Unnoticed And Untouched

It was a sensual mouth. A cruel mouth. A mouth she wanted on hers.

His eyes snapped open, then went unerringly to her face. The heat she saw there was unmistakable. It nearly fixed her feet to the spot, but she forced herself to move as if nothing was any different. As if they were still Miss Black and Mr. D’Angeli, and this was simply a morning at the office and she was taking him coffee.

Faith set her own drink down and turned back to him. The look in his eyes scorched her, made her long for things she knew she could not have. Things she should not want. She’d been nearly ruined once in her desire to please a man. She would never forget herself again. What she wanted was more important than what a man might want from her.

Men could not be trusted.

Renzo reached up and took her hand in his. Her skin sizzled as fire snaked through her.

“You feel it too,” he said. “I know you do.”

“Renzo—” she began, but he bent and fitted his gorgeous mouth to hers, silencing her.

About the Author

LYNN RAYE HARRIS read her first Mills & Boon® romance when her grandmother carted home a box from a yard sale. She didn’t know she wanted to be a writer then, but she definitely knew she wanted to marry a sheikh or a prince and live the glamorous life she read about in the pages. Instead she married a military man, and moved around the world. These days she makes her home in North Alabama, with her handsome husband and two crazy cats. Writing for Harlequin Mills & Boon is a dream come true. You can visit her at www.lynnrayeharris.com

Books by Lynn Raye Harris:

MARRIAGE BEHIND THE FAÇADE

CAPTIVE BUT FORBIDDEN

STRANGERS IN THE DESERT

Did you know these are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

Unnoticed and Untouched

Lynn Raye Harris

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To the men in my life—my husband, Mike, who has never met a sport he didn’t like (and who patiently attempts to explain the rules to me every time), and to my dad and father-in-law, who both love motor sports. I still don’t get that hockey thing, and I’ll never understand what makes baseball on television so fascinating, or why anyone wants to watch cars go in circles for hours. But I do, finally, mostly understand American football. I think.

CHAPTER ONE

“MISS BLACK, you will accompany me this evening.”

Faith’s head snapped up. Her boss, Lorenzo D’Angeli, stood in the doorway to his office, looking every bit the arrogant Italian businessman in his custom suit and handmade loafers. Her heart skipped a beat as she contemplated his gorgeous face—all hard angles and sharp planes, deeply bronzed skin, and eyes as sharp and clear blue as a Georgia spring sky. It wasn’t the first time—and likely wouldn’t be the last—but it irritated her that she reacted that way.

She knew all about men like him. Arrogant, entitled and selfish—she had only to look at the way he treated the women who paraded in and out of his life with ruthless regularity to know it was the truth, in spite of the fact he’d only ever been courteous to her.

“The dress is formal,” he continued. “If you need clothing, take the afternoon off and charge your purchases to my account.”

Faith’s heart was skipping in earnest now. She’d often gone shopping for her boss in the six months she’d worked for him, purchasing silk ties or gold cuff links at his direction or picking up little gifts for whatever woman he was seeing at the time, but he’d never told her to shop for herself. It was, without question, unusual.

And perfectly impossible.

“I’m sorry, Mr. D’Angeli,” she said as politely as she could, “but I don’t believe I understand you.”

His stance didn’t soften an inch. “Miss Palmer is no longer going. I need a date.”

Faith stiffened. Of course. But stepping in because he’d had a fight with yet another woman he was sleeping with was not part of her job description.

“Mr. D’Angeli,” she began.

“Faith, I need you.”

Four words. Four words that somehow managed to stop the breath in her chest and send a tremor over her. Oh, why did she let him get to her? Why did the mere thought of parading around town on his arm make her feel weak when he was the last person she would ever want to be with?

She forced herself to think logically. He wasn’t saying he needed her. He needed the efficient PA at his side, ever ready to make calls or take notes or rearrange his schedule at a moment’s notice.

He did not need the woman. Lorenzo D’Angeli needed no woman, she reminded herself.

“It’s highly inappropriate, Mr. D’Angeli. I cannot go.”

“Faith, you are the only woman I can count on,” he said. “The only one who does not play games with me.”

Her ears burned. For God’s sake. Narcissus himself hadn’t been that self-focused. “I don’t play games because I’m your personal assistant, Mr. D’Angeli.”

“Precisely why I need you with me tonight. I can trust you to behave.”

