking ball when she wanted something. “You look good in that dress. Red is definitely your color. And, Mario, that suit is amazing.”
Mario’s hand went to his tie a little self-consciously. “I can’t be the only one not looking sharp tonight. Look at my girl.” He sounded proud, his eyes on Joanna.
Joanna forgot all about pouting and beamed as she slipped her hand onto his arm. “You look very handsome. Thanks for coming with me tonight. I think it will be fun.”
The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Emmanuelle emerged and Francesca’s breath caught in her throat. Emmanuelle was the most beautiful woman Francesca had ever laid eyes on. Although short, no supermodel could hold a candle to her. She was everything an Italian beauty was reputed to be and more.
She wore a short black dress that clung to every curve. The front was a camisole that dropped into a little flirty skirt. The laces going up the front were tight over her rib cage and up under her breasts, but there was a generous opening showing plenty of cleavage. She looked hot. Gorgeous. Trendy. Sophisticated. Instantly Francesca felt as if she needed to check her own clothes again.
“Francesca. You look . . . beautiful.” Emmanuelle sounded sincere and her smile was warm, enveloping all of them. “Joanna, Mario, how nice to see you both again.”
She walked with complete confidence in her four-inch heels, coming straight toward Francesca without slowing down. She hugged Francesca tightly and then kissed her on both cheeks.
“Forgive me for not being with you when my cousins came to talk to you. I would have been with my brothers to protect you, if only so you’d have another woman present, but I had to keep the parents occupied.” She squeezed Francesca’s arm. “I know it was difficult for you–the boys told me. I want you to know how much I respect and admire you. Thank you for worrying about my brother and for making him so happy.”
Whoa. That was the last thing Francesca expected from Stefano’s sister. She made it sound as if Francesca really did belong to Stefano. That it was a done deal and somehow she was totally accepted into their family. Things moved very fast around the Ferraro siblings. Francesca felt uneasy, a fraud even. She wasn’t as certain as they were that her relationship with Stefano had progressed to the point of his entire family claiming her.
She wanted a family. She loved that the Ferraros were so tight-knit, but she barely knew them. She didn’t even really know what Stefano did for a living. There was just a little bit of fear when she was around them all. Power clung to them. They wore their wealth so easily, like a second skin. More than that, they wore a cloak of pure danger. When any of the Ferraros walked into a room, there was a stunned silence–a collective gasp from any other occupants of the room.
“Are you ready for a night out?” Emmanuelle turned to include Joanna and Mario in her query.
Joanna was staring at Francesca, wide-eyed, a grin on her face. She turned toward Emmanuelle immediately. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
“Rigina and Rosina are downstairs in the limo.” Emmanuelle laughed, her voice low and melodious. “I figured we’d better have a driver if we’re all going to party tonight.” She slipped her arm through Francesca’s companionably. “Has Stefano seen that dress?”
Francesca smoothed one hand down the dress, wondering why both Joanna and Emmanuelle had asked that. She nodded, color stealing into her face at having to make the confession. “He brought the dress to me.”
Emmanuelle’s smile widened. “But he hasn’t actually seen you in the dress, has he?” Her eyes met Joanna’s and they both burst out laughing.
Francesca wasn’t certain what the joke was. “Is something wrong with the way I look?” She couldn’t keep the anxiety out of her voice. She wanted to look good for Stefano or she wouldn’t have accepted the dress from him. It cost more than her weekly wages and it had been a little disconcerting to have him go out and buy her the club dress. She didn’t know why that seemed worse than pretending to believe he or his brother was responsible for losing her clothes and replacing them with much more expensive ones.
“No, Francesca,” Emmanuelle assured. “Nothing at all is wrong with the way you look. You’re absolutely beautiful and my brother is going to think so, too. It’s just that he can be . . . possessive of what is his.”
Francesca felt a jab to her stomach, hard enough that she hunched a little. The thought of Stefano being possessive toward other women really bothered her. She knew he had a history with women–beautiful women–but he’d told her that she was special to him. She really wished her self-esteem hadn’t taken such a beating and she didn’t constantly feel inadequate, worrying about Stefano and the beautiful women who had been in his life prior to her.
