Читать книгу Rising Stars & It Started With… Collections - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 87

FAITH was furious. She sat in Renzo’s sports car, her arms folded over her breasts and her head turned toward the window, seething. Renzo shifted smoothly, the engine revving into the night as the car raced along the Tuscan roads toward his villa.

How dared he? First, Niccolo Gavretti had thought he could have his way with her, and then Renzo had come along—hot, furious and broody as hell—and the standoff had begun. It wasn’t about her—it was about who was in control, about who got what he wanted.

Renzo had kissed her in front of all those people while cameras flashed and caught the moment forever. Her heart did a long slide into the bottom of her stomach. It had only been a matter of time before she was photographed with Renzo, so she could hardly be surprised about it.

And yet the panic that clawed into her now wouldn’t go away. She’d done nothing wrong. Not now, and not eight years ago. But she dreaded the attention if that old photograph was brought to light. The shame and helpless rage.

What angered her most about tonight was that Renzo hadn’t kissed her because he’d wanted to, but because he’d wanted to prove something to Nico. He’d been marking her as his, but only because he knew it would irritate the other man.

The moment he’d let her go, she’d turned on her heel and marched for the door. It was the calmest, most rational response she’d been capable of, since staying there would have necessitated her slapping the both of them.

Renzo hadn’t argued when she’d told him she wanted to go. He’d simply led the way to his car and roared out of the driveway without saying another word.

Now, the car ate up the roadway until Faith’s heart began to beat hard for a different reason. “Renzo, you’re scaring me. This isn’t the track.”

He swore, but the car throttled back to a more-reasonable speed. His hands flexed on the wheel, and his handsome face was harsh in the lights from the dash. He looked furious, which only fueled her anger.

“I don’t know why you’re angry,” she said. “I’m not the one who embarrassed you by kissing you in front of all those people.”

He shot her a disbelieving glance. “You’re embarrassed? Over what?”

She turned toward him, arms still crossed, her heart racing. It was merely a game to him, while to her it could mean being the subject of public scrutiny again. “I realize that you may think you’re God’s gift—heaven knows enough women have told you so—but not everyone wants their private life put on display for the world to see. Not only that, but we have no private life! You did it just to prove a point to Nico.”

His eyes flashed. “Do not call that man Nico,” he growled. “He only wanted to use you so he could get to me.”

Another spike of anger launched her blood pressure into the danger zone. “Do you think I don’t know that? I’m not stupid, Renzo. Two of Italy’s most famous bachelors fighting over me? I hardly think so. I just happened to be the bone that both dogs decided they wanted to control tonight. If there had been a juicy steak nearby, they’d have fought over that instead.”

Renzo swore again. And then he jerked the car off the road and onto a narrow dirt track she hadn’t seen before he turned. The car jolted to a stop and then he unsnapped her seat belt and reached for her before she knew what he was planning.

He crushed her mouth beneath his, his fingers sliding into her hair, his tongue demanding entrance. She opened to him, too shocked by the onslaught to protest. She should be angry. She should push him away. She should do anything but let him kiss her as if he were a dying man and she the last hope he had for salvation.

But, shockingly, she was turned on. Her body was on fire. Her nerve endings were zinging with sparks and her sex ached for his possession. She was throbbing, aching, melting—needing things she’d never needed before.

His tongue delved deep, demanding that she meet him, that she give him everything.

She did.

He slid one hand up her thigh, beneath the hem of her dress. Part of her wanted to clamp her legs together, to tell him no, but that was her father talking. Her damned childhood talking.

She was a woman, and she was capable of wanting a man, of choosing the man who would be her first. It wasn’t wrong or ugly to feel this way. It was a revelation.

A glorious, exciting, shattering revelation.

Renzo’s fingers spread along her hip, shaped her as she tried to get closer to him. When his hand slid over her panties, she had to force herself to keep breathing. She did not know what he would do, but she found herself hoping he would touch her. Dying for him to touch her.

And frightened, too.

And then he slid one finger across the thin silk, and then down … down over the damp heat of her. The groan that emanated from his throat vibrated into her. Thrilled her.

His finger stroked over her again, eliciting a moan. Every thought in her head flew out the window. All she wanted was to feel more of this delicious sensation, this wicked pleasure. He kissed her hard, and she shuddered and arched against his hand, wanting the barrier gone, wanting to feel everything.

She wanted more. More.

He skimmed his mouth down her throat, leaving a trail of hot kisses as the temperature in the car spiked. Faith closed her eyes, gasping at the sensual onslaught.

