Forever Rome (Forever #1)

by Brittney Sahin

  His lips drew together in a straight line, and he stared at me. Even though I didn’t know him, I sensed a sadness lurked beneath the surface. He lifted his glass and finished off his drink. “Most can, I believe,” he answered as he motioned to the bartender for another round.

  A painful silence filled the room for a few minutes. We didn’t even look at each other. I slid money onto the counter, prepared to leave, but the sexy stranger’s hand covered mine, and I stared down. My heart thundered in my chest, banging loud in my ears.

  He quickly removed his hand. “I ordered you another drink. And that one,” he said, nodding at my almost empty glass, “is on me as well.”

  “That’s not necessary, but thank you.”

  “Please. It would be—how do you say—offensive, to turn my offer down.”

  Really? Well, I certainly didn’t want to offend him. “Thank you.” I nodded at the bartender as he replaced my glass with a full one, then I put the small wad of euros back into my purse.

  My alluring stranger raised his drink in the air, and I followed suit. He clinked my glass, his eyes holding mine, and said, “Salute.” I remembered that one from my aunt.

  “Salute,” I returned.

  “Would you care to join me?” He tipped his head toward the army of empty tables.

  “Jeez. I don’t know. Are there any to choose from?” A smile skirted my lips, and I pushed to my feet. He slipped his arm behind me and picked up my drink. My eyes fixated on his tall, muscular body as he moved before me. He was a little over six feet and, God, he was in shape. He had the physique of someone who took care of his body. Really good care . . .

  I rubbed my neck and sat down on the black leather seat. “Beautiful view,” I murmured, looking out the window, finding his reflection.

  “Amazing,” he responded, his eyes landing on mine, which had me swallowing hard.

  “So, um, what’s your name?” My hands fell to my lap, and I rubbed them against my jeaned thighs, trying to get a grip.

  Was I contemplating the first one-night stand of my life? But I was in Rome, right? If it couldn’t happen here . . .

  “My friends call me Marc. You?”

  “Maggie.”

  “Mm. Beautiful name.”

  Oh God. The fluttering in my chest. The rapid beating of wings that was my heart. I eyed my drink. It had to be the alcohol making me feel like this.

  “How long are you in Roma?”

  “Three weeks.”

  A slow breath escaped his lips, and he arched his shoulders as he leaned against the back of his seat. His hands rested casually on the table in front of him, and my eyes wandered to the veins in his forearms and up to his biceps again.

  I mentally pinched myself, trying to reel my hormones back into control. I was here on business. I couldn’t spend the whole time running around with some hot Italian I didn’t even know.

  Of course, maybe he had no desire to jet around town with me. He was a ten plus, and although I had confidence, his looks were just—wow. Not that looks were my top priority in a man—there were so many more important qualities a man needed to attract my attention. I just couldn’t think of them right now.

  “So, Marc, what do you do?” I hadn’t planned on getting into the work topic, but what else do people discuss?

  He waved a hand in the air. “Nothing special.”

  That’s it? That’s all I get?

  “You?” His lips spread into a deep smile, which exposed dimples.

  That was the final blow . . . I was lost.

  My fingers danced across my collarbone as I decided what I wanted to say. Since he hadn’t given me much, I vaguely answered, “I’m a writer.”

  He slid his drink off to the side and leaned forward, pressing his elbows to the table. He laced his fingers together, and it took all my strength not to focus on his strong hands.

  “What do you write?”

  Okay, so maybe a little lie would be okay. I didn’t want to talk about the one thing I always talked about. Yes, I lived and breathed football, but tonight—or it was technically the morning—I just wanted to be a woman. And not an “oh how interesting, most women don’t know so much about football” kind of woman. There was more to me than my love of the game.

  “Novels.” I straightened in my seat and wet my lips.

  “Ah. What kind? Anything I would know?”

  “Um. Romance.” Jeez. I had no idea why I chose that genre. I don’t even read romance books. Then again, my brain seemed to be wired to one channel, and I couldn’t change it.