A limo awaited them, right in front of the hotel, the long sleek lines making Joanna squeal in glee. Francesca felt it was a little on the ostentatious side. She would never get used to the casual display of wealth and privilege. She slid into the vehicle after Joanna and Mario and discovered that two other women already occupied the leather seats. They were drinking red wine from elegant glasses. Both smiled at her, their gazes running over her dress and shoes automatically, as if they did a sweep of everyone they saw.
“Rigina and Rosina Greco, my cousins,” Emmanuelle introduced. “They are sisters of Renato and Romano. I think you’ve met their brothers.”
If she had, Francesca knew she wouldn’t be able to place them. She’d been introduced to too many people and some when she was being carried upside down in a sleeping bag through a murky apartment building. She smiled and nodded. The women looked like Ferraros. They carried themselves with that same enviable confidence.
“Wow, Francesca,” Rigina said. “I love your dress. It’s beautiful. It’s a Sophia original, isn’t it?”
Francesca had heard of the designer Sophia. She was renowned for her gowns and club wear. Her originals were fought over by her exclusive clientele. Francesca ran her hand down her dress, smoothing imaginary wrinkles, all the while her heart pounding. If this was really a Sophia original, it was worth three months or more of her salary. She should never have accepted it.
“It’s gorgeous,” Rosina added. “You look beautiful. I can’t wait to get inside the club and have Stefano catch his first sight of you in that dress. He’s going to go ballistic.”
Francesca frowned. “Why do you all keep saying that? Stefano wanted me to wear this dress. The last thing I want to do is embarrass him because it doesn’t look good on me. You have to tell me.” Her worried gaze found Joanna, her one real friend. If the others were making subtle fun of her, she was certain Joanna wouldn’t do that. She’d never allow her to go out in public and be humiliated.
Emmanuelle reached over and took her hand, squeezing it in reassurance. Joanna frowned and shook her head. Rosina looked upset.
“Francesca, you look absolutely beautiful in that dress,” Joanna said staunchly. “Gorgeous. Right, Mario?”
Francesca thought Joanna incredibly generous to have her boyfriend, the man she was really interested in, give Francesca compliments.
“I have to agree,” Mario said. “Beautiful.”
Emmanuelle nodded. “My brother has escorted countless women to clubs and he couldn’t care less what they looked like. Elegant or slut clothes didn’t much matter to him because if he was with a woman, it was for publicity purposes, like a charity event, or a hookup. He claims you for his own. For his woman. He’s made it clear to the family and to those in our neighborhood. He’ll make it clear to the world very soon. That’s why we’re all laughing a little. Stefano is not like most men. None of my brothers are. You’re his and he’ll watch over you and protect you every minute of every day. With you dressed like that, hotter than hell, he’s going to lose his mind, and we’re all going to enjoy watching it.”
Francesca liked some of what she’d said, was confused by other things and really didn’t like the reference to Stefano’s other women. She was going to have to gain some confidence in herself fast if she was really going to
try to have any kind of a relationship with Stefano Ferraro. He was in a world where confidence mattered. Was needed. She’d been beaten down so far by Barry Anthon, she could barely walk with her head up. Stefano deserved better than that.
Francesca wished she’d met Stefano before Cella had been murdered. She had been different then, carefree and happy. Confident in herself. He would have liked Cella. Francesca hoped he would have liked her, because that was the real Francesca, not this woman who had such low self-esteem, nightmares and was afraid of her own shadow.
She let the talk flow around her. Joanna and Mario accepted drinks happily, and she sipped on champagne. She loved to dance. Loved it. Dancing was one of her all-time favorite things to do. Her parents had put her in dance classes when she was very young; ballroom, Latin, swing–she’d learned it all. Not to mention the pole dancing she’d done as exercise in college. Cella had insisted that was the one splurge they would have after their parents’ deaths.
Francesca loved her sister for that sacrifice. It wasn’t like she was ever going to be a professional dancer, but still, Cella deemed those lessons important and she worked extra hours to pay for them. As soon as Francesca was old enough, she worked, cleaning houses, working at the deli, anything at all in order to help Cella with the bills.
The limo pulled up to the front of the club. Francesca was a little shocked when she saw the line of people trying to get in. It seemed to go on forever. She knew she would never have had the patience to wait in a line that long, especially if, like Joanna had said, there was a possibility that she’d be turned away once she reached the front.
“This is crazy, Jo,” she murmured.