“I want you, Faith. I want you. It has nothing to do with Gavretti, nothing to do with anyone but you. I want to take you to my bed and spend the night lost in your body. I’ve been imagining all the things I want to do to you for the past week. All the ways in which I want to explore you.”

His voice was deep, his Italian accent thicker than usual, and his words so sexy she could die. His words shocked her. Turned her on. She wanted to know what sort of things he’d imagined. Wanted to know what he would do if she said yes.

But she was cautious. Scared. She wasn’t sophisticated enough to know how this worked or what tomorrow would bring if she said the yes he wanted her to say. The yes she was dying to say.

“I—I’m not sure this is a good idea,” she said quickly. “This isn’t part of my job—”

He pulled away from her suddenly. And then he swore in Italian, the words hot and sharp and nothing like the sexy words he’d just said to her. Faith wanted to cry at the loss of his heat.

He pounded the steering wheel once, a sharp, violent move that made her jump. And then he shoved a hand through his hair before turning the key. The car roared to life again, the dash lights illuminating the harsh lines of his jaw. Disappointment rolled through her, along with a healthy dose of regret. Why had she spoken? Why had she pierced the happiness that had been racing through her body like a nuclear explosion?

He turned to look at her, his blue eyes penetrating even in the darkness. “I would never pay a woman—any woman—to have sex with me, Faith. Do you understand that?”

“I wasn’t suggesting—”

“You were,” he snapped. “You keep throwing your job at me, as if I have no idea what it is I pay you for.”

Her heart throbbed because she knew he was right.

He reversed onto the roadway and popped the car into gear before turning to her again. “I assure you that I know exactly what I pay you for. And I want you because you are beautiful and fascinating, not because you’re convenient. If you believe that, then by all means go to bed alone tonight.”

Faith couldn’t sleep. Partly, it was the jetlag. And, partly, it was the adrenaline still coursing through her body after the way Renzo had kissed her in his car. She’d been so close to heaven, and so far at the same time.

It shocked her to admit it, but she’d wanted him with a fierceness that she would never have believed possible only a week ago. That was the power of Renzo D’Angeli, she thought sourly. He was gorgeous, compelling and utterly amazing. When he turned all that male power on you, you wanted to let him continue until the very end. Until you were a sobbing mess begging him for another chance.

What else explained the way women kept throwing themselves at him, despite his reputation for never staying with one woman longer than a couple of months?

Nothing. And she was little different, apparently. Renzo was a flame that she wanted to immolate herself in—even though she knew she shouldn’t. Pitiful. For all her professionalism, for all her belief that she alone would be immune to him, she was no different from the rest.

Faith threw the covers back and yanked on her robe. She owed him an explanation for the way she’d behaved, but it would have to wait until morning. She’d insulted him, and she hadn’t meant to do so. But she’d been confused, scared, and she’d said the first thing that had popped into her head.

The wrong thing.

From the beginning, Renzo had made it clear that the decisions about what she did were hers to make. The decision to go to the party at the Stein’s, though he’d cajoled pretty hard. The decision to come to Italy. Even the decisions about how to style her hair and what to wear, though he’d forced her into making the choices in the first place. He had not once told her how things would be, though he’d certainly pushed her into action.

Renzo might be her employer, but he would not ever expect it to give him access to her body. She knew better, and yet she’d implied he’d believed it did.

Faith’s stomach growled, and she realized she’d failed to eat at the party. She’d been nervous, waiting for Renzo to arrive, trying to hold her own with Niccolo Gavretti—who had refused to let her search for Renzo by herself. Well, now she knew why. No doubt he’d orchestrated that moment when he’d tried to kiss her precisely because he knew Renzo was watching.

Clearly, there was something more between them than simple rivalry—and she’d been the one caught in the middle of their feud tonight, the collateral damage as they waged their war against each other.

Faith slipped from her room, hesitating at Renzo’s door when she saw a light coming from underneath it, but continued down the hall and then down the marble staircase to the large kitchen at the back of the house.

She found a loaf of bread on the counter and some cheese in the fridge, and then dug around for a knife with which to slice them. Once she’d fixed a small plate, she turned to go back to her room, but stopped when a shadow moved outside the door. Her heart lodged in her throat and she wondered for a moment if she should scream, but then the door opened and a man stepped inside.

A man with a tiny, mewling bundle in his arms.

“Renzo?”