  “Ohhh.” Marc lifted his hands from the table and reached for his drink.

  Did he feel the need to cool off as much as I did? It certainly was a first for me—this loss of words, the struggle for sentences.

  What was this man doing to me?

  Jet lag. Alcohol. I tried to rationalize my desire.

  I watched the subtle movements of his muscular chest as it rose and fell.

  “Maybe you could write about an Italian man falling for an American.” His deep voice sang in my ears, and I shuddered at his words.

  “I don’t know. Sounds a bit cliché.” I laughed.

  “Oh? This has been done before?” He perked a brow and propped his arm up on the back of the chair, his bicep front and center.

  I waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure. I’m not much of a roman—” I stopped myself, realizing I was about to screw up my lie.

  I knew nothing of romance books or movies. Why hadn’t I said I wrote sports fiction? Idiot. “I should probably get some rest. I have to be somewhere tomorrow.” We’d just sat down, but I didn’t think I could continue sitting across from him any longer without an oxygen tank and a few quick lessons on how to flirt.

  “Are you, uh, here for research or a book signing?”

  “Um. Something like that.” I stood up, and he rose as well.

  “Let me walk you to your room.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a few euros on the table. More than enough to cover our drinks. I liked that, especially since tipping in Europe was not as commonplace as it was in the States.

  “Thank you for the drinks.”

  He nodded at me, then exchanged a few words with the bartender before I followed him out of the bar.

  He lowered his head, studying the tiled floor as we walked through the nearly empty lobby. Was he nervous? He hadn’t seemed shy before.

  Then we were alone in the elevator. “What floor?”

  “Ten.”

  “My lucky number.” He pressed the button and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets as the golden doors closed.

  I rubbed my hands up and down the long, white sleeves of my scoop-neck shirt, trying to fight back the nerves that strangled my insides. I bit my lip and looked up at him from the corners of my eyes.

  His gaze was liquid titanium as he looked back at me.

  The sound of the doors chiming open set me back on my heels.

  He held his hand out, motioning for me to exit. I pressed my lips into a half smile and nodded before passing him by.

  I walked down the flowery carpet and to my room, hoping to slow my pulse, hoping that, when I talked next, my words wouldn’t shake. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Marc.” My voice only wavered a hair.

  His eyes narrowed on me, and his fingers brushed across my shoulder.

  “Goodnight, Signorina.” He leaned forward, and I unfastened at the seams. I pressed up on my toes, and my lips found his.

  Then I realized that I didn’t feel any response from him. His lips remained stiff, unmoving. I pulled back and covered my mouth with my hand. He’d probably been planning on kissing me on each cheek—the Italian tradition. Embarrassment ripped me apart in a nanosecond. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

  His breathing was more rapid now as his chest heaved up and down. His eyes darkened as his hand went up to my cheek, then to the back of my head. He pulled me against him and his lips crashed onto mine.

  Heat snaked through me
this time. It was hot. Sexy. And brutally delicious. Better than I could have ever expected.

  His tongue slipped inside my mouth, and he pulled me closer to him, his hard chest pressing against mine, my nipples straining in my bra, desperate to be freed.

  “Merda,” he said once our lips parted.

  He was still holding my head with his one hand, and I forced my eyes open and looked up at him. There was pain, or maybe sadness, there. The same look that I remembered from earlier.

  I took a small step back and bumped into the door. “Goodnight.” I thought the kiss had been pretty damn good, myself, but I also remembered the translation for “merda.”

  Shit.

  His hand fell heavy at his side, and I turned away from him, pressing my hand to the door. Bracing myself, I could feel his breath at my ear.

  “Sweet dreams, Maggie. Ciao.”

  I didn’t turn to watch him leave, but as I dug into my purse for my key, I could hear the elevator doors ding.

  Two

  “You look like shit.”

  I spun, whipping the ends of my long blonde hair in Will’s face.

  Well, he deserved it. I showed my teeth and snarled.