Joanna squeezed her arm tightly as they all got out of the limo. “I can’t believe this. I feel like a princess arriving at the ball. Everyone’s staring, trying to catch a glimpse of us. They think we’re celebrities, Francesca.”
Emmanuelle suddenly moved, flowing across the short distance separating her from Francesca. She was elegant even in her body’s movement, like a ballet dancer. As she got to Francesca, she took her arm, turning her around toward the club. Emmanuelle’s body provided a shield as a dozen flashes went off.
“Keep walking. Stay between us all, in the middle,” Emmanuelle ordered, her voice low.
Emmanuelle’s hand was steady on Francesca’s back, pushing her gently toward the entrance. As they moved past the front of the line to the entrance, the bouncers unhooked the velvet ropes to allow them in. Francesca noticed that Emilio and Enzo fell in behind them. She had no idea where they came from, but suddenly they were walking with the small group of women, as if they’d always been with them.
The moment the doors to the club opened, Francesca could hear the pounding beat of the music. It was loud, impossible not to want to dance to and very trendy. The DJ was extremely popular, one who commanded all sorts of money, and yet stayed there in Chicago rather than moving to New York, where he would be given star status. There were several bars, each glowing a different color. Muted blues, reds, purples and greens pulsed to the music from the lights secreted in the bars. The bartenders were moving fast, bottles spinning in the air as they quickly made drinks for the customers pressing around the curved bars.
Francesca could feel the beat of the music already heating up her blood. They moved through the lower section in a tight group, Emilio and Enzo ensuring the crowd parted for them as they wound their way through the floor. Up a few stairs was the VIP section, where tables and booths guaranteed privacy. Even farther up were the very secluded tables and booths. Those were reserved for family and friends.
Emmanuelle led the way with absolute confidence. She clearly was the queen of the club. Deference was paid to her everywhere one looked. Nods. Smiles. Waves. She kept moving even when a few scantily clad women called out her name and stepped toward her. She was gracious, always replying, but she made it clear she was heading toward her own table.
A waitress followed them, ready to take their drink orders. There would be no queuing up to the bar for them. Francesca surveyed the room below her. It was exciting, the music already finding her pulse and beating there, calling her. Joanna was already swaying to the persistent call of the drum.
Emmanuelle sank into one of the plush seats, indicating the chair beside her to Francesca. “I have to join my brothers for a meeting in a few minutes, but I’ve got time for a drink. We’ve got cousins from New York here. Four of them. I noticed them on the dance floor when we walked in. They’ve already got women hanging on them. See that blonde down there?” She indicated a woman in a very short leather dress with cutouts on either side. The openings ran from her hips to under her arms. Her platinum hair was short and spiked.
“I see her.” Francesca frowned. The woman looked very familiar. “Where have I seen her before?”
“She’s a starlet. Plays in a drama on television and thinks every man in all the states wants to sleep with her. She’s totally after my cousin.”
“We call her the barracuda,” Rosina supplied.
Joanna giggled as she craned her neck, trying to peer into the dark crowd of moving bodies. “She’s got on five-inch heels. Wow. I don’t know if I could actually dance in five-inch heels.”
Francesca suddenly recognized her. Not from the television, but from a magazine Joanna had given her. “She was on page seventy-three. Hanging on Stefano’s arm.” She whispered it before she realized just what that admission gave away. Color moved up into her face.
The waitress was back, putting their drinks in front of them, confirming that the Ferraros didn’t have to wait for anything, not even their drinks. Francesca reached for hers and took a long drink as the woman hurried away. The Moscow Mule went down smoothly. She needed the alcohol to fortify her.
Emmanuelle leaned forward and put her hand over Francesca’s, stilling the fingers that had been drumming on the table. Francesca hadn’t even been aware she was so restless. Nervous. Jealous. Sheesh. How embarrassing in front of his sister and cousins.
“Stefano may have sowed his wild oats, but he’s done with that. I can guarantee that when my brother chooses a woman, he will be faithful to her. It’s for life.”
Francesca bit her lip to keep from laughing. There was nothing humorous about Emmanuelle’s statement, and yet it was laughable. “You can’t know that.”
“We live by a code. It’s a strict one, but we cling to honor. It’s just who and what we are. That can’t change.”
