Читать книгу Rising Stars & It Started With… Collections - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 85

THEY arrived in Rome early the next morning. Though Faith had thought she wouldn’t sleep at all, she in fact had, and woke feeling somewhat ready for the day. She’d dressed with care in a dark gray suit and heels, and put her hair into a tight knot. If Renzo was planning to work, she was ready.

Her heart had sped up at the sight of him. He’d been sitting in a plush leather chair by a window and sipping a cappuccino while reading something on his mobile tablet. Totally engrossed, he hadn’t noticed her at first, and she’d let her eyes feast on him. His dark hair was full and lush, and it still looked slightly wild, as if he’d been racing on the track with the wind blowing through it. Artfully tousled, sexy, as if some woman had been running her fingers through it while he made love to her.

He was dressed in a navy pinstripe suit with a light blue shirt and a dark red tie. On his feet were custom-made Italian loafers. He looked every inch the billionaire and nothing like the daredevil Grand Prix racer at the moment.

She must have made a noise, because he’d lifted his head and spied her there. The frown on his face had not made her happy. No, it had made her feel about two inches tall, but she’d pushed through it and pretended she hadn’t noticed while she took her seat in front of him and prepared to go over his appointments.

Now they were in a Mercedes limousine, moving toward the center of Rome, and Faith couldn’t help but gape at the sights. She’d never seen anything so old and magnificent in her life. Everywhere you looked, there were crumbling ruins set beside ornate churches, and people moving around as if it were completely ordinary to be surrounded by such beauty.

The early-morning sun shone down on the city, picking out the bright whites of marble monuments and highlighting the red sandstone of ancient ruins. The traffic was heavy as they rounded the Colosseum, and tears pricked at the back of her eyes.

She’d always wanted to see it, and now it was here, huge, sandy-white and red, and imposing against the bright blue Roman sky. There was a cross set in the outer ring of stone that caught her eye.

Renzo looked up then and saw the question in her gaze. “It is actually a church now,” he said. “The Pope holds a service in the Colosseum once a year.”

Tourists ringed the grounds as they drove around the structure. Soon, they were passing the ruins of the Forum Romanum. People walked along the sidewalks between the Forum and the Colosseum, and vendors lined the way, selling food, scarves and other trinkets. The ride grew bumpy as they drove over the vast swath of cobblestones near the Vittorio Emanuele military monument. Cars converged in the giant circle and honked, scooters blaring past, before traffic straightened out again and they were moving down a narrow street lined with stores and restaurants.

A short while later, the limousine came to a stop on the Via dei Condotti and Renzo’s driver hopped out to open the door. Renzo stepped onto the pavement and Faith followed, coming up short when all she saw were high-end fashion stores. Renzo’s security emerged from another car, and then Renzo was propelling her toward the nearest shop.

“What are we doing?” she asked as the door swung open to let them into a salon. An expensively dressed woman behind the counter looked up and greeted them in Italian.

Renzo said something to her, and then her eyes slid toward Faith. To the woman’s credit, her expression did not change.

“What is going on?” Faith demanded as the woman picked up a phone and made a call.

“You are getting your hair done,” Renzo said.

Faith’s hand came up to pat her bun. “My hair is fine,” she hissed under her breath.

Renzo looked unconvinced. “And I say it is not, cara. We are in Italia now, and you are the personal assistant to a very rich man. I cannot have you managing my appointments and greeting my business associates like this.”

Faith spluttered. “I look professional. There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing. Or how I’ve styled my hair. Your business associates won’t care. You are making that up.”

“They will care. Even my grandmother had more style than you, piccolo.” He took her briefcase from her numb fingers while her heart throbbed with hurt. “Consider this a part of your salary for accompanying me.”

“I like my hair the way it is,” she insisted.

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you realize that in all the time you have worked for me, I’ve never seen your hair down?”

“I wanted to look professional.”

“And you still shall. But with style, cara mia.”