  I’m not much of a morning person. Throw in jet lag, a few hours of sleep, and tossing and turning over that damn Italian guy from the bar—not a good mix.

  Will’s mouth broke into a smile, and I slapped him on the chest. “Just kidding, babe. You look mighty fine.” He winked at me, wrapped his long arm around my shoulder, and pulled me close to him as we walked down the hall and to the conference room. The camera hanging around his neck collided with my arm, and I shifted away from him and rubbed my elbow.

  Then a man bumped into my other shoulder. “Ah. Scusi,” he said. Jeez. I was two for two. What next?

  I peeked at the man, hoping it was Marc. My shoulders shrank with disappointment when my eyes landed upon a five and half-foot-tall, scrawny man with slicked back brown hair, shiny black eyes, and even shinier shoes. He was dressed in fitted suit pants, a tailored jacket, and a stick-thin tie.

  I eyed another man as he, too, brushed past me in a wrinkled and ill-fitting suit.

  Why was everyone in such a hurry to get to the conference? Were we late?

  I checked my watch and realized it was still set on New York time. I fidgeted with the tiny silver knob, trying to adjust the time, but struggled with concentrating on the task while also trying to stay upright in high heels, even if they were only two inches.

  “Did you finally do your homework on this Valenti guy?” Will whispered as we entered the conference room, which was jam-packed with journalists and photographers. There were ten rows of chairs—probably two hundred seats in all. And almost all were filled.

  I pointed to the few empty seats in the back and settled in, ducking my head to correct the time on my watch. Now that I was surrounded by soccer experts, the sting of embarrassment crept up on me. I hated being at a disadvantage. “No,” I answered Will. “I prefer the mystery,” I lied.

  What could I tell him? That I’d spent my night drinking with a hot Italian and my morning nursing a headache?

  Will took off his camera and craned his neck around the tall guy who was sitting in front of us. I basically had no view of the stage. Oh well. Seeing was overrated, anyway.

  I reached into my purse for a notebook and pen.

  The soccer coach came on stage and began speaking in Italian. After a few moments, the coach restated his comments in English. He spoke about the upcoming season and how he hoped for another great year. I wasn’t sure if his English was only subpar, or he was bummed out about something—like he’d discovered his wife in bed with another guy, or his dog had died that morning.

  “Now, I would . . .” He cleared his throat, then continued, “like to present . . .” The coach’s words sounded like they were being dragged through the muck, getting stuck in his throat.

  I wriggled in my seat, trying to get a better look to see if the coach was going to cry, but the tall guy in front of me was an indomitable obstacle. I stared down at my notebook as Will needled me in the ribs. “What?” I mouthed to him, my eyes shooting daggers.

  He jerked his head at the stage.

  “Marco Valenti,” the coach said.

  Cameras began snapping, and the audience buzzed to life before silence controlled the room. Hopefully Marco had a pulse, unlike his coach.

  I bobbed my head over to the side, but I still couldn’t quite make him out.

  “I.”

  There was just that one word at first.

  “I will not be playing this season,” Marco announced, making it clear why the coach’s voice had dripped with sadness.

  I was on my feet, as all the other reporters were, but my mouth was parted for a much different reason.

  I knew that voice. That deep, sexy, amazing voice. It was from him—the guy from the bar.

  Oh my God. I moved out of my place and off to the side of the room to get a better look. My heart skipped up into my throat as my eyes landed on Marc—Marco Valenti. And he was looking right back at me.

  A flood of questions pounded him from all around, and he gripped the sides of the podium as if to ground himself. His silver eyes, like bullets, claimed me.

  “What does this mean?” one reporter shouted.

  “Are you retiring?” another asked. “Is this because you ended last season so poorly?”

  “What’s going on, Valenti?” a deep man’s voice registered loud in my ears. “Why?”

  A few more questions in Italian followed, and Marco’s attention shifted to someone in the front row.

