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Authors: Lynn Raye Harris
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mistake and she wanted to stay right here, thank you very much.
But she hadn’t. And now a car was waiting to take her to JFK for the flight to Italy. She took one last look around, and then locked the door behind her and headed down to the street. The driver had already taken her luggage down, so that when she emerged from the building, he popped out of the car and came around to open her door.
She slid into the plush interior of the black town car and belted herself in for the ride. It took nearly an hour in traffic to reach the airport, but once there she was ushered onto a huge Boeing business jet that belonged to D’Angeli Motors.
The interior was nothing like any plane she’d ever been on. She’d had no occasion to board the company’s international jet before, but now she gaped at the sumptuous interior. Renzo was a wealthy man indeed if he could afford all this. Rich wood grains, buttery leather chairs and couches, a bar, televisions and custom carpeting that had the D’Angeli Motors logo woven into it. It was all so stunning, and it only served to remind her of how ridiculous it was to think he’d actually wanted her the night of theparty. She was not the sort of sophisticated woman who matched this lifestyle.
In fact, she’d been thinking of other plane trips she’d taken in the past and she’d dressed for comfort with the typical economy class seating in mind. She wore stretchy jeans, a hooded sweatshirt and tennis shoes she could slip on and off without untying. In her carry-on backpack, she had a couple of books, an ereader, a music player and headphones, along with a few power bars and a bottle of water. She even had a travel pillow, which seemed silly since she was positive this jet was probably equipped with real pillows and blankets.
A sophisticated woman would have arrived wearing the latest fashions and carrying matching luggage—Louis Vuitton, no doubt—instead of dressed like a refugee and carrying snacks.
She was embarrassed suddenly, and it made her uncomfortable. She knew what it was like to feel like an outsider, like an idiot, and though wearing the wrong clothing and failing to be sophisticated didn’t compare to what had happened before, the shame and anger were similar.
She felt stupid, useless, and she stood and clenched her fingers into fists, digging her nails into her palms. She’d left naive Faith Winston behind when she’d left home and changed her name, but that Faith sometimes crept up on her and made her feel as if she’d escaped nothing after all. As if she were still the preacher’s daughter who’d been so stupid as to send a scandalous picture to a boy.
“Ah, Faith,” Renzo said, and she looked up to see him standing just inside the entrance to the main cabin and smiling at her. She swallowed at the sight of him. His sharp blue eyes raked over her, appraising her—and no doubt found her lacking. He was dressed for comfort, too, she noted, but his jeans were designer labeled, and thesoft cotton shirt he wore unbuttoned over a navy D’Angeli Motors T-shirt was probably hand woven by cloistered virgins or some such.
Because, if any man could afford such a thing, it would be Renzo.
He came forward and took her arm, leading her back toward the cabin he’d been in. “You look lovely,” he said in her ear as he stopped just short of the entry.
Fire leaped along her nerve endings. “No, not really,” she blurted, confusion and fear breaking through the surface of her calm.
His eyes dropped over her again. “And I say you do.” He gave her arm a squeeze and then led her into the room he’d come from.
Two men sat at a table, papers spread out across the surface, but they stood as she entered the room with Renzo. She recognized them as two of the engineers on the project. “You have met Bill and Sergio before, have you not?” Renzo said, gesturing to the two men.
“I’ve met them, yes,” she said, shaking hands with each man in turn. They were
But she hadn’t. And now a car was waiting to take her to JFK for the flight to Italy. She took one last look around, and then locked the door behind her and headed down to the street. The driver had already taken her luggage down, so that when she emerged from the building, he popped out of the car and came around to open her door.
She slid into the plush interior of the black town car and belted herself in for the ride. It took nearly an hour in traffic to reach the airport, but once there she was ushered onto a huge Boeing business jet that belonged to D’Angeli Motors.
The interior was nothing like any plane she’d ever been on. She’d had no occasion to board the company’s international jet before, but now she gaped at the sumptuous interior. Renzo was a wealthy man indeed if he could afford all this. Rich wood grains, buttery leather chairs and couches, a bar, televisions and custom carpeting that had the D’Angeli Motors logo woven into it. It was all so stunning, and it only served to remind her of how ridiculous it was to think he’d actually wanted her the night of theparty. She was not the sort of sophisticated woman who matched this lifestyle.
In fact, she’d been thinking of other plane trips she’d taken in the past and she’d dressed for comfort with the typical economy class seating in mind. She wore stretchy jeans, a hooded sweatshirt and tennis shoes she could slip on and off without untying. In her carry-on backpack, she had a couple of books, an ereader, a music player and headphones, along with a few power bars and a bottle of water. She even had a travel pillow, which seemed silly since she was positive this jet was probably equipped with real pillows and blankets.
A sophisticated woman would have arrived wearing the latest fashions and carrying matching luggage—Louis Vuitton, no doubt—instead of dressed like a refugee and carrying snacks.
She was embarrassed suddenly, and it made her uncomfortable. She knew what it was like to feel like an outsider, like an idiot, and though wearing the wrong clothing and failing to be sophisticated didn’t compare to what had happened before, the shame and anger were similar.
She felt stupid, useless, and she stood and clenched her fingers into fists, digging her nails into her palms. She’d left naive Faith Winston behind when she’d left home and changed her name, but that Faith sometimes crept up on her and made her feel as if she’d escaped nothing after all. As if she were still the preacher’s daughter who’d been so stupid as to send a scandalous picture to a boy.
“Ah, Faith,” Renzo said, and she looked up to see him standing just inside the entrance to the main cabin and smiling at her. She swallowed at the sight of him. His sharp blue eyes raked over her, appraising her—and no doubt found her lacking. He was dressed for comfort, too, she noted, but his jeans were designer labeled, and thesoft cotton shirt he wore unbuttoned over a navy D’Angeli Motors T-shirt was probably hand woven by cloistered virgins or some such.
Because, if any man could afford such a thing, it would be Renzo.
He came forward and took her arm, leading her back toward the cabin he’d been in. “You look lovely,” he said in her ear as he stopped just short of the entry.
Fire leaped along her nerve endings. “No, not really,” she blurted, confusion and fear breaking through the surface of her calm.
His eyes dropped over her again. “And I say you do.” He gave her arm a squeeze and then led her into the room he’d come from.
Two men sat at a table, papers spread out across the surface, but they stood as she entered the room with Renzo. She recognized them as two of the engineers on the project. “You have met Bill and Sergio before, have you not?” Renzo said, gesturing to the two men.
“I’ve met them, yes,” she said, shaking hands with each man in turn. They were
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