Forever Rome (Forever #1)

by Brittney Sahin

  “And what do you do?” I asked Lori, fighting hard to avoid the shark-filled waters.

  “I’m an artist. Italy is a great place for inspiration.”

  “Oh really? Wow.” I was always amazed by artistic people. I could hardly draw a straight line with a ruler.

  “She’s having her first gallery opening next Tuesday. You’ll be here, so you’ll have to come,” Sean said, pride singing in his voice.

  Lori’s cheeks turned beet red, and she reached for her wine. “Oh. It won’t be anything too big.”

  “Maggie will probably be back in the States by next week, though. I assume there is no reason to stay in Roma since there will be no story.” Marco’s voice was like fire, warming me in all kinds of inappropriate places.

  My hand stilled on my wine glass, hesitating before I could lift it in the air. “True,” I managed.

  “We’ll see about that,” Sean said. “It wouldn’t hurt to do the bloody article about your retire—”

  “I never said I was quitting for good!”

  Sean tossed his napkin on his plate and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “You might as well retire if you’re not going to play this season.”

  “You Brits,” Marco yelled. “You don’t get it!” He rose to his feet. “Thank you for dinner, Lori.” He moved to her chair, leaned forward, and kissed both her cheeks.

  “Don’t play the Italian card with me. You’re making a mistake, Marc!” Sean stood up. “This isn’t right—you shouldn’t—”

  Marco was in Sean’s face now, his finger pressing into Sean’s chest. “This is none of their damn business.” He jerked his thumb at me. “My life is not anyone’s concern but my own.” His jaw ticked as it clenched.

  Sean’s mouth edged open, but Marco’s hands were flying in front of him, punctuating his words.

  Oh God, and his eyes spoke volumes—Marco’s eyes could write a book.

  An erotic novel, even.

  “Basta!” Marco shook his head and added, “Enough.” He fastened his anger for a brief moment and tipped his head my direction. “Have a safe flight. Goodbye, Maggie.”

  Sean followed Marco out of the kitchen and down the hall.

  “Well, that didn’t go over too well.” Lori rose and reached for the plates.

  Will’s lips peeled back into a frown as he shrugged. We both stood up to help Lori. I heard the sound of raised voices, followed by an exchange of Italian from both Sean and Marco.

  My shoulders jerked as the front door crashed shut.

  Sean entered the kitchen with slow movements. “He’s checking out of the hotel in the morning. But I don’t think we should give up, yet.”

  My hands landed on my hips. “I’m pretty sure that was a definitive no.”

  “Nah, that was Italian for, ‘I’ll think about it.’” Sean smiled.

  After this display, I was even less confident in Sean’s ability to speak Marco’s language. “We’ll see,” I said.

  “He’ll come around,” Sean promised.

  And there it was again—the spine-wrenching, gut twisting confusion. Did I want Marco to come around?

  Four

  Will and I were sitting at a café adjacent to our hotel. The streets were bustling and alive, despite the early hour.

  I leaned back in the straw chair and studied my bandaged finger. It still stung a bit.

  I sighed and dragged my hands over my face, trying to wake myself up. It had been another sleepless night. Jet lag was going to be the death of me.

  “Now this is one sexed up cappuccino.”

  My hands fell to my lap at Will’s remark, and I smiled at the bit of froth on his upper lip. “Sexed up? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “Try your coffee.” He raised his large mug toward me before bringing it back to his lips.

  The brown and white liquid danced and swayed, the flower in the froth losing its shape as I lifted the drink to my mouth. The sweet but slight bitterness widened my eyes. “Is there alcohol in this?” I took another sip as Will nodded.

  “The Italians know how to make a cappuccino.” He grinned.

  “Not to mention a statement,” I added. “The people here are so trendy. And I thought New York was the capital of style.” A group of men walked by in fitted clothes, carrying designer satchels. The women were even more fashionable, in sexy but sophisticated clothes, gorgeous shoes, and bank-breaking handbags. Every other person had a scarf draped casually over their shoulders, despite the fact that the morning was already warm enough to threaten heat later in the day.

  “I should go shopping while I’m here.” I tugged at my silk, cream-colored T-shirt and rubbed a hand over my white, pleated shorts. The outfit was boring compared to those around me, and I had the sudden desire to spice things up a bit.

  Maybe it was the coffee.

  “I think I could pull off one of those man purses,” Will said in a purposefully throaty voice.

  I laughed. “You have enough testosterone that you could slather yourself in pink feathers, and women would still chase after you.”

  “And yet I’m still single,” he mused, tipping his head at me. His brows lifted as a girl in a tight red leather skirt walked by, her heels clicking hard against the pavement.

  “That’s by choice.” I reached for my mug again, but my skin pricked with the awareness that I was being observed.

  Baseball hat or not, Marco Valenti couldn’t be missed. Mr. Tall D. Handsome was standing outside of the hotel in front of a gray Lamborghini whose paint job matched the color of his eyes. And those eyes were on me, even though he was talking with the valet.

  “It’s him,” I muttered. “Marco’s leaving the hotel.” I popped up to my feet, not sure what I intended. “I’ll be back.”

  “What are you—”

  Will’s words faded as I hurried to Marco.

  “Ah. Scusi!” The valet was probably attempting to protect Marco from whom he assumed to be an annoying fan, but I ignored him and walked straight up to the driver’s side window of Marco’s car.

  The window scrolled down. “Maggie.” My name was a whisper on Marco’s breath.

  “Can we talk?” I croaked, contorting my confidence back to front and center.

  Marco sighed. “Get in.”

  I smiled at the valet as I rushed around to the passenger side of the car.

  The second I closed the door, my head jerked back as Marco pounded on the gas pedal. I fumbled with the seatbelt.

