It was, he supposed, an anomaly. A sign of the stress he’d been under for the past few months as his engineers worked to bring the Viper to top form. There were problems that had to be worked out or the bike would fail on the track.
And Renzo refused to accept failure. He’d poured a great deal of money and time into the development of this motorcycle, and he needed it to succeed. Success was everything. He’d known that since he was a teenager, since he’d realized that he actually had a father but that his father had not wanted to know him.
Because he wasn’t a blue blood like the Conte de Lucano, or like the conte’s children with his wife. Renzo was the outcast, the unfortunate product of a somewhat hasty affair with a waitress. He hadn’t been supposed to succeed—but he had, spectacularly, and he had every intention of continuing to do so.
Lorenzo D’Angeli never backed down from a challenge. He lived for them, thrived on them.
The limousine came to a halt in front of a plain concrete apartment building in a somewhat shabby neighborhood. Renzo winced as he moved his leg. It ached enough that he should allow his chauffeur to retrieve Faith, but he was just stubborn enough to refuse to permit even that small moment of vulnerability.
The car door opened and Renzo stepped onto the pavement, looking right and left, surveying the street and the people. The area didn’t seem unsafe, yet it was worn. An unwanted memory tugged at his mind as he stood there. Another time, another place.
Another life, when he’d had nothing and had to struggle to feed his mother and younger sister. He’d been angry then, terribly angry. He’d always thought that if his mother had been more forceful, more demanding, she could have at least gotten the conte to make sure they had food and shelter. But she was weak, his mother, though he loved her completely. Too weak to fight back when she should have done so.
He ruthlessly squashed the feelings of helplessness the memory dredged up. Then he strode into the building and made his way to Faith’s apartment on the second floor. There was no elevator. Renzo took the stairs quickly, in spite of the sharp throb in his leg. When he reached Faith’s door, he took a moment to blank the pain from his mind before he rapped sharply.
She answered right away, the door whipping open to reveal a woman who might have made his jaw drop had he not had better control of himself. Faith Black was … different. A small spike of something—he did not know quite what—ricocheted through him as he studied her. She had not transformed into a voluptuous goddess, but she had transformed. Somehow.
The glasses were gone, and she was wearing makeup. He wasn’t certain she ever wore makeup at the office, though perhaps she did. If she did, it wasn’t quite like this, he was certain. Her lips were red, full and shiny from her lip gloss. Kissable.
Kissable?
“Mr. D’Angeli,” she said, blinking in surprise.
“You were expecting someone else?” he asked mildly, and yet the thought of her doing so caused a twinge of irritation to stab into him. Odd.
“I—well, yes. I had thought you were sending your car. I had thought I was meeting you at the event.”
“As you see, this is not the case.” He let his gaze drop slowly before meeting her pretty eyes again. She seemed surprised—and somewhat annoyed. She’d never been anything but professional in all their interactions, but what he saw in her eyes now made him wonder if it was possible that she did not like him.
Impossibile. Of course she did. He’d yet to meet a woman who didn’t. He turned his best smile on her. “You look quite delightful, Miss Black.”
And delectable, he was shocked to realize.
Her hair was piled on her head, but it wasn’t quite as scraped back as usual; instead she’d pulled it into an elegant twist from which one disobedient tendril had escaped to lie against her cheek. Her pale lavender gown was demure, with a high neck, but it was also sleeveless and molded to her full breasts before falling away in ripples of fabric to the floor.
It was disconcerting, to say the least, to realize that she had a shape—and that shape was not a box. Quite the contrary, she was a study in curves, from the soft curve of her jaw to the curve of her bosom and down to the curve of her hips that he could just make out beneath the flowing fabric of her gown. He couldn’t quite take his eyes from her, as if she might change back into the creature he knew if he looked away.
Color stained her cheeks as her green gaze fell from his. Satisfaction rippled through him. She was not immune after all. “Thank you. I—I was just searching for my earring backing. I dropped it and I’m not sure where it’s gone.”
He noticed then that she was only wearing one small diamond earring. “Allow me to help,” he said, pushing the door wider. She stepped back somewhat reluctantly, but she let him inside.
The apartment was small, but neat. The furnishings were worn, and there were a variety of magazines piled on a central table—including a couple of motorcycle magazines, it amused him to note. He was on the cover of the topmost one, in full leathers, looking grim as he stood beside a prototype of the Viper. And with good reason, considering the bike had fallen far short of what he’d been aiming for when he’d taken it out on the track. Not that the reporter had known, of course.
He dragged his gaze away from the magazine, continuing his study of Faith’s home. A shelf stacked high with books ran along one short wall. The walls were industrial white, but she’d tried to punch it up with bright pictures and pillows on the furniture. It was a decidedly feminine space, though not in any overt way.
He thought of his mother decorating their tiny apartment in Positano with garlands of flowers and pretty fabric, and his jaw hardened as his thoughts turned dark. Did Faith also bring home an endless parade of men she hoped would fall in love with her? Did she cry at the end of the night—or series of nights—when she realized the current man was gone and never coming back?
