Unnoticed And Untouched. Lynn Raye Harris

the cane, and even harder to get back on the racetrack. His determination had netted him four more world titles and the nickname of the Iron Prince. Iron because he was unbreakable and Prince because he ruled the track.

      And now that iron-willed, determined, unbreakable man was staring at her with eyes so blue and piercing that she dropped her gaze nervously in spite of her determination not to. Faith reached for the telephone, her heart pounding in her throat.

      “Which lucky lady will it be?” she asked, cursing herself for the falsetto note that betrayed her agitation.

      Renzo’s hand lashed out, lay against hers where it rested on the receiver. His skin was warm—shockingly so, she thought, as her flesh seemed to sizzle and burn beneath his. A surge of energy passed through her fingers, her wrist, up her forearm, down her torso and up her spine at the same time. Her body responded with a tightening that was very much unlike her.

      “There is a bonus in it for you, Miss Black,” Renzo said, his voice silky smooth as it caressed her name. “Whatever clothing you buy, you may keep. And I shall pay you one month’s salary for complying with my simple request. This is good, si?”

      Faith closed her eyes. Good? It was great. A month’s extra pay would look very good in her bank account. It would put her that much closer to being able to buy a condo for herself instead of renting an apartment. When she had her own place, she’d finally feel like she’d accomplished something. Like she’d left the Georgia clay behind and made something of herself, in spite of her father’s pronouncement that she never would amount to anything.

      But she should still refuse. Wherever Lorenzo D’Angeli went, there were photographers and media and attention. She didn’t want or need that, hadn’t ever worried about it as a PA in an office. But as the woman on his arm, no matter that it was simply a job?

      It wouldn’t matter that it wasn’t real. Her picture would be taken. She could end up on the front page of some tabloid….

      And just as quickly the photo would disappear. It was one night, not a lifetime. What were the chances anyone would see a photo of Faith Black and connect her to Faith Louise Winston?

      Poor, disgraced Faith Winston. She shivered inwardly. She would not live her life in fear of that single mistake returning to the fore. She was a grown woman now, not a naive teenager.

      “Where is the event?” she asked, cursing herself even as she did so. It was a crack in her resolve, and he knew it.

      The pressure of Renzo’s hand eased, fell away. His eyes gleamed hotter than before—or perhaps she was hallucinating. Yes, of course. Hallucinating. Because there was no way he was looking at her with heat in his gaze.

      “Manhattan,” he said. “Fifth Avenue.” He stood to his full height, and she tilted her head back to look up at him. A satisfied smile lifted the corners of his sensual mouth. “Please be ready by seven, Miss Black. My car will call for you then.”

      “I have not agreed to go,” she said, her mouth as dry as a desert—but they both knew she was on the precipice of surrender. Yet some stubborn part of her refused to cave in so easily. Everything came so effortlessly to this man, and she had no desire to be yet another thing that fell into his lap simply because he wanted it to happen. The one time she’d allowed a man to talk her into something she’d been reluctant to do, the consequences had been disastrous.

      But this man was her boss. He was not pretending an affection he did not feel simply to get her to comply with his request. And she was no longer an impressionable eighteen-year-old—how disastrous could the consequences really be?

      “You have nothing to lose, Faith,” Renzo said, his accent sliding over her name so sensuously that she shivered in spite of herself. “And much to gain.”

      “This is not part of my job description,” she insisted, clinging to that one truth in the face of his beautiful persuasion.

      “No, it is not.”

      They stared at each other without speaking—and then he bent to her level again, palms on the desk once more.

      “You would be doing me a great favor,” he said. “And you would be helping D’Angeli Motors in the process.”

      And then he smiled that killer smile of his, the one that made supermodels, nubile actresses and picture-perfect beauty queens swoon in delight. She was alarmed to realize she was not as unaffected as she’d always supposed she would be.

      “You are of course free to refuse, but I would be most grateful to you, Faith, if you did not.”

      “This is not a date,” she said firmly. “It’s business.”

      He laughed, and she felt the heat of embarrassment slip through her. Why had she said that? Of course he wouldn’t see her as a real date. She was too plain to ever be taken seriously as his date, but if he wanted to pay her to pretend, then fine. So long as they kept everything on a business foundation, she’d take the money and run.

      “Assolutamente, cara,” Renzo said, gifting her once more with that smile, with the laser intensity of deep blue eyes boring into hers. “Now please, take the afternoon off. Go to Saks. My car will take you.”

      “I’m sure I can find something suitable in my closet,” she insisted.

      His look said he doubted it. “You happen to have the latest designer attire in your closet, Miss Black? Something appropriate for a gathering of New York’s elite?”

      Shame coiled within her. He paid her quite well, but she wasn’t a fashionista. Not only that, but she had a condo to save for and no need to wear a formal gown. Until now. “Probably not,” she admitted.

      His smile was indulgent, patient. “Then go. This is part of the deal, Miss Black.”

      He disappeared behind his office door as if he had no doubts she would obey. Faith wanted to protest, but instead she sighed. And then she logged off her computer and gathered her purse. She’d launched herself into the deep end. She had no choice but to sink or swim.

      Renzo’s leg ached tonight. He set his laptop aside and rubbed his hand against the pain as the Escalade moved through Brooklyn traffic on the way to his PA’s apartment. The discomfort was growing worse as the months went by, not better. He swore softly. His doctors had told him this might happen, but he’d worked too hard to let everything he’d gained slide away. He’d defeated the pain once; he would do so again.

      He curled his hand into a fist and dug into the muscle. He wasn’t finished yet. He refused to be.

      Niccolo Gavretti of Gavretti Manufacturing was his biggest competitor, and Niccolo would love nothing more than to see Renzo lose not only the next world title but also D’Angeli’s domination of the market. Renzo frowned as he thought of Niccolo. They’d been friends once, or at least Renzo had thought they had.

      He knew better now.

      And he would not lose. He would be the one to take the D’Angeli Viper onto the track and prove that he’d created the greatest superbike the racing world had ever seen—once the kinks in the design were worked out—and he would win another world title in the process.

      His investors would be happy, the money would keep flowing and the next production version would be a huge hit with the public. Then Renzo would gladly retire from racing and leave it to the D’Angeli team to continue to dominate the motorcycle Grand Prix circuit.

      Dio, per favore, one last title—one last victory—and he would stop.

      Tonight was critical to his success, and he hoped he had not made a mistake in asking his plain but efficient secretary to accompany him. Desperate times, however, called for desperate measures.

      He could appear at Robert Stein’s party alone, of course. Perhaps everything would be fine if he did. But he had no desire to spend the evening avoiding Stein’s daughter. Lissa was too young, too spoiled and too obvious in her attention.

      And