What a way to live, seeing only the good.
Needing to wait a few more minutes until midnight to make his call to Italy, Will spent the time thinking about Harper, a pastime that had become almost like breathing. She’d been perfect on their date, from beginning to end. She’d looked—and tasted—like a fantasy. He knew he could have pushed for more in the wake of their kiss, could have stripped her bare in the moonlight, could have tasted her soft skin everywhere and taken her straight to heaven. But despite how much he’d wanted to do just that, he’d also known it meant risking any ground he’d gained with her over dinner.
And even though they’d only just met, he wasn’t willing to chance losing Harper.
Instead, he wanted to know her—wanted to know what made her laugh, what made her sigh, what heated her up, and what cooled her down.
Sitting alone in his office, he had to fight the urge to call her. Three days, and he’d missed her like hell. He’d never called a woman just to hear her voice. Will enjoyed women, of course. But it had always seemed that one female was much the same as another.
Until a smile—and a kiss—from Harper had rocked his world.
Lord, he loved the way she’d practically dived on him, with no restraint, no hesitation. He knew her focus was on Jeremy and her job, and that her needs always came second to those. But for a few moments when she’d been in his arms, nothing had held her back.
At least, not until she’d realized how fast they were going, hitting the gas harder than any race car driver ever had. Will loved speed, lived for it, knew he needed the rush to keep his secret darkness from spiraling out of control again the way it had when he was a teenager. But though speed clearly called to Harper, too, she fought like hell against it. He understood her reasons in the wake of her brother’s and parents’ crashes, and yet he couldn’t help but want her to embrace the rush and the thrill again with him. The same way she’d embraced him for those few precious moments by the aqueduct—with nothing held back.
The truth was, however, that Harper wasn’t the only one who needed time. Will needed it, as well, to force himself to think through his own intentions from all angles.
He’d never romanced a woman before, never pursued one with unwavering focus. The press assumed it was because he was a player, and thankfully they’d never dug deeply into his reasons for keeping all of his relationships on the surface. He’d never let the women he’d been with before Harper get close enough to find out his real story, either.
But if he pursued Harper—if he romanced her, and also helped her tap into that secret well of wildness and passion that he believed ran deep and true inside of her, the way his every instinct demanded—how long would he be able to keep his past hidden? How fast would she leave him if she ever found out what he was really made of and the sins that tainted his soul?
He wished with everything he was that he could rewind the clock, back to that day with the Road Warriors when everything had spiraled so far out of control. But he couldn’t have a do-over. He hadn’t saved that kid. He hadn’t saved the Road Warriors.
And he sure as hell hadn’t saved his own soul.
Will couldn’t stand the thought of hurting Harper in any way. He would never forgive himself if he did. And yet, everything inside of him rebelled at the thought of letting her walk permanently out of his life. Somehow, he needed to find a way to get closer to her while still keeping her safe.
He’d walked a lot of fine lines in his life, but he had a feeling this one just might be the trickiest line of all. Not to mention the most important.
Will’s computer beeped. Midnight. Time for his call. He clicked it into life and a grizzled face appeared on the screen.
“Mr. Franconi, I hope you are having a pleasant evening. I received your email. And the attachments.”
Though he lived in Italy, Rupert Rivoli was French, and his lilting accent had turned to gravel with age and cigars. He could have been anywhere from fifty to eighty. His skin was slightly sallow and dark pouches bloomed beneath his eyes. But he was the best of the best. After getting his contact info from Daniel, Will had researched the man. Rupert had been a master craftsman at Maserati—a miracle worker.
Will had a miracle of his own he wanted the man to perform. “Can it be done, Rupert? Can you make me a Birdcage Maserati kit?”
“Of course it can be done, Mr. Franconi.” He sounded almost offended. “It is only a matter of money. And time.”
“Money is no object. And I’ll pay to have it as quickly as possible.”