Francesca made her way to the restrooms without looking at Stefano. It was easy enough because she was so close to him she could feel his heat right through his immaculate and extremely expensive pin-striped suit. He was annoying her with his bossy ways, but not enough for her to start a fight over it. She was far too mellow with her three Moscow Mules, the music, and the feel and smell of Stefano Ferraro.
“What’s up with the suits?” she murmured, running her hand inside his jacket so she could feel the quality of his impressive dark shirt. “You and all your brothers wear them, your sister does and now your cousins. But not all your cousins. They all wear suits, just not pin-striped suits.”
Stefano hesitated. Just slightly, but it was enough of a hesitation that she noticed it and she stopped, forcing him to stop right along with her. Only then did she realize that the party had accompanied them. They were surrounded by his brothers and cousins, including Emilio and Enzo. She was once again in the center, as if they were all guarding her.
“Stefano?” Her voice trembled a little. Suddenly, from feeling safe and protected, she feared maybe there was a reason they were all surrounding her. Was it because they’d confirmed that the man staring at her at the deli had been sent by Barry Anthon? She’d continued to work and he hadn’t returned, nor had anyone else shown up.
“I’ll explain about the suits at home, bambina.” His voice was gentle, once again obviously reading her mood, but not the reason why.
She looked around the circle of tough, handsome faces and found herself pressing closer to Stefano. “Is something wrong? Did Barry . . .”
“No.” He was emphatic. “We’re just watching over you your first time out in a public venue when the paparazzi are here. We try to keep them out, but cameras are everywhere.”
For the first time, she detected a lie. They hadn’t tried to keep the paparazzi out. Why would that be? And why would Stefano lie about that when he clearly hadn’t lied about anything else? She didn’t understand his world. It was filled with intrigue and danger. More, she feared it was filled with violence.
She studied his face, taking her time. Letting him see her trepidation. He was so beautiful to her. The planes and angles of his face, so absolutely masculine. He looked like a man, not a boy. There wasn’t softness to his features, yet he still looked model perfect to her. The long sweep of his eyelashes and deep blue of his eyes, the shadow on his strong jaw, his straight aristocratic nose and especially his mouth, that sinful, amazing mouth that gave her so many fantasies–all together were perfection.
His fingers curled around the nape of her neck and he bent his head until his forehead touched hers and he was staring into her eyes. “You gave me you, Francesca. Give me your trust.”
She went up on tiptoes and put her mouth to his ear. “You just told me a lie about the paparazzi, Stefano. You wanted them here.”
She expected him to be upset that she caught his lie, but instead he looked inexplicably pleased and proud of her. “We’ll sort out your questions in time. For now, bella, just trust me.”
She took a breath. Inhaled him right through her nose, her mouth, her very pores until she was taking him deep into her body. He had wound himself so tightly around her bones and heart that she knew she would never get him out. She just nodded, because she was incapable of speech. Her heart beat a weirdly frantic tattoo and blood thundered in her ears so loud she couldn’t hear anything but her own driving need. She touched her tongue to her bottom lip. His face was so close, the tip of her tongue touched his lip as well.
“Bambina, right now, go into the restroom while you still can. When you come out, we’ll dance and then I’m going to take you home and fuck you all night.” He whispered the promise against her lips and it felt like he was already doing just that.
Her sex clenched and went damp. Her nipples tightened. Her breathing went ragged. He lifted his forehead from hers and turned her toward the restroom. She wasn’t entirely certain she could take those last few steps to the entrance on her wobbly legs, but she managed, slipping into a stall and closing her eyes, savoring the way Stefano could make her feel with just a few words.
Perversely, she even liked him bossy when he was telling her what to do sometimes. She liked that he was decisive, confident and willing to take charge. She supposed when she was thinking about other things besides sex that might make her a little crazy, but right now, that was part of the chemistry.
To her dismay, when she emerged to wash her hands, the three blondes were there. Janice, in her venomous glory, was leaning down to sniff a line of cocaine right off the sink. Francesca raised an eyebrow but said nothing, going to the opposite end of the sink to the last basin.
Doreen nudged Stella. “Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes is giving us the shocked eye.”
Francesca swept her gaze over the three women coolly. “Not shocked, just a little horrified. That can’t be too sanitary.”