“Over here,” Faith said, leading the way to a tiny kitchen, which had barely enough room for two adults to stand together.
Her fragrance surrounded him as he joined her, that soft fresh scent he’d come to identify with her over the past few months. A sharp sensation rolled through him.
“I dropped it here,” she said. “And it’s rolled somewhere. It can’t have gone far.”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure what they were talking about. For a moment, for the barest of seconds, he wanted to press her soft body against the counter with his, wanted to drag the pins from her hair and see the golden mass tumble free. He shook the thought from his mind and focused on the task at hand.
“If you will allow me,” he said, taking out his mobile phone and starting the application that turned the camera flash into a steady beam of light.
She couldn’t leave the small space without brushing against him. A sliver of pleasure passed through him at the brief contact. Stress, he thought. Simply stress.
“And why were you putting on your earrings in the kitchen, Miss Black?” he asked as he stooped, ignoring the pain in his leg, and swept the light back and forth across the floor.
“I was in a hurry,” she said. “I wanted to make it down to the street by the time your car arrived.”
He tilted his head back to glance up at her. “You were planning to stand outside? Dressed like this?”
She shrugged. “I would have stood inside the building until I saw the car, but yes. I’m sorry you had to come up and get me.”
The light flickered over something that glinted gold. Renzo swept the light into a corner again, found the small backing. He picked it up and pushed himself to his feet.
He gritted his teeth against the agony of spasming muscles and aching bone. “Miss Black, I am many things, not all of them pleasant, but I would hope that you realize I am not so callous as to make a lady wait in a dark and drafty hallway for my arrival.”
“No, of course not,” she said quietly, and he knew he must have looked severe. Yet he could not tell her why. Not without admitting what he would admit to no one—tha
t he was weak, vulnerable, not made of iron after all.
Her gaze fell from his as she held her hand out to receive the tiny backing.
Renzo stared at the top of her golden head for a moment. He could have dropped it into her palm. That would have been easy. Prudent even. But he found he wanted to touch her again, wanted to see if he felt that same tiny jolt that he had this afternoon when he’d put his hand on hers before she could pick up the telephone. He’d dismissed the sensation as something akin to static electricity.
He put his fingers around her wrist and she gasped, her fingers curling inward on reflex before she forced them open again. He held her hand steady while he placed the backing in her palm. Her skin was soft, warm, and he wondered if the rest of her was equally as soft. Shockingly, a sliver of need began to tingle at the base of his spine. Renzo dropped her hand as if it had suddenly turned into a flaming brand.
Dio.
Her eyes were wide before she turned away. Her fingers shook as she fastened her earring in place, and he knew she must be affected, too. What was this sudden chemistry? Where had it come from? And why did he want to touch her again just so he could feel the jolt?
“There,” she said unnecessarily when she completed the task. “I’m ready.”
“Then we should be going,” he said crisply. He helped her into her wrap and then waited while she locked the door. He had her precede him down the stairs, so that if he limped she would not know.
When they reached the street, his driver was standing at the ready with the door open. Renzo held his hand out to help Faith inside, but she did not take it, climbing into the custom Escalade on her own. He slid into the white leather seat beside her, and the door closed with a heavy thud.
They’d been gliding through the streets toward Manhattan for several minutes before she spoke. “Is there anything I should know about tonight, Mr. D’Angeli?”
Renzo glanced over at her. She was looking up at him with that focused look she usually got whenever he went over the morning reports with her.
Familiar ground, grazie a Dio. Perhaps now he could stop thinking about the way she smelled, about how delicate and feminine she seemed when he’d never quite noticed that about her before. Why had he noticed it now?
“We are attending a dinner at Robert Stein’s residence,” he said. “I am sure you realize why this is important.”
She gave a firm nod. “Stein Engineering has patented a new form of racing tire. You wish them to build tires exclusively for the Viper instead of using stock tires. It would be an advantageous partnership.”
“Ah, so you do pay attention in the meetings,” he teased.
She looked surprised. And somewhat offended. “Of course I do. It’s what you pay me for, Mr. D’Angeli.”
Yes, it was what he paid her for. And tonight, he was paying her for something different. He, Lorenzo D’Angeli, was paying a woman to pretend to be his date. It was ludicrous, and yet he found he was rather looking forward to the evening in a way he would not have been had Katie Palmer been sitting beside him.
The Katie Palmers of the world were too obvious in their desire to own him, too certain of their sex appeal, and too jealous of his time and attention. He always found it amusing at first, but he quickly tired of it.
He knew it was his own fault, because that was the sort of woman he chose. But he’d watched his sweet, fragile mother pine for love for years, and he’d watched her be hurt again and again. She took things too seriously, thought every new man was her savior.
Because of that, Renzo had studiously avoided the kind of women in his own life who couldn’t understand that sex was sex and love didn’t enter the equation. He didn’t believe in love, or at least not romantic love. If romantic love was real, then his mother should have found happiness years ago.
