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, the 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