“Sanitary?” Janice straightened, rubbing her nose to get the white powder clinging there off. “You’re going home with Stefano Ferraro and you want to talk sanitary? Do you really think a little virginal thing like you is going to hold a man like that for more than one night? He likes spice, honey. He likes a woman to know what she’s doing in his bed. You don’t look like you know your way around a cock without a diagram.”
The three women erupted into crude laughter. Francesca took the warm towel from the attendant, who met her eyes just for a moment, sympathy plain there. Maybe even a show of support. That quick, with just one brief moment taking her eyes off the other women, Doreen stepped behind her, her arms whipping around Francesca, holding her in place.
A toilet flushed in one of the stalls. Stella called out, stepping in close to Francesca. “Stay in the stall, bitch, unless you want to get hurt. You”–she indicated the attendant–“go find somewhere else to be.”
Francesca forced herself to remain calm, when her temper was rising at an alarming rate. “Are you kidding me right now? You’re grown women. You have careers. This is absolutely ridiculous. Doreen, let go of me.”
“We’re going to see how much Stefano likes his little virgin when he sees she’s really a coke whore,” Janice snarled, her eyes so narrow they appeared to be twin bright slits.
Doreen tried to push Francesca forward toward the sink and when Francesca resisted, Stella joined forces, shoving hard. Francesca was horrified. It had never occurred to her that three successful women, all grown and supposedly sophisticated and elegant, would resort to such childish and criminal assault. She realized they really meant it; they were going to push her face into the cocaine Janice had smeared on the sink. She slammed her heel hard into Doreen’s shin, scraped down it so that she tore Doreen’s stockings and stomped hard on her foot.
Doreen screamed out a string of ugly curses and flung Francesca forward into the sink. Francesca hit hard against the marble, but she spun around before Stella could push her face into the white powder. Janice shoved her open hand into Francesca’s face in an attempt to coat Francesca’s nose and mouth with the drug.
Suddenly Janice was dragged backward and Emmanuelle was there, moving so fast she seemed a blur of motion, barely discernible as she smoothly and efficiently dispatched all three women, using her hands and feet. One moment they were all standing and the next they were on the floor, faces swelling and bloody. All three cried, makeup running down their faces. Emmanuelle stood over them, contempt on her face, her body posture threatening. She looked every inch a Ferraro–a woman no one would ever want to mess with.
“Are you okay, Francesca?” In spite of her clear threat toward the three women trying to push themselves up onto their hands and knees, she appeared as calm and relaxed as ever.
“Yes. They didn’t hurt me.”
“Stay still,” Emmanuelle hissed, nudging Janice with her foo
t. “You just tried to drug my future sister-in-law. She’s Stefano’s fiancee. What do you think he’s going to do when he finds out what you’ve done?”
The faces turned up toward them went very pale. Doreen began to cry. The three of them made no move to get off the floor, obeying Emmanuelle’s directive.
Francesca checked her face in the mirror to make certain there was no trace of the white powder. “I’m fine. We don’t need to share this with Stefano.”
“Yes, we do,” Emmanuelle said firmly. “You can never keep anything from Stefano. Never, Francesca. Especially when you’ve received threats. The slightest threat needs to be shared with the family.”
Francesca took a breath. Emmanuelle was saying much more than what appeared on the surface of her admonishment, but what it was, Francesca had no idea. Still, in spite of the fact that Emmanuelle was very small, even shorter than Francesca, she appeared a woman of sheer steel.
Slowly, Francesca nodded. “Let me tell him.”
Emmanuelle gave her a look. “You’ll give him a lame version, and that’s not going to fly, Francesca. What they tried to do to you was criminal. You could have been seriously hurt. All because they were jealous.” She toed Janice with her Jimmy Choo sandal. “You’re going to lose everything, you skank. Your money, your career, your friends, everything. He would never have dated you, any of you, not in a million years.” She poured contempt into her voice. “Trying to harm Francesca because she’s everything you’re not is just plain stupid.”
“Emmanuelle,” Francesca intervened softly. Emmanuelle had the Ferraro trait of being intimidating. “Let’s go.”