Francesca refused to look at her. Instead, she looked around the enormous room, where many, many women danced suggestively with partners. “So how many women right here in this club do you suppose Stefano has been with?” Her chin went up and she finally forced her head to turn toward Emmanuelle, her gaze meeting Stefano’s sister’s vivid blue eyes. “Would you say about half? Or am I being conservative?”
Why had she come? She knew better. She didn’t belong in this world of casual hookups. It wasn’t her. She didn’t understand it and she’d never be comfortable in it. She never would. It wasn’t as if she was a prude. Whenever Stefano touched her or kissed her, her body went up in flames. She would fall, just like all the women before her, but she wouldn’t chase him. Once he dumped her, she would disappear from his life. She had pride. She couldn’t very well judge the other women, not when she was going to be just as bad.
Still, she was being a total bitch. It wasn’t Emmanuelle’s fault that Stefano was a hound dog. A gorgeous one, but still a hound dog. She shook her head. “I just feel out of place here, and I think I’m taking it out on Stefano.”
“He can’t change his past, Francesca,” Emmanuelle stated quietly. “As much as he’d like to, he can’t change a thing. He never expected to have you.” Her eyes searched Francesca’s face. “He does have you, doesn’t he?”
For the first time Emmanuelle sounded vulnerable. Francesca’s heart jerked in her chest. She couldn’t look away from Emmanuelle’s blue eyes. She had that same ability as Stefano–the one that could capture and hold. It occurred to Francesca that Stefano’s sister was every bit as lethal as the male Ferraros.
“I don’t even know what he does for a living. I don’t
know him at all. This is all moving so fast I honestly can’t catch my breath.” She tried a tentative smile. “Your brother tends to steamroll right over a girl. He’s so wonderful. Beautiful. Everything that I’m not.”
Emmanuelle scowled at her. “Why in the world would you say that, Francesca? You obviously don’t see yourself the way the rest of the world does.” She looked up suddenly, her face instantly going expressionless in the way Stefano’s often did. She flashed a small, brief smile toward the trio of women who had mounted the stairs and invaded their private space.
“Doreen. Stella. Janice.” She gave a little nod, princess to peasant. “I had no idea the three of you were in town.”
Francesca twisted her fingers together in her lap. Rigina and Rosina both had gone silent. Joanna looked as if she might faint, and even Mario was staring with his mouth open. The three women were in a famous band. Hugely famous. They weren’t the kind of women one would just see walking up to them in a nightclub. Joanna clearly was pinching herself, grinning from ear to ear and practically bouncing on her seat.
Francesca recognized each of the women, all of whom Stefano had dated briefly. There had been several articles on the scandal. Will the band break up? Keeping it all in the family. There were many, many more. Stefano had quite publicly dated each of the women amid a flurry of torrid headlines.
“Emmanuelle.” Doreen nodded, her haughty look not quite as well done as Emmanuelle’s. “Stefano’s supposed to be here tonight, but we haven’t seen him.” The three women exchanged a long look and then laughed together. “We thought we’d show him a real good time,” she added, almost purring.
Francesca winced. This was what she’d be putting up with every time she went anywhere in Stefano’s circle. His women appeared to be legion and all of them were famous.
“Why fight over him and all three of us lose?” Janice added. “When we can share and all of us have him?”
“He’s man enough to go around.” Stella ran one finger down her clingy short dress. “We texted him last night that we’d be in town.”
Francesca felt the burn of tears. She’d been with Stefano and his phone had gone off so many times. Not once had she paid attention. Not once had she suspected women had been texting or calling him.
Doreen’s laughter was a mere tinkle that irritated Francesca. “We sent him a few pictures of what he could look forward to.” Again the three women exchanged a long sultry look and then burst into laughter.
That meant Stefano had their pictures on his phone. Francesca could well imagine what those pictures were like. The room was suddenly far too hot. Her lungs felt raw, burning, unable to drag in enough air. Her stomach churned and she pressed her hands tight to it, afraid she might throw up right there in front of all three of them.
The smile had died on Joanna’s face. She looked as if she’d been struck. She had fantasies about the Ferraro brothers and it didn’t include finding out they weren’t husband material.
Emmanuelle sighed. “When are the three of you going to get some pride? Stefano made it very clear that he was done with you last year. He doesn’t date. He doesn’t have relationships. That was made clear to you. Quit stalking him. That’s what it’s called when you won’t leave him alone.”
