The Change in Di Navarra's Plan

by Lynn Raye Harris

  “A proper litter box, litter, a playhouse—maybe I should just make a list.”

  “I will wait,” he said, and Faith began to scribble on a piece of paper. She handed it over and Renzo read off the items to Fabrizio, who took everything in his stride. Dio, who knew one tiny creature needed so many things?

  When he hung up again, she was watching him. “I forget sometimes just how exalted a life you lead,” she said. “When was the last time you shopped for yourself?”

  Renzo laughed. “I can’t remember, cara. When I want something, I make a call. It is much more preferable to the way I used to live.”

  “And how was that? Like the rest of us mortals?” She was teasing him, and he found he liked it. She was trying so hard to make everything seem normal again. Did he want to give that up by taking her to his bed? He was very afraid he did.

  “There was a time,” he said, “when I didn’t always have enough money to buy food for the day. It’s amazing what you will do when you’re hungry.”

  Her eyes filled with sadness, and he realized he’d said more than he’d meant to say. That was what he got for only having half his mind on the question and the other half on her legs.

  “I’m sorry, Renzo. I know what it’s like to worry about where your next meal is coming from. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

  His senses sharpened at the unhappy note in her voice. “When did this happen to you, Faith?”

  She pushed back from her desk and folded her arms. The movement pressed her already lush breasts even higher. Renzo stifled a groan.

  “I left home without much of a plan. It was inevitable there would be some difficulties along the way.” She shook her head. “But I don’t really want to talk about it. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “You never want to talk about it,” he said, suddenly wanting to know more about her. What did he know, other than she was from Georgia, that she didn’t speak to her family, and that she had a cat that’d died last year?

  Her eyes flashed. “Neither do you,” she accused. “We both tap-dance around the difficult parts of our lives. And maybe that’s best. You’re my boss, not my boyfriend.”

  At that moment, he wanted to be more. He wanted to be the man she told her problems to. The one whose arms she lay in at night before going to sleep.

  Dio, this was insane. Renzo shoved back from the desk and stood. There was only one place he was going to stop thinking about her, at least for a little while. It would only be temporary, but temporary was better than nothing.

  “If you’re finished with your work for the morning, it’s time to go to the track, cara.”

  Something else flashed in her eyes then—fear? Inexplicably, it made him angry. There was nothing to be frightened of. He knew what he was doing. He was Lorenzo D’Angeli. He’d won nine world titles, broken records—and shattered his leg.

  He tightened his fingers into fists at his side. Yes, he’d shattered his leg. And yes, it was bothering him more and more lately. But it was time to take the Viper out and see how it rode now that they’d made the modifications. He wouldn’t push it today, but he had to get a feel for it before training began in earnest.

  “You want me to go with you?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Si, I need you there.”

  She swallowed and turned around to log off her computer. Then she gathered her purse and stood. She didn’t ask why he needed her to come with him and for that he was grateful. Because he couldn’t give her a reason, other than he simply wanted her to be there.

  He turned to go but she stopped him with a word.

  “Renzo,” she said, and he turned back to her. Her green eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed. “I want you to promise me that if your leg starts to bother you, you won’t push yourself,” she said, clutching her purse in front of her like a shield. “It’s not worth the risk.”

  He took a step closer to her, stopped. “Would you be upset if something happened to me, cara?”

  “A lot of people would,” she said, her lashes dipping to cover her eyes. “A lot of people depend on you.”

  “But would you be upset?”

  He wasn’t sure she would look at him, but she lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Yes, of course I would.”

  Some feeling he couldn’t name curled inside him, warming him. “Then I suppose I will have to be careful.”

  If this was his idea of careful, then Faith wanted to scream. He’d taken her to a test track near the D’Angeli factory where she’d accompanied him as he’d inspected the Viper before suiting up and taking the beast out.

  The motorcycle was wicked, with its cool carbon frame and cherry-red paint. It was wide in the front and narrow in the back, and didn’t look at all like something any sane person would want to ride at the speeds Grand Prix racers rode. While the men had oohed and ahhed, she’d chewed the inside of her lip until it was nearly raw.

  What if his leg cramped? What if he had an accident? What if, what if, what if?

  Renzo had spent time conferring with his team before he’d gone to change. When he’d returned, he was clad head to toe in dark leather. It wasn’t the leather he wore when racing, which was covered with logos and advertising, but it was still familiar from the photos she’d seen of him in his gear. He was wearing the knee sliders, the gloves, the lightweight boots and, when he turned to the side, the hump of the back protector was clearly visible.

  She’d stood quietly by until he’d told someone to take her to the observation box. She’d stared at him, wanting to say something, until she’d finally had to turn and follow the man who was taking her away.

  Now, she sat in the box and clenched her hands into tight fists as Renzo raced along a track that curved up high on the sides and contained at least one switchback, which he regularly took at lightning speed.

