She couldn’t decide if she liked his eyes the best, or his voice. His eyes were a beautiful blue, dark and mysterious, with long black lashes that matched his thick, wavy hair. His voice was soft, pitched low, a warm honey that moved over her, promising all sorts of sinful things.

“Francesca.”

His voice startled her right out of her fantasy. She blinked rapidly and brought him into focus. She hadn’t had time to go over the things about his body that appealed to her, but it was probably just as well. She lifted her gaze to his, and everything in her stilled. Stefano stared straight into her eyes, capturing her without even trying. He held her there—she was unable to look away. She was totally mesmerized by him.

Francesca felt his power. Felt a connection between them. Her heart stuttered and then began to pound. He leaned toward her, frowning. His finger slid along her skin, right at her throat, skimming lightly over the shallow laceration where the knife had burned as it went into her flesh. She shivered at the way the blue of his eyes darkened so intimately.

“This is obscene. Someone putting hands on you. A knife to your throat. I’m sorry this happened, Francesca. This is normally a safe neighborhood. We have small things, petty, teenagers drinking too much and getting a little out of hand, but this . . .” He broke off, shaking his head.

Without warning he leaned into her and brushed her throat with his mouth. Her heart stopped beating. She was certain it had. She froze, unable to move. Unable to think because her brain had short-circuited. His hair brushed her chin and along her shoulder. She’d never felt anything so sensual in her life.

Her breasts ached. Needed. Her nipples pushed into the lace of her bra and suddenly the little lace panties she wore were damp. Her sex clenched hard. Her breath caught in her throat and she couldn’t move even to save herself—and she had a feeling she needed to save herself. She wanted desperately to run her fingers in his thick dark hair. She knew it was soft because the thick strands moved against her chin and throat. She blinked and he lifted his head.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “You must have been so scared.” His voice whispered over her like the intimate brush of fingers.

She touched her tongue to her lips, trying not to imagine his mouth on hers. “I’ll admit, I was afraid, but mostly because I didn’t want them to get blood on your coat.”

His eyebrow shot up. “You what?”

Her mouth curved in a rueful smile, although her heart hammered hard in her chest. “I didn’t want to get any blood on your coat. I was wearing it and when he cut me, all I could think about was that the blood might run down my neck into your coat.”

His eyes went scary dark. His face stilled. His fingers curled around the nape of her neck and he pulled her head toward his. “Are you telling me that you were so afraid of me that when a mugger put a knife to your throat, the thing you feared most was getting blood on my fucking coat?”

His voice had gone scary soft to match the devil shining in his eyes. Her heart jumped and then thudded hard. She was acutely aware of his fingers curled around her neck—of every detail of him. His warmth. His broad shoulders. His enormous strength. The way the pads of his fingers felt possessive on her skin. His scent enveloped her, surrounded her, until there was only him and the other people in the restaurant faded away. He was too close to her to breathe, the shadows in the booth enfolding them in an unexpected intimacy.

“Dolce cuore.” He breathed it.

She shouldn’t like that he called her sweetheart. She shouldn’t be sitting there with his hand curled around her neck. She was drowning, hypnotized by him. She’d never experienced such intense chemistry. She didn’t even know physical attraction could be so strong. He was like a magnet and she couldn’t seem to find the resistance necessary to break free.

“You’re far more important than a fucking coat.”

“It’s your favorite,” she whispered, shocking herself at what that admission implied. She’d been afraid of him, hadn’t she? Not attracted. Not worried that he’d be upset over his coat and she didn’t want that. Or that she’d come to love that coat and the way it made her feel.

“It’s a coat, Francesca.” His hand slid from her neck and he straightened, turning his head toward the interior of the restaurant.

She hadn’t heard anything at all, yet he’d been aware of movement in the pizzeria. She blinked several times, trying to come out from under his spell, out from under the web of sexual attraction.

“Your pie,” Tito said with a flourish, placing the pizza between them. “The house specialty. Enjoy.” He winked at Francesca. “You’ll think you’re in heaven.”