Emmanuelle looked as if she wanted to start with physical violence all over again, but she stalked to the sink and washed her hands, smiling sweetly at the attendant and then pushing a large tip into her hands. She caught Francesca’s arm and they left the restroom, the three women still on the floor, afraid to move, afraid of going against Emmanuelle’s orders before she left the room.
Uneasiness crept into Francesca’s mind. The three women were terrified of Emmanuelle–or at least of the threats she made.
“Stefano can’t really wreck their careers, can he?” she asked, already afraid she knew the answer.
Emmanuelle just leveled a look at her. Francesca’s heart lurched and then began to pound. The moment they had taken four steps out of the restroom and Stefano got a look at her, he claimed her, taking her hand and pulling her into the shelter of his body. His hand swept over her hair in a little caress.
“What happened?”
He chose to look to his sister for an explanation rather than to Francesca. Her temper flared. “Seriously, Stefano? Your skanky women tried to assault me–that’s what happened.”
She was rather shocked at the instant reaction. The crowd of his brothers and cousins went silent. Ricco in particular looked horrified. His gaze met Stefano’s over her head.
All of them reflected the same emotions. All of them. The brothers and cousins. Shock. Anger. The collective rage was so strong it was difficult to breathe with the violent tension filling the air. Stefano looked like thunder, a dark storm gathering in his vivid blue eyes. Stefano actually made to move past her, heading toward the restrooms, his face reflecting his rage.
“I’m all right.” Francesca caught his arm, halting him, hastening to reiterate. “Emmanuelle came along and went all superwoman on them.”
“What exactly did these women try to do to you?” He bit out each word between clenched white teeth, all the while smoldering with fury.
She swallowed down the truth and went for a less dramatic version. “They had the idea that if I had a little of their cocaine on my face you’d not find me so attractive.”
Emmanuelle coughed delicately behind her hand. Francesca glared at Stefano’s sister, giving her a wide-eyed plea after. Francesca couldn’t believe how angry the Ferraro clan was over the incident, and she feared for the three women when they emerged from the restrooms. Emmanuelle had already beaten them up. Aside from pressing criminal charges, which Francesca wouldn’t do–she was never going to the police again–there wasn’t much else to be done.
“I said exactly.” Stefano caught her chin and tilted her face up toward his, his blue gaze inspecting every inch of her, looking for damage. “Exactly.”
There was no getting around Stefano in this mood, or the others for that matter. They had sucked all the breathable air available and left behind a heavy layer of oppressive anger. “The three of them, Janice, Doreen and Stella, seem very upset that you aren’t continuing your relationship with them. They were in the restroom doing a little pick-me-up cocaine right off the bathroom sink, which has to be totally unsanitary . . .”
“Francesca. Dios, woman, you are making me crazy. Just tell me.”
Someone snickered. She thought it was Vittorio and she was grateful to him for lightening the mood because the air became a bit less oppressive and she felt like she could actually breathe.
“Their idea was to smash my face in the powder. Doreen grabbed me from behind and Stella helped her. Janice tried to rub the coke into my nose and mouth.” She rushed the story, hoping by telling it really fast, no one would actually hear the panic in her voice–the panic she had refused to feel when the three women had attempted to assault her.
Stefano cursed loud and long, first in Italian–and he was very inventive–and then in English–and he was very expressive.
“I believe these women reside in New York,” Salvatore stated, his voice implying all sorts of things that scared Francesca.
Her gaze jumped to his face. “Emmanuelle took care of it,” she reminded softly. “She beat the crap out of them.”
Stefano shook his head. “No one touches you, Francesca. Not ever. The three of them won’t have a fucking thing left when we get through with them.” His hands ran over her, as if inspecting for damage. “Fucking bitches. They knew the score. They wanted publicity, and they got it. They’ll be getting more than they can ever handle now.”
He looked at his cousin Enzo and nodded. Just once, but Francesca was certain Stefano was giving his cousin an order. Enzo walked a distance away, punched in a number and put his cell phone to his ear.
Stefano curled his palm around the nape of Francesca’s neck. “I haven’t been with any of them for over a year.”
“But they kept trying,” Francesca pointed out. “The first night I was in your apartment, they called you. Sent you pictures.”