  The motorcycle roared into the curves—and that’s when Faith couldn’t breathe. She’d watched footage of the races previously, because she’d felt it necessary if she was working at D’Angeli Motors, but she’d never before thought she was going to scream each time the motorcycle lay flat on its side, Renzo’s knee and elbow skimming the ground before it came out on the other side and he throttled it higher, zooming into hyper speeds.

  It was, without doubt, the most insane thing she’d ever witnessed—and that was going some, considering she was from the American South and car racing was a favored sport of many people there. But no car race she’d ever been forced to watch with her family could compare to the outright insanity of this.

  When Renzo finally finished his run in what seemed like a century later, she wilted in relief. He brought the motorcycle to a stop, though not until after doing a series of wheelies, and climbed off as someone prepared to take the bike from him.

  What happened next brought a gasp from her companions in the box—and sent her racing down the stairs as fast as she could go in her high heels.

  The instant Renzo’s right foot had touched the tarmac, he’d buckled into a heap.

  By the time she reached ground level and burst out onto the track, he was standing and shaking his head as someone said something to him. He’d raised the visor on his helmet, but now he removed it and laid it on the seat as she barreled toward him.

  Faith stopped short as several pairs of eyes turned toward her, questioning. But it was the look in Renzo’s eyes that most concerned her. There was pain, she could clearly see that, but he was doing his best to hide it. Not only that, but he glared daggers at her. A warning.

  “I beg your pardon,” she said, even though her heart raced and a fine sheen of sweat broke out between her breasts. She had to salvage this somehow, had to help him out of the situation. “But, uh, you have an important conference call scheduled quite soon, Mr. D’Angeli. I thought you might have forgotten it in the excitement of testing the, uh, th
e Viper.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Thank you, Miss Black.”

  He turned back to the men and said a few things in Italian, and then he was moving toward her, no trace of a limp as he strode with the confidence and surety that she was accustomed to seeing in him.

  But she could tell he was hurting. The corners of his mouth were tight and there was a groove in his forehead as he concentrated hard on walking without letting the pain show. They swept into the factory and then took an elevator up to his office. Once inside, he still didn’t give in to the agony he was surely feeling. He walked over to his desk and sat down, his body still encased in racing leather.

  And then he folded over until his head was on his arms and she could hear him breathing deeply.

  “Renzo,” she said, choking back tears as she went to his side and sank down beside him. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “There is nothing.”

  She reached up with shaking fingers and touched his sweat-soaked hair. “I’m sorry. I seem to say that quite a lot, but I don’t know what else to say.” She let her hand drop to his shoulder, squeezed. “I think you should take a pain pill. And then you should call your doctor.”

  “No doctors,” he said. “No pills.”

  Frustration pounded into her. “You can’t just endure it,” she said, trying to reason with him. “At least take a pill.”

  He pushed himself upright and her heart twisted as she got a look at him. His eyes were glazed, as if he’d been on the edge of tears.

  “Does it hurt that badly?”

  He gave a poor imitation of a laugh. “Worse.”

  Faith swallowed the lump in her throat. “Please consider taking a pain pill.”

  “Give me some of those pills from your purse,” he said. “Maybe that will do the trick.”

  She didn’t think so, but she dutifully complied, finding bottled water in the refrigerator built into the sleek counter on one wall. He’d removed his gloves by the time she returned to him, and he took the pills, draining half the water, then leaned back in his chair, one hand spanning his forehead as he sat with his eyes closed.

  “How was the Viper to ride?” she asked. “Was it everything you’d hoped?”

  He actually smiled. “It was glorious, cara mia. Almost perfect. There are a few tweaks required, but she’ll be ready to go when it’s time.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Except, of course, Renzo would insist on riding the motorcycle himself instead of giving it to one of the racing team to ride. “What happened when you got off the Viper, Renzo?”

  She wasn’t sure he would tell her, but then he sighed. “My leg started to cramp on the final few laps. And that last turn was a bit hard on the knee. The pain was…

  surprising, I suppose.”

  “You promised not to push it,” she said tightly. “I wish you would at least see a doctor. He might be able to help.”

  His blue eyes were piercing when they snapped open. “No. I’ve seen doctors. There is nothing they can tell me that I do not already know.”

  “Do you really think you can ride the Viper for an entire season? How will you explain it if you can’t stand up when they hand you the trophy?” She could think of far worse scenarios, but she couldn’t bring herself to say them. He knew the possibilities as well as she did.

  His voice was as hard as diamonds. “I can ride, Faith. There is no other choice.”

  She swallowed the fear and bitterness roiling in her belly. “I don’t understand that, Renzo. You have an entire racing team at your disposal. Men who know how this is done as well as you do.”

  “They don’t know,” he snapped, before muttering something in Italian. “I am one of the top-ranked riders in the world. And I know my motorcycles. It has to be me. This is the Viper’s debut. It has to succeed, and for that to happen, I must be the one riding. The sponsors are counting on it. The company is counting on it. Do you wish to find yourself downsized because the Viper fails?”

  She knew how much it meant to him, how proud he was, and yet she didn’t believe it was as dire as he made it out to be. Yes, they might lose sponsors and, yes, the newest production model might not sell as well as hoped if the Viper was a disaster. Gavretti Manufacturing might even gain the upper hand on them, which would no doubt anger Renzo a great deal.