He looked up as if he’d just realized she was there. The kitten mewed again, such a sad, pitiful little sound, and Faith’s heart squeezed tight.

Renzo came toward her and set the kitten on the large island, blocking the tiny thing from escaping. “I kept hearing something outside my window,” he said. “I couldn’t find the mother, or any trace of other kittens. I think maybe she moved the litter and forgot one.”

“It’s so little. It can’t be more than a month old.”

Renzo picked the creature up again and held it out to her. “You know what to do with cats, si?”

She took the kitten, a lump forming in her throat as it shivered hard. “He—or she—probably needs milk,” Faith said. “But we have to warm it up. Cold milk won’t do. It’ll make his belly ache.”

Renzo moved to the refrigerator and took out the milk. Then he found a saucepan and poured some in before setting it on the stove and turning on the burner. His hair was disheveled, and she realized for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His broad chest was muscled, firm, and she found her breath shortening as she watched him move.

He wore a pair of sleep pants with a drawstring tie that hung low on his hips, revealing the tight ridges of his abdomen and the arrow of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waist of his pants.

“He must have been terribly loud if you could hear him in your room,” she said, hugging the kitten close and stroking the silky fur. She’d missed having a cat since Mr. Darcy had died last year. The little body began to rumble with a purr instead of a shiver, and tears filled Faith’s eyes as she thought of the kitten lost and scared.

Renzo turned from the stove and leaned against the counter, crossing one leg over another as he stood there looking at her. “Si. I did not realize it was a cat at first, the whine was so high-pitched. He was in the bougainvillea beneath my windows. If I had not been standing on the balcony, I would not have heard him.”

“He’s lucky you went looking for him,” she said.

“I could not leave him there.”

“No.”

After a moment, Renzo turned and rummaged in a cabinet for a small bowl. Then he stuck his finger into the milk on the stove, testing it. Faith’s heart did a little skip at that sign of tenderness in such a hard man.

“It is ready,” he said, pouring the milk and bringing the bowl over to the island. Faith set the kitten down and he immediately began to drink. His purr grew louder, and she glanced at Renzo. They laughed together.

“He is as loud as the Viper,” Renzo said. “Perhaps we should call him that.”

Faith felt heat curling through her stomach, her limbs. “We don’t actually know it’s a he,” she pointed out. “He might be a she.”

“Ah, then we will have to call her Miss Viper.”

“You would keep this cat?” she asked.

“No,” he said softly. “I would give him—or her—to you. Because you miss having a cat.”

Her eyes were stinging. “I don’t have time for a pet,” she said. “I’m away from home too much, working….” She let her voice trail off as the word brought back memories of earlier.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and she looked up again, met his gaze.

“For what?”

He shrugged. “For what happened in the car. I was … angry. I should not have kissed you like that.”

“I didn’t mind the kiss,” she said softly, dropping her gaze again as her blood fizzed in her veins at the memory of all that heat and passion. “Renzo, I …”

She stroked the kitten’s soft fur, unsure she could say the words she needed to say.

Renzo reached out and put his hand over hers, oh so lightly, and stroked the kitten with her for a moment. Then his hand dropped away, rested on the counter. “What is it, Faith?”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I shouldn’t have mentioned work. I know you wouldn’t—” She stopped, swallowed. “I know that you don’t expect me to sleep with you simply because I’m your PA.”

“No,” he said, “I don’t. If you sleep with me, Faith, it will be because you want to. Because you cannot imagine another day without giving in to this passion between us.”

“I don’t know what passion is,” she said hurriedly, before she lost her nerve. “I—I’ve never …” Her voice trailed off as her courage fizzled.

He tilted her chin up until she was looking at him, his blue gaze searching hers. “You have never what, Faith? Slept with someone you worked with?”

Her laugh was strangled. “No, that’s not it. I’ve never, um … slept … with anyone.”

He was utterly silent. The only sound in the room was the kitten purring and lapping milk. Her heart was thrumming hard, and a rush of heat climbed into her cheeks, bloomed between her breasts. She was hot, so hot, and she wanted to take off her robe and slip beneath a cool spray of water.

“You are untouched?”

Untouched. It was such a quaint word, and yet it was less shocking than the other word he could have used. Virgin.

Faith nodded.

Renzo slid a hand through his hair and swore softly. “You have stunned me, Faith Black, and I am not easily stunned.”

She tried to laugh it off. “I’m a preacher’s daughter. What did you expect?”

