"I told you." Joanna flashed a grin, caught her arm and tugged her through the crowd to the window on the far side opposite the door. "We can wait here until Tio Pietro has a couple of minutes."
Francesca didn't think he was going to be free anytime soon. Now all the smells blended together, making her feel nauseous. She didn't want to throw up right there in his deli. She was fairly certain that wouldn't get her the job, but her stomach was so empty.
Her lungs burned from holding her breath, waiting for Joanna's uncle to get free enough to come interview her. Joanna had promised her the job. Francesca had spent nearly every cent she had - the money she'd borrowed from Joanna - getting to Chicago and into the tiny apartment right on the very edge of Little Italy. She had nothing left for food or clothing. She had to get this job. She could survive another week if she was very, very careful, but not much longer. She'd be living on the street with Dina, the homeless woman. She'd done that once already and it wasn't fun. Truthfully, she wasn't altogether certain that her apartment was better than the street. Still, it had a roof.
Francesca couldn't stop shivering, no matter how hard she tried. The cold was biting and penetrated right to the bone. It didn't help that after the wild storm there were puddles everywhere, impossible to avoid, and her shoes and socks were soaking wet. The soles were thin and the water had easily gotten inside her shoes. Not only were her feet wet, but her toes were numb.
Still, if she got the job, this was the perfect place for her. The neighborhood was small. Everything was in walking distance. She didn't own a car, or anything else for that matter. She was starting over, determined to rise from the ashes like a phoenix. But seriously, if Pietro didn't hurry up, she'd be on the floor soon.
If she didn't need food and to warm up so bad, she would have been happy with the evidence that the store was popular as a small specialty grocery store and sandwich shop. Clearly Pietro needed help. She could handle a cash register, no problem. She could make sandwiches. She'd held a job in a deli while putting herself through school and she was certain this would be a piece of cake.
The door opened and a blast of cold air swept into the shop, chilling her further. She turned her head and froze. She had never in her life seen a man more gorgeous or more dangerous. He was tall, broad-shouldered, tough as nails and totally ripped. His hair was jet black and seemed messy, but artfully so, as if even his hair refused to disobey him.
He wore a three-piece dark charcoal pinstriped suit that had to have been tailor-made in Italy or France and looked to be worth a fortune. His tie was a darker gray to match the thin stripes in his suit and was worn over a lighter shade of charcoal shirt. He wore butter-soft gloves and a long, dark cashmere overcoat. Even the shoes on his feet looked like he'd paid a fortune for them. He made her acutely aware of her shabby clothes.
She wasn't the only one who noticed him. The moment he entered, all chatter in the shop ceased. Completely. No one so much as whispered. No one moved, as if they were all frozen in place. Pietro came to attention. Beside her, Joanna took a deep breath. The atmosphere in the store went from friendly chatter and light-hearted gossip to one of danger.
His face was carved in masculine lines and set in stone. He had a strong jaw covered by a dark shadow. He was easily the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen. His eyes were such an intense blue she almost didn't believe they were natural. The blue eyes swept the room, taking in everything and everyone. She knew he did. So did everyone in the room. Just like her, they were all staring at him. The eyes came back to her. Settled. Narrowed.
The impact was physical. Her breath rushed from her lungs. He could see right through her. She had far too many secrets for him to be looking at her and seeing so much. Worse, his gaze drifted over her, taking in the cropped sweater that molded to her breasts and just barely reached her waist. Her jeans rode a little lower than her waist, so she had to resist pulling at the hem of the sweater, although her fingers automatically curled around the hem to do just that. The sweater was one of the few things she owned that was warm.
His gaze traveled down her holey jeans to her wet shoes and back up to her face. She wished the earth would open up and swallow her. The tension in the deli went up several more notches. Francesca knew why. Not only was this man gorgeous and dangerous, he was angry. A black wall of intense heat filled the room until no one seemed able to breathe. She could actually feel his anger shimmering in the air. The room vibrated with his fury.
She found herself trembling and shrinking back under that brilliant blue stare. She didn't understand why he'd singled her out, but he had. His diamond-hard gaze was fixed on her, not on any of the other customers - just her. She took a deep breath and let it out, tugging self-consciously on the hem of her sweater. When she did, his scowl deepened.
"Mr. Ferraro." Pietro stepped around the counter.
Pietro's shoulders were square, his face a mask of concern, his tone respectful. He looked as if he might faint any moment. Everyone did. Francesca didn't understand what was happening, but clearly Joanna was very aware. Her friend trembled and put one hand on Francesca's arm as if to steady herself.
They were all afraid of him. Francesca could see why - he looked and felt dangerous. But every single person in the store? Afraid? Of. This. Man. That was a little terrifying. She wished fervently he would stop looking at her.
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 a straight path open 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. Not
hing came out. She actually felt paralyzed with fear. Of what, she wasn't certain. Joanna's fingers dug into her arm, 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 bad 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."