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 open a path straight 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. Nothing came out. She actually felt paralyzed with fear. Of what she wasn’t certain. Joanna’s fingers dug into her arm hard, 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.