  But so what? He would be alive and able to bring the company back from the edge of whatever misfortune they might teeter upon. “D’Angeli isn’t going to go broke if the Viper doesn’t smash records,” Faith said firmly.

  He looked at her darkly for several moments. And then he stood, his face whitening briefly as he clutched the edge of the desk. “I’ll shower and change and then we can go back to the villa.”

  Faith ground her teeth in frustration. Typical man. He didn’t want to talk about it when she pointed out the flaws in his logic.

  He started to limp toward the adjoining bath, but she hurried over and slid an arm around his waist. He might be stubborn, but she couldn’t watch him suffer.

  “Grazie,” he said, leaning on her as she helped him into the bathroom. It was a luxurious room, outfitted in exotic African hardwoods and sleek chrome fixtures. There was a huge shower at one end, entirely encased in glass, complete with a bench and several nozzles up and down the walls on three sides, as well as one overhead.

  “Sit,” she told him when they reached the leather couch in the dressing area off to one side.

  He did as she said, and then she bent to take his boots off even though he had not asked her to. But how could he manage it when his leg still hurt? She got one boot off, and then the other before tackling the knee sliders, which were separate from the leathers because they had to be replaced so often. These were scraped pretty badly from his contact with the track, and it made her shudder to think again of how he lay almost flat on his side every time he went around a curve.

  The barest slip of control and he and the bike would go their separate ways. At two hundred miles an hour.

  Faith shuddered again. The leathers were made for protection, with Kevlar and titanium in the most vulnerable spots, but the last thing she wanted was to see firsthand how good the protection they provided was.

  How was it that one of the other talented riders on the D’Angeli team couldn’t ride the Viper? She didn’t believe it for a moment, no matter how good Renzo was. With Renzo as a teacher, how could his team fail? He was simply too proud, too stubborn, to admit he couldn’t do this any longer.

  She got the sliders off and then lifted her head to look at him. The last thing she expected to see was the jut of an impressive arousal against the leather. Her gaze flew to his.

  He smiled crookedly. “I could see down your shirt,” he said, not the least bit apologetic. “It’s a nice view.”

  “You’re in no shape to be thinking about my breasts,” she told him somewhat prudishly, her cheeks flaring with heat.

  He laughed. “Cara, I’d have to be dead not to think about your breasts. I assure you I’m quite capable of thinking about them. Of thinking of every centimeter of your body, I should add.”

  Faith got to her feet and stood stiffly, in spite of the fact her body was doing that softening-melting-aching thing again. “I think you can do the rest yourself,” she said. “I’ll wait in the office.”

  He stood, his face less tight now, and tugged at the zipper that held the leathers in place. It was like having that magazine ad come to life, she thought, as her breath caught and held while the zipper slid downward. Unlike in the magazine, there was a tight shirt beneath the leather, but it was still one of the sexiest things she’d ever seen.

  “I’ll be, um, in the office,” she said, turning away as he laughed.

  “You could stay, Faith. Wash my back.”

  She spun to face him again just as he
shrugged out of the top half of the leathers and then peeled the shirt up and off. She’d seen his naked chest last night, but it had been dark. Now he stood before her in all his hard-bodied glory, muscles rippling and flexing beneath bronzed skin—and then she noticed a three-pronged scratch skating over one pectoral muscle.

  Faith frowned even as her heart did that funny little skip thing again. She thought of him last night with a tiny mewing bundle in his arms. “Lola did that?”

  He glanced down. “Si—but it is nothing.”

  And then he was staring at her again, blue eyes daring her. Only a few minutes ago, he’d been in enough pain to bring tears to his eyes, and now he was standing there like some sexy demigod and tempting her into the kind of behavior that ought to make her turn and run right this instant. Instead, she was imagining it. Considering it.

  Wanting it.

  “How about it, Faith?” he said, his voice a sexy rumble. “Do you want to wash my back?”

  “I—I—” She closed her eyes, darted her tongue over her lips. She was not doing this. She was not stripping her clothing and stepping into that shower with him when he’d probably done the same thing a million times before with a million different women. She couldn’t. “I’ll be in the office, Renzo.”

  Before he could say another word, she hurried out the door and shut it firmly behind her. But his laughter echoed after her until she almost turned around and went back just so she could look at him one more time. Instead, she retreated to a chair by the window and forced herself to sit with her hands in her lap and stare at the Tuscan hills.

  He emerged twenty minutes later, dressed in the trousers and button-down shirt he’d worn earlier, his hair still damp and curling sexily over his collar. Faith stood, clasping her hands together to hide their trembling. Her heart was still racing, and her body still ached, no matter that she’d sat and tried to will the feelings away.

  It didn’t work that way, apparently. She wanted things she’d never wanted before, and she didn’t quite know how to get them. How to take that plunge that would mean the difference between continuing the way she had been, and knowing what it meant to be a sensual creature focused on her own pleasure.