  I clenched the pen and notebook in my hands, wondering what in the hell I should do. Could I ask a question? I couldn’t think straight, let alone voice my thoughts above the roar of this crowd.

  I freaking kissed Marco Valenti.

  Shit. Shit. Shitty shit.

  Will was looking at me, and I sucked in a breath as he rubbed a hand over his jaw. He probably thought my shock and awe had to do with Valenti’s announcement—he seemed pretty surprised himself.

  No wonder the bartender had seemed so star struck. When we’d walked through the lobby, he was looking down like he was shy. But, no—he didn’t want anyone to recognize him.

  How had I let this happen?

  My ears perked at the round of questions:

  “Are you skipping the entire season?”

  “What is this all about? You were the—are the best player in the game of football.”

  “Are you going to another team?”

  “Does this have anything to do with your broken engagement from Sophia Rossi?”

  Marco remained quiet, and his eyes found mine again. His lips parted for a brief moment before he finally spoke. “I am sorry, but that will be all.” His voice cut through the room. Then he turned his back to the crowd, effectively ending the questions by absenting the microphone. He moved fast off stage, darting through the side doors and disappearing. Before I realized what the hell I was doing, I followed after him.

  His fist tapped at the wall as he rushed down the hall.

  “Marc!”

  He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned to face me. “Maggie.” His voice skated over my skin, giving me the chills. It was as if we were long-lost lovers who had recently found each other after years apart. Was this how all Italians sounded? The Italian Casanova was a stereotype, right?

  I had to stop. I was doing it again. Thinking too much.

  “Che palle.” He was standing before me now, and I unconsciously breathed in his spicy cologne.

  “Huh?”

  “You have balls,” he said with a smile to his eyes. He shoved his hands in his black slacks pockets and tipped his head, studying me.

  “I—what?”

  He swooped his hands back out of his pockets and touched my elbow. “Christo! Come on.”

  He rushed me down the hall, away from the pack of reporters who sped at us like hyenas. My heels clicked lo
ud against the floor as we rounded corner after corner.

  His large hand gripped the handle of a door, and I found myself breathless, with my back to the wall of a stairwell.

  He was inches in front of me with his hand propped against the wall above my shoulder. His head angled, and his eyes focused, assessing me. “You snuck into the conference? You have balls.” He pushed away from the wall, giving me the space I needed to breathe.

  I looked down at my notebook and tightened the grip on my pen, hoping to control my nerves. “I didn’t sneak in.” I released a breath and forced myself to look at him.

  Big mistake.

  He ran a hand through his gorgeous hair, tousling it, and I had to take a step back until I bumped into the wall again. “I’m Maggie Lane. I’m a sports columnist for Men’s Health and Sports Magazine.”

  He stopped moving, his eyes landing on mine. He waved his hand in the air between us. “You lied to me?” he rasped, an icy coolness to his voice.

  I was grateful for the distance between us. “You weren’t exactly forthcoming, either,” I shot back, unable to help myself. I mimicked his gesture, waving my hand in the air. “Marc.”

  “I did not lie. Marc, Marco—same thing. You, on the other hand . . .” He shook his head and turned his back, reaching for the door. He’d rather face a crowd of reporters than me.

  “Wait! I’m sorry.”

  My plea died within the suddenly empty stairwell.

  ***

  “Will and I are booking the next flight back to New York,” I announced the second my editor’s voice came on the line.

  “The hell you are! What’s going on?” His voice boomed in my ear, and I had to pull the phone away.

  I sank onto the couch and studied Will as he tried to figure out the coffee machine in the hotel room. “It’s not my fault. I promise. But Marc—” Shit. “Marco Valenti just quit.”

  Silence greeted me for a moment before I heard a crackling in my ears. Travis must have blown out one long, winded breath.

  “So, unless you want me to make this cover feature about his retirement, which I’m guessing you don’t, then Will and I should come home.”

  I didn’t mention how I was itching to get as far away from Valenti as I could. How could I possibly do a story on a guy I’d kissed?