“Mostly Janice. She was the worst of them. I should have known it was a mistake to hook up with her.”
Francesca winced and looked down at her hands. This was all too much for her. Life in the fast lane wasn’t for her. She wasn’t in their league with their fast hookups and casual sex. She didn’t work like that. The music pounded a beat in her head. The lights moved in a variety of colors throughout the room. Bodies swayed or danced to the beat while the sound of conversation and ice clinking in glasses felt like shards of glass pressing into her head. Why had she ever thought she had a chance with a man like Stefano Ferraro? It hurt to think of him with women like Doreen, Stella and Janice. It didn’t lessen the hurt because the encounters were casual.
“Il mio piccola bella amore, I can’t change the past as much as I’d like to,” he said softly. “I can only tell you that you have my future. Only you.”
He said it out loud. Right in front of his family. His blue eyes held hers captive and she couldn’t help but read the sincerity there or hear the honesty in his voice.
“I’m sorry these women tried to hurt you, dolce cuore. I’ll take care of it. You need a female bodyguard to accompany you into dressing rooms and restrooms, Francesca. I’ll get on that immediately. Emilio and Enzo have a sister, Enrica . . .”
“No.” She shook her head. “I’m not going to have a bodyguard. I won’t, Stefano, and there’s not a single thing you can say that will change my mind.”
His eyebrow went up and his mouth settled into a hard line. “It’s a matter of your safety, Francesca,” he reminded quietly.
He didn’t argue, she remembered. She sighed. “Let’s just drop it, Stefano. The three of them are hiding out in the restroom and probably will remain there until we leave.”
Stefano shook his head, looked to Emilio and Enzo, who was back. “The police have been called.”
She went white. She knew she did. She felt the color draining from her face and she shook her head adamantly. “No. I don’t want to make out a report or bring charges against them. I won’t talk to the police, Stefano, not ever again.”
Salvatore’s white teeth flashed and he nodded approvingly. “Good girl. This is a family matter. We don’t talk to the police–not ever.”
She didn’t understand what he meant by that, because already she could hear sirens above the music, which meant the police were right outside. Enzo must have called them on Stefano’s orders.
“You aren’t going to press charges, Francesca,” Stefano said gently. “The police have been notified that the attendant in the ladies’ room observed three women using and selling cocaine in large amounts. The police will find plenty of evidence to back this charge up. No one will mention an assault, especially not Janice, Stella or Doreen. They can kiss their careers good-bye.”
Her hand went defensively to her throat as bouncers escorted six police officers along the edge of the dance floor back toward the ladies’ room. Ricco, at Stefano’s nod, followed Emilio and Enzo, she guessed to represent the Ferraro family as owners.
“Stefano, actresses and actors and singers tend to do better whether publicity is negative or positive.”
“Not in this case. My family has an investment in several entertainment fields, including their record label. Every contract has a clause for certain types of behavior. It’s never exercised, but it’s there in case it’s needed.”
She frowned, realizing he was serious. He’d have the women arrested on drug charges. She knew they were guilty of using and if they had a large supply, they very well could be guilty of selling. “Shouldn’t being arrested and having to defend themselves in court be enough karma for them?”
“No.”
Every brother and cousin as
well as Emmanuelle replied at the same time. She could see the paparazzi were already moving into position to get pictures of whatever scandal was happening at the club. The circle of men tightened around her and Emmanuelle as the police brought out the three singers and flashes went off like mad. Most of those dancing on the floor turned to watch the three women being escorted out.
Janice, Stella and Doreen looked terrible. Their makeup was smeared all over their faces and they looked as if they’d been partying for hours, vomiting and sleeping on the bathroom floor, plus they looked bruised, with swollen faces from Emmanuelle kicking their asses. The photographs that would appear in the magazines were not going to be flattering in the least.
Francesca couldn’t help the little pang of pity. “Maybe we should . . .”
“Enough, bambina. They’re getting what they asked for. They would have forced drugs on you and painted you in a light that was far from flattering.”
“I’ve been painted in that light for a long time, Stefano.”
He took her hand and tugged her close to him. “I believe I owe you a dance or two.”
“Uh-oh, Stefano,” Ricco said. “At your five o’clock.”
