He loomed over her, six feet two inches of gorgeous Italian male who smelled delicious and radiated a lethal sex appeal that had her wanting to wrap herself around him and to hell with the consequences.
Renzo’s brow arched mockingly. “And you shouldn’t refuse to consider the possibilities.”
She had nothing to say to that. Renzo put his hands on her shoulders, then leaned down and brushed his lips across her forehead before turning and leaving without another word.
Her entire body hummed with electricity as she sank onto the couch in a daze. For a whole week, she’d convinced herself that he’d forgotten about their kiss in her apartment, that he’d put it from his mind as inconsequential, that the heat and excitement she’d felt had only been her imagination.
I know just where and how to nibble for the most impact.
Faith shuddered at the images that statement brought to mind. It was a long flight to Rome, and she wasn’t going to sleep a wink.
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.