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Did people actually like this kind of behaviour? Did women really find it attractive?
Just as she was wishing she had worn a pair of stilettoes like all the other women there so she could bruise him properly, a figure emerged on the dance floor.
Such was Francesco’s presence that the crowd parted like the Red Sea to admit him.
Her sister stopped dancing and gazed up at him with a dropped jaw. The other hens also stared, agog, their feet seeming to move in a manner completely detached from their bodies.
And no wonder. A head taller than anyone else on the dance floor, he would have commanded attention even if he’d looked like the back end of a bus. Wearing an immaculately pressed open-necked black shirt and charcoal trousers, his gorgeous face set in a grim mask, he oozed menace.
Even if Hannah had wanted to hide her delight, she would have been unable to, her face breaking into an enormous grin at the sight of him, an outward display of the fizzing that had erupted in her veins.
She’d hoped with a hope bordering on desperation that he would spot her and seek her out, had prepared herself for the worst, but hoped for the best. She’d also promised herself that if he failed to materialise that evening then she would do everything in her power to forget about him. But if he were to appear...
To her disquiet, other than nodding at her without making proper eye contact, his attention was very much focused on the man who’d been harassing her who, despite trying to retain a nonchalant stance, had beads of sweat popping out on his forehead.
Francesco leaned into his face, his nostrils flaring. ‘If you touch this woman again, you will answer to me personally. Capisce?’
Not waiting for a response, he turned back into the crowd.
Hannah watched his retreating figure, her heart in her mouth.
Melanie shouted over the music to her, her face animated, yet Hannah didn’t hear a single syllable.
It was now or never.
Unlike the regularity of her life, where the only minor change to her schedule came in the form of the monthly weekend-night shift, Francesco’s life was full of movement and change, hopping from country to country, always seeing different sunsets. Her life was exactly where she had planned it to be and she didn’t want to change the fundamentals of it, but there was something so intoxicating about both Francesco and the freedom of his life. The freedom to wake up in the morning and just go.
He could go anywhere right now.
Hurrying to catch him, she followed in his wake, weaving through the sweaty bodies and then past the VIP tables.
‘Francesco,’ she called, panic fluttering in her chest as he placed his hand on the handle of the door marked Private.
He stilled.
She hurried to close the gap.
He turned his head, his features unreadable.
The music was so loud she had to incline right into him. He was close enough for her to see the individual hairs in the V of his shirt and smell his gorgeous scent, all oaky manliness, everything converging to send her pulse racing.
‘Why did you just do that?’ she asked.
His eyes narrowed, the pupils ringing with intent, before he turned the handle and held the door open for her.
Hannah stepped into a dimly lit passageway. Francesco closed the door, blocking off the thumping noise of the music.
She shook her head a little to try to clear her ringing ears.
He leaned back against the door, his eyes fixed on her.
‘Why did you do that?’ she repeated, filling the silence with a question she knew he’d heard perfectly well the first time she’d asked it.
‘What? Warn that man off?’
‘Threaten him,’ she corrected softly.
‘I don’t deal in threats, Dr Chapman,’ he said, his voice like ice. ‘Only promises.’
‘But why?’
‘Because he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I will not allow abuse of any form to take place on my premises.’
‘So you make a point of personally dealing with all unwanted attention in your clubs, do you?’
His eyes bored into hers, his lips a tight line.
Far from his forbidding expression making her turn and run away, as it would be likely to make any other sane person do, it emboldened her. ‘And did I really hear you say capisce?’
‘It’s a word that the man will understand.’
‘Very Danny DeVito. And, judging by his reaction to it, very effective.’
Something that could almost pass for amusement curled on his lips. ‘Danny DeVito? Do you mean Al Pacino?’
‘Probably.’ She tried to smile, tried hard to think of a witty remark that would hold his attention for just a little longer, but it was hard to think sensibly when you were caught in a gaze like hot chocolate-fudge cake, especially when it was attached to a man as divine as Francesco Calvetti. If she had to choose, she would say the man was a slightly higher rank on the yummy stakes than the cake. And she liked hot chocolate-fudge cake a lot, as her bottom would testify.