Beside her, Francesca felt Emmanuelle stiffen. She reached out without thinking and took Stefano’s sister’s hand. She had no idea why. Emmanuelle oozed confidence and poise. Nothing seemed to shake her–until now. The tension surrounding the brothers and cousins shot right back up until it stretched to a breaking point. Carefully, mostly because Emmanuelle’s fingers tightened around hers as if she was a lifeline, Francesca turned her head in the direction of five o’clock.
A tall, very handsome man emerged from the crowd, striding toward them. He had broad shoulders and very dark, nearly black hair spilling down his forehead into vivid green eyes. He wore a white shirt and expensive dark slacks. A second man kept pace with him, a little shorter and clearly arrogant. He moved with the fluid motion of a boxer and the crowd parted for him.
“Valentino Saldi and his cousin Dario Bosco,” Vittorio identified. “Son of a bitch, what would they be doing here?”
Stefano shrugged. “Apparently Tidwell got his throat cut tonight right in the middle of Giuseppi’s home. Giuseppi must not have believed me when I told him we were having a celebration tonight and I was nowhere near his house.”
The brothers grinned at one another, exchanging smug looks with their cousins. Francesca’s heart gave another hard jerk. She was missing something important, but already the men had schooled their faces into their expressionless masks.
“Who the hell is Tidwell?” Salvatore asked.
“He was Francesca’s landlord,” Emmanuelle explained. “I told you about what a pervert he was, remember?”
“Pure slime. He was staying at Giuseppi Saldi’s house. Giuseppi’s nephew is married to Tidwell’s aunt. They both were staying there for protection–can you believe it–from us,” Stefano explained. “She claimed she was swimming in the pool and he was in a lounger right beside it. The pool is indoors and right smack in the center of Saldi’s house. When the aunt emerged from the pool, there was her nephew dead, throat cut and no one heard or saw a thing. I guess they sent Valentino to the club to check our alibis.”
“That’s horrible,” Francesca said. She couldn’t really conjure up much distress, not when the man had raped women and had planned to rape her. Still, she felt sorry for his aunt.
Stefano swept his hand down Francesca’s back in a caress meant to comfort. “If you prefer not to endure the stench of all things Saldi,” he said to his cousins from New York, “you don’t have to stick around for introductions.”
“We’d prefer to stay,” Salvatore declared.
Francesca expected Emmanuelle to drop her hand, but she didn’t. If anything she moved a little closer to Francesca as if for protection. Francesca didn’t get it, not with all her brothers and cousins towering over them, but she shifted her body subtly to bring herself just in front of Emmanuelle, partially blocking her from the newcomer’s sight.
“Stefano,” Valentino said, walking right up to the group, showing no fear or hesitation. “My uncle told me you were having a party, but he didn’t say what you were celebrating tonight.” His sharp gaze took in the strangers from New York as well as Francesca, before coming to rest on Emmanuelle. “I see you even let the little princess out tonight. I wouldn’t have thought she was old enough for a nightclub.”
“Bite me, Val,” Emmanuelle snapped.
“Anytime, Emme.” Valentino ignored the way her brothers shifted closer. “Just say when and where.” Even in the dark it was easy to see the way his gaze drifted insolently from her head to her toes, taking in every detail. “I can see you’re hurting for money, babe. You couldn’t afford an entire dress tonight? Stefano, you should help the poor girl out.”
“Are you always so rude?” Francesca demanded, mostly because Emmanuelle’s fingers bit so deep into her hand she was afraid her bones would break. She would never have guessed that anyone could upset Emmanuelle with a few nasty comments.
Stefano instantly shifted his body, thrusting Francesca behind him. The brothers closed in from either side and behind her, forming a solid wall between the two women and Valentino Saldi.
“Why do you do that, Val?” Stefano asked. “Why pick on a woman? I don’t get it, but then I never have.”
Valentino shrugged. “Emme always rubs me the wrong way. I don’t know why, but I’ll apologize if that’s what you want.”
“Not me,” Emmanuelle said. “It wouldn’t be sincere anyway, so what’s the point? Just go away. We’re celebrating my brother’s engagement.”