“How do you know we haven’t seen him in a year?” Stella sneered. “He wouldn’t want to tell his little sister what he’s been getting all this time.”
Francesca wanted to cover her ears. Could the evening get any worse? She didn’t think so. She needed to get out of there. Now. She looked around, trying to find a way to escape. Why had she believed she had a chance with Stefano? Could she have been any more ridiculous? She’d wanted to cling to him because he made her feel safe. Beautiful. Sexy. Wanted. Lord, but he could make her feel wanted.
“That’s so disgusting. He doesn’t want you, any of you, and certainly not the three of you together.” Emmanuelle poured contempt into her voice. She took a sip of her drink, looking more elegant than ever.
Suddenly the three women didn’t look nearly as beautiful and sophisticated as Francesca had first thought. They looked . . . skanky.
“You have no idea of his needs in the bedroom,” Doreen spat out, pure venom in her eyes. “You think you’re so high and mighty, Emmanuelle–you always have. We know what Stefano likes and we give it to him.”
Joanna’s gasp was audible. Doreen swung on her. “That’s right, Miss Mouse. Stefano is an adult, all male. Pure male. You could never hope to understand a man like that. None of you could.” She turned, whipping her hair around, and stormed down the steps, her two bandmates following.
Emmanuelle let out her breath in a little hiss of anger. “Well, that was unpleasant.” She leaned toward Francesca again. “You can’t believe the things they’re saying about my brother. They just aren’t true.”
“Of course they’re true,” Francesca said. “I saw his picture with each of them. He was with them. He had sex with them. There’s no taking that back, and last night when I was with Stefano, his phone kept going off. He would look at it, sometimes text and other times he’d shove it in his pocket. I thought he was getting requests for his help like he always does, but instead he was getting naked sex pictures.” She was ashamed of the little sob in her voice. “I have to get out of here.”
Emmanuelle put her hand on Francesca’s arm, staying her mad dash for freedom. “Don’t. At least talk to Stefano before you run. He deserves that much, doesn’t he?”
Francesca took a deep breath, her every instinct telling her to run while she could. Once Stefano was close to her, every brain cell she had seemed to short-circuit. She shook her head and picked up her drink again.
“I’ve got to attend a quick meeting,” Emmanuelle said with a little scowl. “I’ll send Stefano to you as fast as I can. I tell them meetings need to be conducted outside the club,” she added, trying to interject humor into the situation. “Inside is for fun. Drink and dance. You know, those fun things. I don’t think my brothers understand the concept.” Emmanuelle shook her head and drifted away.
Rigina threw her head back and laughed. “They think the only form of fun is a hot, willing babe.”
Francesca couldn’t stop her reaction to Rigina’s casual–but obviously true–remark. She stiffened, her fingers curling around the glass she held.
“Francesca.” Rosina’s voice was gentle, with an undercurrent of anxiety. “My sister didn’t mean anything by that. I hope you weren’t offended.”
Francesca threw her a casual smile that she knew didn’t reach her eyes. She took a longer drink. The combination of the ingredients always warmed her stomach and made her blood sing. She let the feeling sweep through her, wanting to get away from Stefano’s cousins and the implication in Rigina’s statement. They could try to take away the sting all they wanted, but she’d read the tabloids. She’d seen all the pictures of his women. So many of them. Tall. Beautiful. The thought of Stefano with them made her feel sick. Now she’d met them, and that made her even sicker, thinking of the things the three women were implying.
She wasn’t experienced or sophisticated. She didn’t belong in his crowd. Or with his family. She turned to Joanna with a bright, false smile. “You ready to dance? The music’s calling.”
Joanna had barely touched her drink and looked up, clearly to protest, but she took one look at Francesca’s face and immediately stood up. “Can’t wait.” She flashed her brilliant smile at Mario. “You coming or you want to drink a little first?”
“I came to dance, woman. I’m with you all the way,” Mario said, endearing him to Francesca. He was so the right man for Joanna.
“Francesca . . .” Rigina protested.
Francesca drank the rest of the Moscow Mule, and this time her smile bordered on desperate, but she couldn’t help it. “No worries, I’m great. I love to dance and the music is calling. If the waitress comes back will you order me another drink please?” Still smiling brightly she led the way down the steps to the crowded dance floor.
