She turned her head again to look at him over her shoulder. Her blue eyes were dark. Beautiful. Filled with possession and pride. For him. Fuck. She was killing him, taking him over, one slice of his soul at a time. His cock hardened until he thought he might shatter. Or maybe his heart was going to fragment into a million pieces.

“And, Stefano, I don’t care how you have to do it, legal or otherwise. Just help her if you can.” A soft dictate. An acceptance.

His heart nearly exploded. He reached down and caught her hips, tugging her into position, one hand sliding between her legs. She was filled with him. Slick with him. Slick with the both of them. He lifted one of her legs and just slid home. Buried himself deep. Stayed planted as deep as humanly possible while he held her to him. While he buried his face in the ultimate luxury of her thick dark hair. He didn’t move, just stayed locked to her. Buried in her, right where he wanted to live. Home.

“Stefano?” Her voice caressed his skin. Melted into his bones. “Honey, you have to move. You can’t tease me like this.”

He found himself smiling like an idiot. If his brothers saw him now they’d call him whipped, and he wouldn’t care. She was exhausted, had to get up early and she had that little demand in her voice that was sexy as hell. So hot, his woman. So fucking hot. He complied and gave her exactly what she wanted. He’d give her the world every time.

* * *

Francesca woke to the first streaks of light invading the bedroom. She knew instantly she was alone and for a moment her heart thudded in protest. She buried her face in the pillow. The scent of Stefano still lingered in the room. In her. On her. She stretched and muscles protested deliciously. She liked that. She liked belonging to him. Knowing his mark was on her and that every time she took a step, she’d feel him inside her.

She sat up, pulling the sheet with her when she realized she didn’t have a stitch on. Blinking, she pushed at the hair tumbling around her face and down her back. The room was immaculate. Stefano had picked up their scattered clothes. She found herself laughing as she made her way to the master bathroom. She was happy. She hadn’t expected to ever be happy again. Not after losing her parents. Not after losing her sister. Not after Barry Anthon had begun his campaign to take everything from her.

The water was hot, just the way she liked it. It poured over her, soothing the soreness in her muscles. Stefano always, always ensured she found nothing but absolute pleasure in his arms, but he wasn’t a gentle lover. He could be sometimes, but it was rare. Gentle usually turned into rough. Hard. She loved rough and hard with him; anything at all he wanted to do, she was totally into. He liked to put his brand on her. She loved those marks of possession, but her body sometimes protested. Hot water took care of that, leaving her with a straight happiness vibe.

She dressed carefully in one of the many skirts Stefano had bought her. He had great taste in clothing. She was fairly certain she’d seen this particular skirt in the window of Lucia’s Treasures. It was a beautiful royal blue, the material exquisite. Flowy. A handkerchief hemline. The skirt rode low on the hips and the matching top, out of the same material, was a corset with a zigzag of royal blue cord through eyelets lacing up the front. She loved the way it narrowed at her rib cage and emphasized her small waist.

She had curves—hips and breasts and, as far as she was concerned, too big of a butt—but the cut of the skirt and matching blouse was flattering. She loved the way the material felt as it swished around her legs and fell over her hips in a sexy sway. She added soft suede boots and dried her hair in a loose cloud of dark waves. At the deli she’d have to pull it back to work around the food, but she wanted to look nice when she kissed Stefano good-bye. Her sweater was lacy, an intricate pattern, soft and warm, with tiny buttons going up the front.

Giving herself one last look in the mirror, Francesca stepped out into the hall and started toward the living room. Immediately she heard a woman’s voice. Low. Furious. Filled with contempt and repressed anger. Not a hot anger, but cold, like a vicious snake, coiled and ready to strike.

“Do you have any idea who this woman is? You should have had her investigated before you ever allowed the media to get ahold of pictures of you with her. My God, Stefano, she’s been in a mental facility. She’ll drag our good name through the mud, and you’ll let her.”

Francesca stopped moving instantly, one hand going protectively to her throat, her legs like rubber. That cold voice was talking about her. There was no mistaking that at all. She’d been locked up for seventy-two hours.

“They do say that the mentally unbalanced are a good lay,” the voice continued, the contempt deepening. “But I forbid this. Our name means something, and just because you can’t keep your dick in your pants . . .”