Behave? She wanted to smack him. Instead, she gave him an even look, though her pulse was racing along like one of the superbikes that had made D’Angeli Motors famous. For as long as she lived, she’d never understand how she let this man get to her. He was darn pretty to look at, but he believed everything revolved around him.

Including her, it would seem.

“Shall I ring Miss Zachetti for you? Or Miss Price? I’m sure they’re available. And if they are not, they certainly will be when they realize who’s calling.”

They’d fall all over themselves for another night in his company, Faith thought, frowning. She hadn’t yet met a woman who wouldn’t.

Renzo stalked toward her desk. Then he put his palms on it and leaned down until his eyes were nearly on a level with hers. She could smell his cologne, that expensive scent of man and spice and sleek machine that she always associated with him. No matter how beautifully groomed he was, how perfect, he still had an edge of wildness that made her think of the motorcycles he both built and raced.

He was famous the world over for his cool. Famous for staring down death at two hundred plus miles an hour on the track with nothing between him and the asphalt but a bit of leather, steel and carbon fiber. This was the man who’d won five world titles before a severe crash left him with pins in his leg and a cane that doctors said he would always need to walk.

But of course he hadn’t accepted that fate. He’d worked hard to lose 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 Robert Stein did not seem to appreciate his daughter’s interest in Renzo one tiny bit. Though Renzo did not normally care what fathers thought, in this case he wanted it clear that he had no interest in Lissa Stein. For that, he’d needed a date, a woman who would stay close to his side and do his bidding when asked.

Everything had been perfect until this morning when he’d found himself saying the words to Katie Palmer that he usually said to a woman he’d grown tired of. He’d dated her for a month now, and she’d started to grow too clingy. The makeup bag tucked into one corner of his bathroom vanity wasn’t too bad, nor was the toothbrush. Yet it was the shiny pink ladies’ razor with several refills in his shower that, oddly enough, had been the last straw.

He had no problem with a woman spending the night when he invited her to do so. He was, however, quite irritated to find one starting to move herself in piece by piece after only a dozen nights together. Sex was an important and fulfilling aspect of his life, but he saw no need to confuse the issue with cohabitation. Renzo did not need to live with a woman to enjoy her, and he always made it clear in the beginning what his expectations were. Whenever someone crossed that line, they were summarily dismissed from his life.

Katie Palmer was a beautiful woman, an exciting woman, and yet she’d begun to leave him cold even before the pink razor and its endless refills had appeared. He wasn’t quite sure why. She was exactly the sort of woman he usually dated—beautiful, slightly superficial and intellectually undemanding.

Renzo picked up his laptop again and stared at the report he’d been working on. He should have perhaps taken Faith’s suggestion to invite a former girlfriend tonight instead of pressing her into service, but when the idea had first struck him as he’d sat at his desk and stared at a neatly typed memo with a helpful sticky note arrow pointing to the line for his signature, he’d had a sudden idea that taking his capable, mousy little PA with him would be far more productive than taking a woman who expected him to pay attention to her.

If he took Faith, it was business. She was a quiet, competent girl. She was not necessarily unattractive, he supposed, but he’d never really looked at her for signs of beauty. Why would he? She was his PA, and she was quite good at her job. His calendar had never been so orderly or his appointments so seamless.

Faith was perfect, even if she wasn’t much to look at. She wore severe suits in dark colors that hid whatever figure she might have and scraped her golden hair back into ponytails and buns. She looked, truth be told, like a box. She also wore dark-rimmed spectacles.

But her eyes were green. He’d noticed that before, whenever she’d looked up at him through her glasses, her gaze sparking with intelligence. They were not dark like an emerald, but golden green like a spring leaf. And she smelled nice. Like an early-morning rain mingled with exotic flowers. There was no sharp perfume, no stale smell of smoke or alcohol or tanning solution.

But when she’d looked up at him this afternoon, her eyes flashing and a blush spreading over her cheeks, he’d had one wild, inconceivable moment when he’d imagined pulling her across the desk and fitting his mouth to hers.

Which made no sense. Faith Black was neat and efficient and smelled nice, but she wasn’t the kind of woman he preferred. He liked her because she was professional and excellent at everything she did. He was not attracted to her.

It was, he supposed, an anomaly. A sign of the stress he’d been under for the past few months as his engineers worked to bring the Viper to top form. There were problems that had to be worked out or the bike would fail on the track.