“I’m not happy with you,” Faith said, seething inside and more than a little curious, as well. What would it be like to have a style she could actually manage? Something that gave her more versatility than she had now? She’d always been afraid to let a stylist touch her hair because she didn’t know how to communicate what she wanted. What if they cut too much off, or gave her a look she hated?

It wasn’t like she could afford the expensive places on Park Avenue where the rich went. No, she was more likely to use the local chop shop equivalent—and did when she got her annual trim. In fairness to Renzo, she had to admit that she made enough money to spring for a nicer salon than a discount place—but she never knew how to find someone she trusted, and therefore she never took the plunge.

Not to mention she saved every dime she could for the down payment on her future home.

Now, however, he was presenting her with the opportunity to use the kind of salon she could never have afforded on her own. The kind of salon the elite frequented.

Renzo gave her that smile that had the power to tilt her world sideways. “You will be happy with me when you are finished. Trust me.”

“Fine,” she said, arms crossed defensively. “But if I hate it, you’re never going to hear the end of it.”

Renzo laughed before nodding at the woman who then escorted Faith into the salon and handed her over to a smiling stylist named Giovanna. Thankfully, Giovanna spoke English and put Faith at ease. Before Giovanna made the first cut, Faith discussed her wishes that she be able to keep her hair long. Giovanna listened intently, and then told Faith exactly what she proposed to do.

She didn’t cut much length, but she added plenty of layers to make Faith’s hair more manageable. An hour later, Faith was staring in the mirror at a woman who had the sleekest, most gorgeously touchable hair imaginable.

“It’s amazing,” Faith said.

“You have great hair, signorina. You only needed a little cut, a little product to make it so.” Giovanna spun the chair away from the mirror. “And now a little bit of makeup, si? I will teach you how to do a smoky eye, and you will be ready in moments. It is all you will need to drive the men wild.”

Ten minutes later, Faith was walking out of the salon and into the reception area where Renzo sat making notes on his tablet. When he looked up and saw her, a little thrill of pleasure shot through her at the shock on his face. He quickly masked it, however, and stood to greet her as if salon appointments were an ordinary part of his day.

“Fabuloso, Faith. You look lovely.”

Faith was feeling far too happy over her hair to harbor any resentment that he’d basically hauled her into a salon and told her to cut her hair. No, in fact, she was feeling grateful. For the first time, her hair was elegant and chic—but it still felt like her, not like someone else’s idea of her.

Her happy feelings began to ebb, however, when Renzo dragged her into a clothing store and arranged an impromptu fashion show in which she was to be the leading lady.

“No,” she said as a saleswoman stood patiently by and a group of others hauled clothing into a dressing area. “This is too much, Renzo. I can’t accept clothes from you.”

His expression was implacable. “Consider it a perk of the job, Faith. I require you to be stylish when you are at my side.”

“You never cared before.”

He didn’t look in the least bit apologetic. “We were in the States. Things were different there. Here, you will be traveling at my side quite frequently and I require you to look the part.”

“Look the part of what?” she demanded. “Your latest mistress?”

His gaze grew heated. “Would that be so bad?” he murmured so that no one else could hear.

“Yes,” she said automatically, though a part of her was saying no. Please, yes, now.

No.

“You will do this, Faith, or you will be on the next flight back to the United States. But think carefully on your answer,” he said silkily. “Because, should you choose to go, you will also be without a job.”

Fury rolled through her, followed by frustration and a sense that she was in over her head. “That’s blackmail.”

She wasn’t going to give up her job over a wardrobe, and he knew it. That would be a stupid move, no matter how she might wish to see the look of surprise on his face when she said no. A fresh tide of anger rose within her that he would force her into obeying his will.

She had a moment’s ugly thought of her father standing over her and telling her she would continue to go to school as before, no matter what people said or did to her, but no matter how angry it made her, she knew this wasn’t the same thing. Her father hadn’t cared that she would be emotionally scarred by the experience; Renzo was being stubborn over clothing. Not the same at all.

