Renzo. I don’t think even you can make it go away for good.” She sighed. “I knew if I were seen with you, there was a good chance I’d end up in the papers. And I was willing to take the risk. So whatever happens next, I’ll deal with it.”
She looked determined, strong, even though he knew she was afraid. But that was Faith: practical and brave, and convinced she had to look after herself because no one else would. He pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight. “We will deal with it, cara, should it come to pass.”
“It’s sure to thrill Cottonwood if it gets that far,” she grumbled. “I think I was the most excitement they’d had since Sherman marched to the sea and burned the town down around their ears.”
Renzo blinked. Her voice was syrupy and sweet with that slow drawl he loved, but he didn’t understand the reference. “What is Sherman?”
She laughed softly. “A Civil war general typically reviled in the South. It happened over one hundred years ago. It was very exciting, according to Miss Minnie Blaine, who’s nearly one hundred herself and remembers her grandmama talking about it when she was a child.”
“I should like to visit this South someday,” he said truthfully. “It sounds fascinating.”
She pushed back and arched an eyebrow. “I can see you there, Renzo. Eating barbecued ribs and drinking sweet tea. You’d be the third most exciting thing to happen to Cottonwood.”
“Only the third?” he teased. “Perhaps I should do something a bit more scandalous first.”
She laughed. “Perhaps you’d care to text a nude photo of yourself to the town elders? That would surely get some blood pumping.”
“Happily, cara, if it meant they would forget about your photo.”
She looked wistful, and he reached out to push a strand of hair from her face. “They will never forget it. I am persona non grata in Cottonwood.”
“I doubt that,” he said. “But I understand why you think so. It was a long time ago, and you are a very successful career woman now. Would they truly not welcome you back if you wanted to go?”
She frowned. “I don’t want to go. Ever.”
He understood her conviction. They were more alike than she knew, but instead of telling her so he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. Then they continued down the street, threading their way back toward the apartment and talking about the differences between Georgia and Italy. He was so lost in the conversation that he didn’t realize where they were until it was too late. They emerged from a narrow alley between buildings, out onto a wider thoroughfare, and he realized his mistake. He’d come here as if on autopilot, and he stiffened even as Faith gasped at the magnificent villa before them.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous,” she exclaimed. “Does someone actually live there, or is it open to tourists?”
The wrought iron fence surrounding the Villa de Lucano was imposing, but the house that sat back from the street was ornate, part of its facade carved from Carrara marble and carefully timeworn in that way that only houses in the Old World could be.
The gardens were vast, lush, manicured. A fountain gurgled somewhere out of sight. Renzo imagined children playing there, imagined a father coming outside to greet them after time away, bending to hug them all as they flew into his open arms. It was an old fantasy, and not a particularly welcome one.
“No, it is a private residence,” he said, unable to hide the bitterness in his voice.
She turned to him, her soft eyes questioning. And, in spite of everything she’d shared with him, he still couldn’t seem tell her the shameful truth of his life before he’d become Lorenzo D’Angeli, tycoon, Grand Prix bad boy, superstar.
He wasn’t ready for that. Didn’t know if he would ever be ready for it. He would never, ever allow his life to sink to that level again. Anger surged through him.
He had to win the championship. Had to.
Success was everything. Renzo wanted his father to choke on his success, to regret every single day that he had not found a way to be a part of his son’s life. The conte was proud, and Renzo was the richest, the most successful of his children. And no one knew.
“Is everything okay, Renzo? Does your leg hurt?”
“A bit,” he said, seizing on the excuse. His leg did hurt, but it was a mild discomfort more than anything.
She looked contrite, and for that he felt a pinprick of guilt. He knew she blamed herself, as if the walking was her fault.
“It’s not far now,” he said, guiding her away from the Villa de Lucano. “Just a few minutes more.”
Once they reached the apartment, Renzo laid his keys on a table and went to look out the huge plate window fronting the living area. He’d picked this apartment because of the city view, and because it was the best money could buy. He could see the rooftop of the Villa de Lucano, but that didn’t usually bother him.
Now, however, it irritated him.
He stood with his hands in his pockets and stared at nothing in particular. Faith came to his side and quietly studied the view with him.
“What is it, Renzo?” she finally said when he didn’t move or speak. “I know something is bothering you, and I know it’s not your leg.”
He closed his eyes for a moment. Of course she knew. She was attuned to him somehow. He didn’t understand the connection between them, but he knew there was one. It was odd, and yet somehow necessary, too.
The words he didn’t want to say burned at the back of his throat until he had to let them out or choke on them. “It’s that place. The Villa de Lucano.”
She pulled him around to face her, her green eyes wide and full of concern. “What is it about that place that bothers you so much?”
He studied her for the longest time—the sheen of moisture in her eyes, the determined set to her jaw, the high color in her cheeks. She’d endured much humiliation, and she’d survived it. She’d reinvented herself, the same as he had. She understood what it took to do so.
“The Conte de Lucano is my father,” he found himself saying. And once he’d said that much, he told her the rest. What did it matter? “He does not want to know me. He never has.”
He watched the emotions play over her face: confusion, anger, sadness and worry.
“Oh Renzo, I’m sorry,” she finally said, her voice barely more than a whisper. A moment later, a single tear spilled down her cheek. It stunned him that she would cry for him. He caught the droplet with his thumb, smoothed it away.
“Tears, cara?” he asked.
She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if shaking the tears away. “I’m just emotional. It’s part of being a girl.”
He laughed in spite of himself. In spite of the vise squeezing his chest. She made him laugh, even when he did not want to. He pulled her closer and dipped to nuzzle her hair. He ached inside, but for once it was almost bearable.
“I