And Renzo refused to accept failure. He’d poured a great deal of money and time into the development of this motorcycle, and he needed it to succeed. Success was everything. He’d known that since he was a teenager, since he’d realized that he actually had a father but that his father had not wanted to know him.

Because he wasn’t a blue blood like the Conte de Lucano, or like the conte’s children with his wife. Renzo was the outcast, the unfortunate product of a somewhat hasty affair with a waitress. He hadn’t been supposed to succeed—but he had, spectacularly, and he had every intention of continuing to do so.

Lorenzo D’Angeli never backed down from a challenge. He lived for them, thrived on them.

The limousine came to a halt in front of a plain concrete apartment building in a somewhat shabby neighborhood. Renzo winced as he moved his leg. It ached enough that he should allow his chauffeur to retrieve Faith, but he was just stubborn enough to refuse to permit even that small moment of vulnerability.

The car door opened and Renzo stepped onto the pavement, looking right and left, surveying the street and the people. The area didn’t seem unsafe, yet it was worn. An unwanted memory tugged at his mind as he stood there. Another time, another place.

Another life, when he’d had nothing and had to struggle to feed his mother and younger sister. He’d been angry then, terribly angry. He’d always thought that if his mother had been more forceful, more demanding, she could have at least gotten the conte to make sure they had food and shelter. But she was weak, his mother, though he loved her completely. Too weak to fight back when she should have done so.

He ruthlessly squashed the feelings of helplessness the memory dredged up. Then he strode into the building and made his way to Faith’s apartment on the second floor. There was no elevator. Renzo took the stairs quickly, in spite of the sharp throb in his leg. When he reached Faith’s door, he took a moment to blank the pain from his mind before he rapped sharply.

She answered right away, the door whipping open to reveal a woman who might have made his jaw drop had he not had better control of himself. Faith Black was … different. A small spike of something—he did not know quite what—ricocheted through him as he studied her. She had not transformed into a voluptuous goddess, but she had transformed. Somehow.

The glasses were gone, and she was wearing makeup. He wasn’t certain she ever wore makeup at the office, though perhaps she did. If she did, it wasn’t quite like this, he was certain. Her lips were red, full and shiny from her lip gloss. Kissable.

Kissable?

“Mr. D’Angeli,” she said, blinking in surprise.

“You were expecting someone else?” he asked mildly, and yet the thought of her doing so caused a twinge of irritation to stab into him. Odd.

“I—well, yes. I had thought you were sending your car. I had thought I was meeting you at the event.”

“As you see, this is not the case.” He let his gaze drop slowly before meeting her pretty eyes again. She seemed surprised—and somewhat annoyed. She’d never been anything but professional in all their interactions, but what he saw in her eyes now made him wonder if it was possible that she did not like him.

Impossibile. Of course she did. He’d yet to meet a woman who didn’t. He turned his best smile on her. “You look quite delightful, Miss Black.”

And delectable, he was shocked to realize.

Her hair was piled on her head, but it wasn’t quite as scraped back as usual; instead she’d pulled it into an elegant twist from which one disobedient tendril had escaped to lie against her cheek. Her pale lavender gown was demure, with a high neck, but it was also sleeveless and molded to her full breasts before falling away in ripples of fabric to the floor.

It was disconcerting, to say the least, to realize that she had a shape—and that shape was not a box. Quite the contrary, she was a study in curves, from the soft curve of her jaw to the curve of her bosom and down to the curve of her hips that he could just make out beneath the flowing fabric of her gown. He couldn’t quite take his eyes from her, as if she might change back into the creature he knew if he looked away.

Color stained her cheeks as her green gaze fell from his. Satisfaction rippled through him. She was not immune after all. “Thank you. I—I was just searching for my earring backing. I dropped it and I’m not sure where it’s gone.”

He noticed then that she was only wearing one small diamond earring. “Allow me to help,” he said, pushing the door wider. She stepped back somewhat reluctantly, but she let him inside.

The apartment was small, but neat. The furnishings were worn, and there were a variety of magazines piled on a central table—including a couple of motorcycle magazines, it amused him to note. He was on the cover of the topmost one, in full leathers, looking grim as he stood beside a prototype of the Viper. And with good reason, considering the bike had fallen far short of what he’d been aiming for when he’d taken it out on the track. Not that the reporter had known, of course.