But Renzo was unrepentant. “It is indeed. Now, choose.”

Faith’s heart throbbed, and her ears were hot with embarrassment. She’d never been the sort of person to draw attention to herself with clothing, but were her clothes really that bad? The gray suit she wore was perfectly serviceable. The skirt hit right below her knees, the jacket hung to midhip, and her shirt was a daring pink. Her heels were black, low and comfortable.

“This isn’t necessary,” she said. “We could just go to a department store and spend a lot less money. I only need a few things off-the-rack—”

“Not a chance, cara. You represent me, and you will represent me the way I wish you to.”

In the end, there was no choice. Faith succumbed to the will of Renzo and the overwhelming force of the saleswomen, who dressed her in outfit after outfit until she actually started to look forward to the next combination they would present her. She’d always worn her suits because she felt comfortable and professional in them. They were off-the-rack, and they fit just fine, but she was redefining what the meaning of a good fit meant as she tried on clothes that seemed tailor-made for her.

The skirts were shorter, but not too much so—right above the knee instead of below it, and fitted to the curve of her hips rather than hanging straight down. The jackets were nipped in at the waist, rounded on the bottom, and cut to right below the waistband of the skirts. There were silky undergarments, belts, trousers, sweaters, dresses, shoes, handbags, scarves and jewelry that went with each outfit. The fabrics were natural, luxurious, rich.

Renzo bore it all with his usual cool efficiency, looking up from his tablet when she emerged each time. He didn’t say a word unless there was a disagreement, and he didn’t try to force her to choose anything she didn’t like. He gave his opinion when asked, and didn’t contradict her when she expressed a preference or a dislike of anything in particular.

It wasn’t much, but the fact he left her alone to make her choices made her feel somewhat better. It was as if he was telling her that he believed in her judgment, and she appreciated that more than she could say.

After what seemed like hours, the parade came to an end. Renzo said something in Italian, all the saleswomen melted away except for one, and Faith was left standing in the final outfit, a soft, pale green silk dress, belted at the waist, and a pair of sky-high designer heels in a rich cream color. She had to admit she loved the outfit, and hoped it was one they could buy. She felt sophisticated and pretty, like a princess instead of a secretary.

“We are finished here,” Renzo said, and she blinked at him.

“But I need to change back into my clothes—”

“Those are your clothes,” he told her. “The rest will be sent along.”

“The rest?”

“Everything you chose.”

“Everything?” If she’d had any idea, she would have been more careful. She’d liked so many things. So many expensive things. She shook her head. “It’s too much. I can never repay you.”

Renzo came over and put his hands on her shoulders. In the heels, she didn’t have to tilt her head back to look at his expression. His gaze slid down her body, to the buttons on her dress that came together just over her cleavage, and then met her eyes once more while her insides began to melt. “Mia bella, it gives me pleasure to do this for you. I have told you before to consider this as a part of your compensation for accompanying me. It is not easy to leave behind one’s friends and home, now is it?”

It was when you didn’t really have any friends, and the home didn’t belong to you, but Faith didn’t say that. “I feel like it’s too much,” she said.

“And I feel like it’s not enough. Which of us is right?”

“I’m pretty sure I am. My sense of what things cost is probably more realistic than yours.”

Renzo laughed even as he looped her arm in his. “You are a refreshing woman, Faith. You speak your mind without care for what I might think. I like it.”

“You have enough women feeding your ego,” she grumbled, and he laughed again.

They exited the shop and got into the waiting car. Faith turned her head to look out the window at the shops opposite, suddenly uncomfortable to be alone with him again. She didn’t know why she should be, but she was.

Not because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid of herself, she realized. The entire time she’d been trying on clothes, she’d been thinking of how he would look at her when she walked out in each outfit. What would Renzo think? What would he do? Would he look at her like he wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her again, the way he had in her apartment?