“Yes, but you’ve been away from home for, presumably, eight years now. In all this time, you did not find someone you wanted to be with?”

Not until now.

Faith sighed. She was in so much trouble here. And not just because she was alone with a man she desperately wanted. No, it was worse. Much worse. Because she was at least half in love with him already.

He was kinder than she’d expected, more considerate, and he cared about tiny, helpless animals. It was more than she’d thought he was capable of just two weeks ago when she’d watched him leave the office with Katie Palmer on his arm. He’d been so remote then, so perfect and untouchable and polished. Not at all the kind of man who would warm milk for a kitten in the middle of the night.

Faith bit down on the inside of her lip. She wasn’t really in love with him—but she could be if he kept doing things that made her heart tighten in her chest.

“It’s not that simple,” she said.

“I don’t see why not.”

She picked the kitten up again because it had finished drinking and was starting to wander. “Because it’s different for a woman.”

He reached out, stroked the kitten’s head. “Do you know how to tell if it is a boy or a girl?”

Faith carried the kitten over to the window where a shaft of moonlight pooled over the kitchen sink. “Looks like a girl,” she said after she held it up to the light, relieved that Renzo had decided to talk about something else.

“Ah, so Miss Viper it is. But that is not so pretty, is it?” he said, frowning.

“It is a bit much for such a little one,” Faith replied.

“We could call her Piccolo.”

“What does that mean?” He’d said that word to her earlier today, and she’d wondered then.

“Little one.”

It was certainly appropriate, at least for the kitten. But still not quite right. Faith frowned, thinking. And then it hit her. “I think she is a Lola.”

Renzo smiled. “Si, Lola is perfect. What do you recommend we do with her now that she has eaten?”

“She’ll need a place to sleep,” Faith said. “She’ll need something to burrow into, and a small space where she can’t get into trouble.”

“Then we will find something for her.”

They hunted through the kitchen until Renzo found an empty wine crate in the pantry. Then he retrieved a blanket from a closet and mounded it in the center. After they found another small box to make into a litter pan, Renzo helped her carry everything up to her room. They put Lola into a small walk-in closet off the bathroom and closed the door.

She mewed for a few moments while they stood there looking at each other in silence, hoping she would settle down. She did, and they crept from the bathroom, closing the door behind them.

Moonlight slanted through the long windows, illuminating Renzo’s form as he stood in the center of her room. His skin looked warm, silky, and she realized with a jolt that she ached to touch him. To press her lips to his skin and see if he tasted as delicious as he looked.

“A virgin shouldn’t look at a man the way you’re looking at me,” he said, an edge of strain in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically, ducking her head in embarrassment.

He closed the distance between them until he was standing so close that his heat enveloped her and her body began to soften and melt. It was novel. Her nipples were tingling, tightening, her sex aching with renewed want. If he spread her robe and slipped her gown off, she would be incapable of protest.

She wanted him to do it, and she feared he would at the same time.

Renzo lifted his fingers to her cheek, skimmed lightly over her flesh. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “It seems as if I am filled with nothing but apologies tonight. But, Faith, I see now that it would be wrong to take you to my bed. If you were experienced …”

Disappointment filled her. And a thread of anger snagged through the disappointment, pulling the fabric of it taut. “I see,” she said primly, because she couldn’t make herself say anything else. How could she be angry when only a moment before she’d been afraid?

“You are angry,” he said. “I understand. But you’ve saved yourself for a reason, Faith, and you shouldn’t take that next step lightly.”

She hadn’t exactly saved herself so much as she’d had no opportunities. She hadn’t dated very much, because she didn’t trust men after Jason—and when she had dated, she’d inevitably broken the relationship off before they ever reached a point at which she might consider having sex. How did she know, if she got that far, that a man wouldn’t violate her trust again?

Maybe it was a good thing this was happening. Because she wouldn’t have to deal with the inevitable embarrassment and broken heart when Renzo grew tired of her.

“You’re wrong,” she said coolly, because she refused to let him see that he’d hurt her. “I’m not angry. I’m just tired. I think you’ve misread the situation entirely. I was not inviting you into my bed at all.”

His hand dropped away. Somehow, she managed not to whimper. Not to beg him to touch her again.

“Then I will leave you to your rest,” he said, his voice so cool it chilled her. Then he strode past her without another word and walked out the door.

After he was gone, Faith threw herself onto the bed in a dramatic maneuver worthy of generations of Southern women, and cried into her pillow. Angry tears, she told herself. Angry, frustrated, bitter tears.