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 end, 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