Faith wasn’t like the women he usually dated. She wasn’t superficial—and she wasn’t fragile, either. In fact, she was looking at him now with what he thought might be thinly veiled disgust. A hot feeling blossomed inside him.
A challenge. He loved challenges.
Renzo couldn’t quite stop himself from doing what he did next, if only to ruffle her cool. He reached for Faith’s hand, took it in his while he traced small circles in her palm with his thumb. Her breath drew in sharply, and he could feel a tremor slide through her body. A current of satisfaction coiled within him. She was not impervious, no matter how hostile she looked, and that pleased him.
“Do you not think, cara mia,” he purred, “that you should perhaps call me Renzo?”
CHAPTER TWO
FAITH’S skin sizzled beneath his touch, as if someone had dropped cool water onto hot coals. Her breath froze in her chest, and her voice refused to work as he traced little whorls in her palm. His hand was warm and solid, his thumb perhaps the most sensual thing she’d ever experienced as it moved softly against her skin.
Faith blinked as if it were a mirage that would disappear as soon as she did so. It did not.
Surely, then, she was asleep in her bed, dreaming that Renzo D’Angeli was holding her hand and speaking in a sultry voice that entreated her to call him by his first name.
Because this could not be real. She’d worked for him for six months, and he’d never once shown the slightest bit of interest in her as a woman. Not that she’d ever wanted him to. He was precisely the sort of man she despised the most: handsome, arrogant and certain he was entitled to excessive adoration.
But he was not noticing her in that way. It was impossible. He was simply playing along with the expectation they would be less formal together when she was posing as his date.
Yes, that must be it. Of course.
“I will try, Mr. D—Renzo,” she said quietly, her heart beating in her ears.
“Much better,” he said, smiling his lady-killer smile. But the thumb didn’t stop moving and a tendril of heat made its way up her arm and down through her core, pooling in the deepest, most secretive part of her. It figured. Of all the men to affect her, it would be this one. A man she couldn’t have in a bazillion years, even if she’d wanted him.
Which she did not. He was gorgeous, but about as trustworthy as the viper he’d named his motorcycle after.
She wanted him to let her go. And she didn’t. The languidness stealing over her at his touch was addictive. What would she feel if he pulled her into his arms and kissed her? Would she lose her mind the way his other women did?
The thought was not a pleasant one. She’d already lost her mind over a man—or at least everyone thought she had—and she had no desire to experience that ever again. One second of stupidity, and Jason Moore had shattered her trust in men—in people—forever.
She was just about to ask Renzo to let her go when his phone rang.
“Perdono,” he said before he took the call.
Faith folded her hands over her evening bag and watched the news ticker on the muted television screen across from her. That had been close. She didn’t like feeling even remotely attracted to this man. She pictured Katie Palmer sashaying out of his office just a few days ago, lipstick smudged, hair mussed, and felt her dislike of him swell.
Yes. That was precisely how it was supposed to be.
Faith shifted in her seat. She’d ridden in his limo before, accompanying him to meetings across town, but this was the first time she’d sat here in an evening gown. When she’d gone to Saks today, she’d been surprised to be met by a personal shopper whom Renzo had arranged for her.
Faith had viewed gown after gown, the personal shopper growing perplexed, to say the least, when she refused the more daring dresses that showed too much cleavage or leg. Obviously Renzo had a preferred style he liked his women to wear. And Faith had been determined to wear what she liked, regardless of who was paying for the gown.
When the woman had brought the lavender gown out, Faith had known it was the one. When she put this dress on, she felt elegant, pretty and demure enough to please even her upright father.
Renzo
finished his phone call and turned to her. “I need you to stay by my side tonight,” he said. “It is very important that you do so.”
Faith swallowed. “Of course, Mr—Renzo.”
She could see his frown in the light from the television. “I’m counting on you, Faith. You have never failed me yet.”
But she had disappointed him when she’d nearly called him Mr. D’Angeli again, and it bothered her. Because this was part of the job and he expected her to be able to do what he asked. It shouldn’t be difficult, yet she was letting her nerves get the best of her.
Faith turned her head to look out the window as she pressed her fingernails into her palm and dug in. She would do a good job. Because he’d asked her to, and she’d agreed. She owed him that much. Tonight was important to the success of the Viper.
She knew that the Viper meant everything to him. How many times had she left the office late while he was still there, only to come in the next morning and find he’d never left? He worked hard on the designs, worked with his team to implement the changes that were required to make the motorcycle a success, and he worked hard on the business of running D’Angeli Motors.
D’Angeli wasn’t only known for its racing bikes, of course. They also made production motorcycles that were popular with enthusiasts everywhere. Sales were growing steadily in the States, though perhaps not as quickly as Renzo would like. She knew he counted on the Viper to usher in a new wave of prosperity and growth for his company. And what was good for D’Angeli Motors was also good for her. For all his employees.
His phone rang again. He looked at the display and swore in Italian before sending the call to voice mail.
A woman, no doubt. Probably Katie Palmer. Katie was an underwear model, Faith recalled. If Renzo couldn’t be satisfied with a woman who looked that good naked, what on earth would it take to make him happy?
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