The bottom fell out of Francesca’s stomach. Right. To. The. Floor. She was suddenly on a runaway train with no way to jump off. Valentino’s gaze jumped to her face. He looked genuinely shocked. “Engagement? Stefano?” He recovered quickly enough, smiling gallantly. “Congratulations, Stefano. I’m happy for you.”
Strangely, in that moment, Valentino Saldi sounded sincere. His voice rang with honesty. There was no mistaking it.
“Francesca, Valentino Saldi and his cousin Dario Bosco,” Stefano introduced with more than a little charm, but he didn’t move, preventing the two men from getting close to her.
Dario nodded abruptly. Valentino’s smile crept into his eyes. “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable, Francesca, and that’s a genuine apology. Stefano’s a lucky man. Emmanuelle, one dance before I go.” It wasn’t a request. He sounded every bit as arrogant and bossy as Stefano.
Francesca was certain Emmanuelle would tell him to go to hell. Her brothers and cousins all bristled, making it clear from the swell of anger vibrating around them that they weren’t happy with the order. Emmanuelle hesitated, but then her fingers loosened the death grip around Francesca’s hand and she stepped out from behind her family.
Valentino held out his hand. Francesca inhaled sharply as Emmanuelle put her much smaller hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. Dario followed his cousin, keeping pace right behind him, clearly acting the part of a bodyguard.
“Why the hell does she do that?” Taviano demanded. “Every. Damn. Time. She lets that bastard order her around.”
“She’s defusing the situation,” Vittorio said. “It works.”
“It only works because he has our sister in his hands and we can’t beat the holy hell out of him,” Giovanni said.
Stefano tugged at Francesca’s hand and she went with him onto the dance floor. The others followed, each catching up the hand of a woman as they passed her. Francesca felt sorry for the ladies dancing with the Ferraro family. The women were thrilled, but she knew the brothers and cousins had only taken to the dance floor to surround Emmanuelle and Valentino in a show of strength. Emmanuelle had her head resting against Valentino’s broad chest, her eyes closed as they moved in perfect rhythm to the music.
Francesca loved dancing. She’d always felt the music intensely, heard every instrument individually and then together to form, with her body, a perfect harmony. Adding Stefano to the equation only amplified the feeling. She’d danced with partners, but none felt a perfect match in the way she felt with Stefano, as if the two of them shared the same blood running through their ve
ins, shared their skin and bones. Desire rose, sharp and intense, until she drifted, caught in his spell–caught by the rising tide of lust and passion that surrounded her, that consumed her.
Francesca nuzzled Stefano’s chest, breathing him in, that scent unique to him that filled her lungs and surrounded her heart. She wasn’t certain how he’d managed to penetrate her armor and gain her trust, but he had. She had questions, but the answers didn’t seem to matter when she was close to him. She had to believe that he was real, that he was innately good, because it was already too late for her. If he wasn’t as he seemed, if what was building between them wasn’t real for him, she wasn’t certain how she would survive.
His hand slid down her back, following the curve of her spine along the seam of her dress. She was acutely aware of his body, pressed so tightly against hers. His erection was hard and unashamed, a long, thick reminder of his need to possess her, burning a brand against her ribs, nearly nestling between her breasts. She shivered as his hand caressed her through the thin material of her dress. She felt every tiny movement, his muscles rippling beneath his elegant clothes, his breath against her hair, when he turned his head, the way his lips brushed against her temple. His hand slipped lower, to her thigh and his fingers began to write his name on her bare skin, branding her–his.
She’d never felt so alive, every nerve ending in her body on fire. Her breasts ached, her nipples hard little peaks, rubbing against him as they moved in perfect synchronization. Her body coiled tighter and tighter until she wanted to weep with a need for release. A fire built, roaring now, between her legs. Her panties were damp and all she could think about was his fingers so close to where her clit throbbed and burned for his touch.
She heard a small, strangled moan escape. She needed relief desperately. She needed his mouth on hers. His hands on her. Fingers in her. And his cock, so hot, so thick and demanding–she needed that most of all.
“Stefano.” She whispered his name, knowing she was pleading, but she didn’t care.
“Me, too, amore. We’ll get out of here as soon as possible.”
