spread out below.
“I am Renzo Crisanti,” he had told her, because there was something in him that needed her to know him, whatever that meant. Whatever came next. “And, bellissima, you still haven’t told me your name.”
She had shifted beside him, all sleek lines and the quiet, humming intensity of her considerable beauty—so much like the cars he loved and handled the same way he intended to handle her.
With all his skill and focus. With all the acute ferocity that had propelled him to the top of his profession.
There was a reason Renzo had never had a crash. And he didn’t plan to change his record that night, not even for this mysterious woman who’d already had him tight and hard and greedy when all he’d had of her was a brief touch of her hand.
It was as if he’d never had another woman in his life.
“You can call me Elizabeth,” she’d said.
It was the first lie she’d told him, Renzo thought now, trying to tamp down his temper. But it was nowhere near the last.
He pulled his car over to the side of the road, near what looked like an abandoned old croft—or whatever it was they called their falling-down sheds in this part of England. He cut the engine and unfolded himself from the low-slung sports car, adjusting the ends of the driving gloves he wore out of habit as he stood there beside the vehicle and attempted to access his usual, legendary calm. The motor made its noises, as if protesting that he’d cut the drive short. The summer rain had let off, but the night was still cool. Renzo flipped up the collar of his leather jacket against the pervasive damp and checked his watch, impatient.
And perhaps something a good deal more intense than merely impatient, if he was honest.
Because he had a score to settle with the woman he was meeting here, off in the middle of nowhere, so late at night in a foreign country.
As if he was answering a summons. As if he, Renzo Crisanti, were so malleable and easily led he would travel across the whole of Europe for a woman he had already bedded.
His fingers stung and he released them, unaware he’d clenched his hands into fists at his sides.
At first he thought it was just a shadow, moving rapidly down the hill from one of England’s grand old houses in the distance. The directions she’d sent had been explicit. This country lane to that little byway, skirting around the edges of stately manors and rolling fields lined in hedgerows. But the more he watched, his eyes adjusting to the inky dark, the more he recognized the figure approaching him as Sophie.
Sophie, who’d given Renzo her innocence without thinking to warn him.
Sophie, who had called herself Elizabeth on that long, hot, and impossibly carnal night in Monaco.
Sophie, who had lied to him. To him.
Sophie, who had sneaked away while he slept, leaving him with nothing—not even her real name—until she’d chosen to reveal it in the most humiliating way possible, in a hastily mailed newspaper clipping.
Of Sophie Elizabeth Carmichael-Jones, daughter of a wealthy and titled British family, who was engaged to marry an earl.
Sophie, his Sophie, who would be another man’s wife in the morning.
Renzo’s jaw ached. He forced himself to unclench his teeth, and his fists again, while he was at it. He was a man known far and wide for the boneless, lazy manner with which he conducted both his business and his pleasure. It was his trademark.
It was a mask he had carefully cultivated to hide the truth—that he was a true Sicilian in every sense of the term, especially when it came to the volcanic temper he’d spent his life learning to keep under strict control.
This woman made him a stranger to himself.
She skidded a bit on the wet grass at the bottom of the hill, then righted herself. And her swift, indrawn breath as she started toward him seemed to crack through him like thunder.
There were no lights out here, lost somewhere in England’s greenest hills, for his sins—but Renzo could see her perfectly. He’d meant what he’d told her in Monte Carlo.
He would know her if he was blind.
Her stride. Her scent. The particular way she held her head. The little sound of erotic distress she made in the back of her throat when he—
But this was not the time for such things. Not when there was so much to discuss, and her with the wedding of the year in the morning.
She was wearing a simple pair of leggings tucked into high boots and what looked like long-sleeved shirts, layered one on top of the other. Her clothes molded themselves to her trim figure and showed off the sleek, sweet curve of her behind and those long, long legs he’d had wrapped around his shoulders while he’d thrust deep inside her and made them both groan. Her dark chestnut hair fell down all around her, looking like a soft black curtain in the darkness.
She stopped before him, and for a moment, all he could think about was that night. She’d been sitting naked in his bed, laughing at something he’d said while she’d piled her hair on the top of her head and had tied it in a knot.
So simple. So unconsciously alluring. Then, and now when he knew better.
So devious, he reminded himself harshly.
But what he remembered most was that he’d had her three times by then.
It was a hunger he couldn’t contain, couldn’t reason away, couldn’t even douse afterward when he’d wanted to think of other things. It had been weeks and yet here it was again, as voracious and as greedy as it had been that night in Monaco.
Worse, perhaps, because he had tasted her. Because he knew exactly what he was missing.
Renzo thought he likely vibrated with his need for her, only now it made him as darkly furious as it did hard.
“Renzo...”
She said his name quietly, tipping her head back so she could look him in the eye.
And if her eyes were sad, or resigned, or anything else at all, he told himself he didn’t care.
“How nice to see you again, Sophie,” he said in English, a language they had never spoken to each other.
He saw her shudder at the sound, but he forged on, unwilling to permit himself to do anything but what he’d come here to do.
Which was make her pay.
“Please accept my deepest congratulations on your upcoming wedding. I read all about it in the papers,” he drawled, flint and rage and no mask to hide it. “Tomorrow, is it not?”
* * *
Sophie felt sick.
She wanted to blame it on the shocking news she’d gotten two days ago at her doctor’s office, but she knew better.
It wasn’t the mistake she’d made or the person she now had to accept she was because of it.
