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      To the men in my life—my husband, Mike, who has never met a sport he didn’t like (and who patiently attempts to explain the rules to me every time), and to my dad and father-in-law, who both love motor sports. I still don’t get that hockey thing, and I’ll never understand what makes baseball on television so fascinating, or why anyone wants to watch cars go in circles for hours. But I do, finally, mostly understand American football. I think.

      CHAPTER ONE

      “MISS BLACK, you will accompany me this evening.”

      Faith’s head snapped up. Her boss, Lorenzo D’Angeli, stood in the doorway to his office, looking every bit the arrogant Italian businessman in his custom suit and handmade loafers. Her heart skipped a beat as she contemplated his gorgeous face—all hard angles and sharp planes, deeply bronzed skin, and eyes as sharp and clear blue as a Georgia spring sky. It wasn’t the first time—and likely wouldn’t be the last—but it irritated her that she reacted that way.

      She knew all about men like him. Arrogant, entitled and selfish—she had only to look at the way he treated the women who paraded in and out of his life with ruthless regularity to know it was the truth, in spite of the fact he’d only ever been courteous to her.

      “The dress is formal,” he continued. “If you need clothing, take the afternoon off and charge your purchases to my account.”

      Faith’s heart was skipping in earnest now. She’d often gone shopping for her boss in the six months she’d worked for him, purchasing silk ties or gold cuff links at his direction or picking up little gifts for whatever woman he was seeing at the time, but he’d never told her to shop for herself. It was, without question, unusual.

      And perfectly impossible.

      “I’m sorry, Mr. D’Angeli,” she said as politely as she could, “but I don’t believe I understand you.”

      His stance didn’t soften an inch. “Miss Palmer is no longer going. I need a date.”

      Faith stiffened. Of course. But stepping in because he’d had a fight with yet another woman he was sleeping with was not part of her job description.

      “Mr. D’Angeli,” she began.

      “Faith, I need you.”

      Four words. Four words that somehow managed to stop the breath in her chest and send a tremor over her. Oh, why did she let him get to her? Why did the mere thought of parading around town on his arm make her feel weak when he was the last person she would ever want to be with?

      She forced herself to think logically. He wasn’t saying he needed her. He needed the efficient PA at his side, ever ready to make calls or take notes or rearrange his schedule at a moment’s notice.

      He did not need the woman. Lorenzo D’Angeli needed no woman, she reminded herself.

      “It’s highly inappropriate, Mr. D’Angeli. I cannot go.”

      “Faith, you are the only woman I can count on,” he said. “The only one who does not play games with me.”

      Her ears burned. For God’s sake. Narcissus himself hadn’t been that self-focused. “I don’t play games because I’m your personal assistant, Mr. D’Angeli.”

      “Precisely why I need you with me tonight. I can trust you to behave.”

      Behave? She wanted to smack him. Instead, she gave him an even look, though her pulse was racing along like one of the superbikes that had made D’Angeli Motors famous. For as long as she lived, she’d never understand how she let this man get to her. He was darn pretty to look at, but he believed everything revolved around him.

      Including her, it would seem.

      “Shall I ring Miss Zachetti for you? Or Miss Price? I’m sure they’re available. And if they are not, they certainly will be when they realize who’s calling.”

      They’d fall all over themselves for another night in his company, Faith thought, frowning. She hadn’t yet met a woman who wouldn’t.

      Renzo stalked toward her desk. Then he put his palms on it and leaned down until his eyes were nearly on a level with hers. She could smell his cologne, that expensive scent of man and spice and sleek machine that she always associated with him. No matter how beautifully groomed he was, how perfect, he still had an edge of wildness that made her think of the motorcycles he both built and raced.

      He was famous the world over for his cool. Famous for staring down death at two hundred plus miles an hour on the track with nothing between him and the asphalt but a bit of leather, steel and carbon fiber. This was the man who’d won five world titles before a severe crash left him with pins in his leg and a cane that doctors said he would always need to walk.

      But of course he hadn’t accepted that fate. He’d worked hard to lose the cane, and even harder to get back on the racetrack. His determination had netted him four more world titles and the nickname of the Iron Prince. Iron because he was unbreakable and Prince because he ruled the track.

      And now that iron-willed, determined, unbreakable man was staring at her with eyes so blue and piercing that she dropped her gaze nervously in spite of her determination not to. Faith reached for the telephone, her heart pounding in her throat.

      “Which lucky lady will it be?” she asked, cursing herself for the falsetto note that betrayed her agitation.

      Renzo’s hand lashed out, lay against hers where it rested on the receiver. His skin was warm—shockingly so, she thought, as her flesh seemed