She didn’t want to think about anything at all. She found the rhythm of the music and let it transport her like it always had, to another place. The alcohol pounded through her veins, heating her from the inside out. There was only her body and the music. Nothing else. No one else. No Stefano with his gorgeous body and smoldering sensuality that made her so incredibly hungry for him she couldn’t think straight when she was around him.
Two songs later, she became of aware of a man joining them. He seemed to know both Joanna and Mario, slapping him on the back and greeting Joanna with a kiss. He looked toward Francesca expectantly.
“My friend Dominic,” Mario said loudly, trying to be heard above the music. “Dominic, our friend Francesca.”
Dominic grinned at her, his body moving in close, matching the rhythm of hers with ease. She recognized a trained dancer when she saw one, probably in Latin and ballroom as she’d been. He leaned toward her, one hand sliding onto her hip. Just barely there, but connecting them. “You know how to dance.”
She was pleased that someone actually recognized that she could. She nodded, barely able to hear him over the pounding music. He immediately reached for her hand and took her through a series of salsa steps. The music was fast but the beat was perfect for a salsa. She matched him no problem and he instantly took her close to his body, moving her into more intricate and very sexy steps. She lost herself like she always did, the music flowing through her, her body giving itself up to the beat.
Dominic’s lead was confident and strong, just the kind she preferred in a partner, and she moved with him, even when the music slowed and he drew her close into a tight frame. He was a couple of inches taller than she was and he bent his head close to speak directly in her ear.
“You’re very good. I haven’t had a dance partner like you ever. Where in the world did Mario and Joanna find you?”
She tried not to stiffen. She didn’t like personal questions. “Joanna and I went to school together.”
His hand slid down her waist to the curve of her hip. She felt that slide and it sent alarm bells ringing as he tightened his hold on her.
”
My lucky night,” he observed, his hand sliding lower until it rested right on the cheek of her butt.
She dropped her own hand and moved his. “You don’t know me that well.”
He laughed softly. “Not yet, but I intend to.”
Emilio loomed over his shoulder, looking grim. Huge. Unhappy. He tapped Dominic on the shoulder and jerked his thumb off to the side. Dominic instantly looked angry, but he stepped away from Emilio.
Francesca turned into Emilio’s arms, smiling up at him, relieved in spite of the fact that she knew why he was there. He moved his foot and stepped right onto hers. She bit back a sharp little cry of pain and made a face at him until he realized what he’d done and lifted his big foot away. He didn’t dance, just swayed. It was a far cry from the man who had so perfectly matched steps with her.
“Is there a reason you interrupted my perfectly wonderful dance with that gentleman, or did you just want to step all over my feet?” She had to look up at him and raise her voice over the music. The rhythm was slower, and a little mellower, but it was still loud.
Emilio leaned down, very close, putting his mouth against her ear. He actually hissed his disapproval. “For fuck’s sake, Francesca, are you trying to get someone killed? What are thinking, dancing with another man?”
Francesca matched his scowl. “What other man? I danced with one man and he was a superb dancer. You cut in and stepped on my toes. I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but I prefer his dancing style to yours.”
Without warning, a hard hand shackled her wrist and Stefano yanked her away from Emilio and into his arms. “What did I tell you about other men touching you?” he snapped.
She glared at him, struggling to put an inch or two between their bodies, but it was impossible. The more she fought to get free, the tighter he held her.
“Stop fighting me or we’re going to have a very public scene. There are paparazzi in here and I can guarantee we’re already on their radar.”
His anger was palatable. Intense. Surrounding her with heat and fire. Still, as upset with him as she was, her body reacted, flooding her with need. She kept her face down, refusing to look at him even when she subsided, forcing herself to relax into the warmth of his body.
“Now tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing.”
Even with her giving him what he wanted and letting him hold her close, his anger hadn’t lessened in the least. That spiked her own temper. “I wasn’t arranging to have sex with three men, if that’s what you thought. Your little harem is here, waiting for you.”
“Damn it, Francesca, we talked about this. I can’t change who I fucked. I told you that was in the past and you have to accept that, because as much as I would like to have been different, I’m not a magician. There isn’t any taking it back.”
“Is that what you like? What they said? All three of them at once?” She hissed the query through clenched teeth, her heart pounding out of control.