She loved that she wasn’t the only one. That he felt the same desperation. She tilted her face upward to look at him, needing to see the raw desire stamped there. Needing to know his need was as great as her own. What she saw there made her breath catch in her throat. His hard features were stamped with absolute possession, with an urgency and passion she knew she couldn’t yet compete with. That only brought on a fresh flood of liquid heat.
He took her mouth. Abruptly. Almost savagely. His tongue was demanding, not giving her a chance to catch up; he just swept her away on that tidal wave of sheer feeling. She couldn’t think and didn’t want to. There was only her body and his. Moving together with the music flowing through them, binding them together with fire, need and the symphony of sound.
He kissed her again and again until she thought she might faint with absolute hunger. She didn’t know a man’s mouth could be so ravenous. She didn’t know his cock could be so hard or his arms so strong, his body like steel. She didn’t know his taste would be so addicting or that he could wipe out every sane thought and replace it with sheer, absolute need.
Her blood thundered in her ears, the beat matching the drum in the song. The beat pulsed in her clit, the clenching in her sex following the persistent clenching of her inner muscles and the spasm that accompanied every touch of Stefano’s fingers.
“I’ve got to have you, Francesca. Be inside you. Right. Fucking. Now.” He breathed the words into her mouth. Darkly sensual. His eyes hooded. Hungry.
The terrible tension coiled tighter. “Let’s leave. Just go,” she whispered back. Embarrassed that her need of him was so strong she would have let him have her right there in that club, somewhere dark, against the wall, on the floor; it didn’t matter as long as he was filling her, taking away the ache that had built into a terrible conflagration.
“We’ll go, dolce cuore, in another minute. I’ve got to get myself under control.”
She wasn’t certain she wanted him under control, but she liked that he needed to get himself that way. That meant he was every bit as affected as she was. They moved together on the dance floor, Stefano using the music to guide her closer to an exit.
She suddenly felt uneasy, coming out of the cocoon Stefano had woven around her. She blinked, keeping her cheek pressed to his chest, right over his heart, but she looked around the darkened room. Stefano’s hand stroked the back of her thigh, high, under her dress, and she was acutely aware of the pads of his fingers against her bare skin. He traced letters, his name, there as well. This time his fingertips slid along the seam of her cheeks and thigh, right where they met, rubbing caresses, continuing to build that terrible, needy ache.
She moistened her lips, her gaze moving around the other dancers, aware suddenly that they weren’t alone. She’d been so deep into the sexual web Stefano drew over her that she’d forgotten where they were–that they were surrounded. Those dancing close were his family members, keeping their backs to Stefano, but very close so that no one else could penetrate that circle.
Valentino Saldi had disappeared and Emmanuelle was dancing with a man she didn’t know. Joanna and Mario were all over each other, Joanna looking flushed and happy some distance away. The strange uneasiness grew stronger in Francesca, in spite of the fact that no one seemed to be paying the least bit of attention to Stefano or her. She was grateful, because she was letting him touch her very inappropriately for their surroundings. She should have stopped him, but she felt as if she needed his touch on her bare skin just to survive.
She looked carefully around the crowd again, and her gaze met a man dancing very close to the exit Stefano guided her toward. A shiver went down her spine. He was dressed in very nice clothes, his hair falling around his face. He held a woman in his arms, but she could tell he barely noticed her. It was the same man she’d seen in Petrov’s Pizzeria. It was the same man who had stood outside Masci’s Deli and had drawn a finger across his throat in a gesture meant to frighten her. He was a distance away, but she felt his malevolence toward her. Suddenly she wasn’t so certain Barry Anthon had sent him.
“What’s wrong?” Stefano stopped on the dance floor, his hand going under her chin to lift her face so he could look at her.
Her gaze slid to his and then she turned her head to look back toward the man. The crowd of dancers had come between them and when they moved to the music, providing gaps, he wasn’t there. She shivered again. If she told Stefano he’d turn the place upside down looking for the man.
Francesca pressed herself tighter against Stefano. “Take me out of here. I want to be alone with you.” It was the truth. The stark honesty would be impossible to miss. The need and rising hunger in her was just as plain as the honesty but she didn’t care if she was blatantly throwing herself at him. She needed Stefano Ferraro, even if she could only have him for a short time–before everything bad in her life caught up with her–and it would. She wanted as much time with Stefano as possible before that happened.