It was dangerous to think of him like that. Dangerous to think for even a moment that she wanted him to kiss her. There was nothing but heartbreak in allowing herself to think of a man like Renzo wanting her. She was his PA, not his girlfriend.

“I do understand the value of money, cara,” he said, his voice breaking the silence between them as the car rolled through the streets of Rome. “I was not born rich.”

She turned to look at him. She knew that, of course, because she’d read all about him when she’d joined the company. He’d started competing in motorcycle races at seventeen, had been picked up by a major manufacturer and ridden their motorcycles for a few years before coming up with his own designs. He’d poured every euro he had into building his first motorcycle, gotten sponsorship and investors and built D’Angeli Motors into a powerhouse in the industry while others had looked on in shock.

Renzo was formidable, both in his industry and in life, she thought. No wonder he’d maneuvered her so smoothly into changing her hair and buying clothes today. He did not accept defeat. Ever. “Did you grow up in Rome?” she asked.

His gaze was blank. “No. A small town on the Amalfi Coast. My mother was a waitress in a hotel there.”

“And your father?”

The corners of his mouth tightened, and a throb of premonition squeezed her heart. “I do not have a father, cara.”

She didn’t quite know what to say to that. She felt like she’d tripped into a minefield, and there was nothing to do now but finish the journey and hope for the best. “I’m sorry, Renzo.”

He shrugged. “It has been this way my whole life. I am not bothered by it.”

But he was. She could tell by the bleak look on his face, the way his voice was carefully controlled. Whatever it was, it bothered him a great deal.

“My father is a preacher,” she said, and then wondered why she’d admitted that to him. But he’d seemed so lost, and she’d found herself wanting to confess that while she had a father, their relationship wasn’t perfect.

He looked at her with interest. “A preacher? What is this?”

Faith twisted her fingers together. She didn’t like talking about her family. It inevitably brought up painful memories, but she’d started the conversation and had to finish it. “He’s a minister. In a church.”

“Ah, I see.” His gaze was suddenly keen. “Perhaps this explains much about you.”

It explained a lot, actually, but she was far too embarrassed to tell him all of it. “He was a hard man to live with,” she said softly. “He expected much out of his children. I was the disappointment. My brother Albert was an Eagle Scout, and I …”

She swallowed. Renzo reached for her hand. She let him take it, a little tingle of awareness beginning to sizzle up her spine as he threaded his fingers in hers.

“All children think they are a disappointment at one time or another. It is rarely true, I believe.”

“It is definitely true in my case,” Faith said. “I haven’t spoken to my father in eight years.”

His eyes searched hers, their blue depths full of dark emotion. “I’m sorry, Faith. I can tell this upsets you.”

She shrugged. But yes, it hurt, even after all this time. She’d been so stupid. So naive and innocent and gullible. And she’d paid the price. Jason hadn’t. He was a male, and males stuck together.

“I, um, I shouldn’t have said anything,” she replied, her gaze firmly fixed on their linked hands. “It makes me uncomfortable to talk about it.”

He brought her hand to his mouth and feathered his lips across her skin. His breath was hot as he spoke. “Then we will not speak of it again.”

Tears pricked her eyes. She really didn’t want to like him, and yet she couldn’t quite help it at the moment. “Thank you.”

“It is nothing,” he said. And then his voice grew firm, determined. “You are a good woman, Faith. Never believe otherwise.”

“You don’t really know me,” she said. “I might be nothing more than a very good actress.”

At that he laughed. “Actually, you aren’t an actress at all,” he told her. “Your every emotion is written across your face. Would you like to know what I see there now?”

She met his gaze evenly. His eyes glittered with heat and promise, and she could feel her nipples responding, tightening, her breasts growing heavy and firm. Her sex throbbed with need, her body growing tight and achy.

“What do you see?” she asked, surprised at the husky turn of her voice.

He lifted his hand to her face, traced his thumb across her bottom lip. She bit back the moan that wanted to escape as he did so. “I see a woman who wants me … but who is terribly afraid to admit it.”