The Change in Di Navarra's Plan Read online

  A sophisticated woman would have arrived wearing the latest fashions and carrying matching luggage—Louis Vuitton, no doubt—instead of dressed like a refugee and carrying snacks.

  She was embarrassed suddenly, and it made her uncomfortable. She knew what it was like to feel like an outsider, like an idiot, and though wearing the wrong clothing and failing to be sophisticated didn’t compare to what had happened before, the shame and anger were similar.

  She felt stupid, useless, and she stood and clenched her fingers into fists, digging her nails into her palms. She’d left naive Faith Winston behind when she’d left home and changed her name, but that Faith sometimes crept up on her and made her feel as if she’d escaped nothing after all. As if she were still the preacher’s daughter who’d been so stupid as to send a scandalous picture to a boy.

  “Ah, Faith,” Renzo said, and she looked up to see him standing just inside the entrance to the main cabin and smiling at her. She swallowed at the sight of him. His sharp blue eyes raked over her, appraising her—and no doubt found her lacking. He was dressed for comfort, too, she noted, but his jeans were designer labeled, and the soft cotton shirt he wore unbuttoned over a navy D’Angeli

  Motors T-shirt was probably hand woven by cloistered virgins or some such.

  Because, if any man could afford such a thing, it would be Renzo.

  He came forward and took her arm, leading her back toward the cabin he’d been in. “You look lovely,” he said in her ear as he stopped just short of the entry.

  Fire leaped along her nerve endings. “No, not really,” she blurted, confusion and fear breaking through the surface of her calm.

  His eyes dropped over her again. “And I say you do.” He gave her arm a squeeze and then led her into the room he’d come from.

  Two men sat at a table, papers spread out across the surface, but they stood as she entered the room with Renzo. She recognized them as two of the engineers on the project. “You have met Bill and Sergio before, have you not?” Renzo said, gesturing to the two men.

  “I’ve met them, yes,” she said, shaking hands with each man in turn. They were polite, but she was certain they were curious. Renzo had an entire staff at his Italian headquarters. Could he really not find a PA who kept his appointments straight?

  Renzo put a hand on the small of her back. It was a possessive move, a familiar move, though it probably only looked gentlemanly to those observing. Faith could feel her color rising, and her gaze dropped away from the other men’s.

  “Let me show you where you will be most comfortable,” Renzo said.

  “Thank you,” Faith murmured. What else could she say? That his fingers were burning into her where they lightly rested on her? That her nerve endings were tingling with awareness? That for the past week she had thought of little else than that kiss they’d shared?

  Renzo steered her toward another area of the plane that had a long couch built along one wall and a flat-screen television that rose up from a cabinet at the touch of a button.

  “You may watch until we take off,” he said. “At that point, it will have to be turned off until we’re in the air.”

  “Thank you,” she said stiffly, standing with her hands folded together while she waited for him to return to his engineers. There was a wall between this room and the office he’d been in, and she could no longer see the two men.

  Renzo laughed softly. “Relax. No one is going to bite you, cara. Unless, of course, you wish it?”

  Her heart turned over. His blue gaze glittered hotly, and for one brief moment she thought he might actually pull her into his arms. Shockingly, a part of her wanted him to do so.

  But only for a moment, only until she got her senses back and realized what a mistake that would be.

  He did not touch her, however, and she began to believe she’d imagined that look that had said he would devour her if she let him. He was toying with her.

  “I think I’ll be fine without any biting,” she said, unable to sound like anything but a prim preacher’s daughter as she said it.

  He laughed again. “You are a delight, Faith Black.” And then he skimmed a finger down her cheek. “But I assure you that you would like it very much if I bit you. I know just where and how to nibble for the most impact.”

  Faith couldn’t breathe. Molten heat rolled through her, pooling between her thighs, making her ache with longing. How did he do it? How did he make her want to forget every last bit of good sense she had and slip between the sheets with him? They were only words, and yet when he spoke them, they were dangerous. Seductive.

  “You really shouldn’t say things like that,” she told him, proud that she managed to speak without choking.

  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.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  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 ho
lds 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 e
nd, 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.