  Will grinned at me as we zipped by.

  “What do you want to talk about?” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel, and his other hand gripped the stick shift.

  What did I want to talk about? “Neither of us wants to do this story,” I said at last, stealing a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.

  He remained focused on the road, but when my hands shifted to my lap, I could feel his eyes burning my flesh.

  I didn’t check to see if I was right. I was too scared as we weaved in and around other vehicles. Were there any rules to the road? It appeared that cars fit in wherever they could on the busy street.

  I wasn’t in New York anymore. That was for sure.

  “Do I, uh, make you nervous?”

  Ha. For a hell of a lot more reasons than your driving! “I’m good,” I answered, wondering if he could detect the lie in my voice.

  “If neither of us wants this story, then why are you here?”

  Our heated kiss came to mind, and my cheeks warmed at the memory. “Because I have a job to do, and you—well, I don’t know what your story is, but I’d like to find out. I’d like to ensure that a tasteful piece is written about your career, whether you’re retiring or simply pressing pause.” God, what was I even saying? How could he believe me if I didn’t even believe myself?

  “It doesn’t sound like you don’t want to write it,” he murmured. His fingers tapped the wheel when we reached a red light, and he shifted and looked over at me. “Have you ever ev
en written a romance book?”

  I’d never thought of myself as a liar, and I hated that he now saw me as one. “We were both pretending to be different people the other night. And I honestly had no idea who you were. I usually cover football.” I laughed. “Uhm, American football.”

  He held up his hand and shook his head. “It’s fine.” Marco looked away from me and back at the road once the light changed. Thank God, because my confidence was leaking away like air from a balloon.

  “It’s a waste of your time to stay here and write about me. I have no intention of becoming—what is that expression—an open book?”

  Yeah, I was getting that vibe. It was too bad. A part of me—the inquisitive journalist part, I hoped—yearned to peel back as many layers as I could.

  He shifted gears again and the engine purred, much like the inner workings of my body whenever I thought of his touch. “The story can be about your career. I won’t ask anything personal. I promise.” I could make it a puff piece. Hell, why not? There was a first time for everything, right?

  “Nothing personal?” He faked a laugh. “Football is very personal to me.”

  My thoughts jerked to a stop the second he parked the car. “Where are we?”

  “Stadio Olimpico.” He got out of the car without another word, and I released a breath and followed suit. “I need to empty my locker out. I have,” he paused and cocked a brow, “personal things in there.”

  Point taken. Geesh. “And why’d you bring me?” The stadium was in front of us, just across the bridge.

  “You joke, right?”

  It was the first time his English had faltered, and I have to admit, I found it hot. Then again, the man oozed sex. He could probably say whatever he liked.

  “No. I’m not joking. Why?” I rushed to catch up with him as he started for the bridge. I was pretty sure we were crossing the Tiber River, and up ahead was a statue or an obelisk thing of Mussolini. That was a bit weird. Wasn’t the guy a fascist?

  Marco spun to face me at the center of the bridge and almost crashed into me. I halted so we wouldn’t collide, and his eyes found mine. It took me a moment to remember to breathe.

  “You wanted to talk. So, I brought you with me so you could talk. Christo.” He removed his hat for a minute, ruffled up his hair and put it back on. “You drive me crazy.”

  My mouth edged open in surprise. “What?” I shrieked. “How do I drive you crazy? I haven’t even known you for all of five minutes.”

  “We’ve known each other for longer than that.”

  “It’s an expression!”

  He shut his eyes for a moment, his long dark lashes beautiful against his bronzed skin. His teal T-shirt exposed his tanned biceps and corded forearms, and I had to squeeze the lust out of me.

  He began muttering in Italian, opened his eyes, and turned away from me.

  What the hell? “Wait up!”

  But he didn’t. He walked to the entrance, greeted a guard, and I trotted in at his heels. He didn’t say a word as we made our way down different halls and finally to an empty locker room. He found his locker in the front row and opened up the door.

  My eyes fell on the jersey in his hand. “Your number is ten?” The floor number of my hotel room. His lucky number, huh?

  He gripped the shirt for a moment, staring down at it, and tossed it carelessly onto the bench behind him. He looked at me for the first time since he had declared me insane. “It was.”

  A flicker of pain crossed his face as his mouth curved down and his eyes creased. If it pained him so much to quit, why was he? “Marco—”

  His hand was back up in the air. Damn him and his hands. His eyes lifted to meet mine, and he stared at me for a few moments, giving me the chills. “Fine.”

  Fine? Fine, what?

  “You and your photographer only. No one else. And no questions about why I’m quitting. Comprende?”

  My father used to say that to me when I was a kid in trouble. “How can I write a story on you and skirt the obvious topic?” I was pretty sure if Travis could see me now, he’d be applauding me from his towering office in the sky back in New York.

  “Nothing personal.” His Italian accent pounded my ears. “It is this, or it is nothing.” His eyes became cool as the muscle in his jaw ticked. “I am not like the other athletes you’ve interviewed before. My rules. No questions about my life outside of football. It is this or—”

  I held my hand up and finished, “nothing.”

  He shirked his shoulders back and stood erect, staring down at the concrete beneath our shoes.

  “I got it. I got it. But can I ask you one question, though?” I was putting his rules to the test, curious how serious he was about his attitude about opening up.

  He pushed his hands into his jeans pockets and lifted his eyes to mine. “What?” he asked in a low voice.

  “How’d Sean become your agent?”

  He pulled his hands free from his pockets and slammed his locker shut.

  What? Did I piss him off?

  He lifted his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “I’ve known Sean since I was fifteen.” He started to move toward the exit.

  “And?” I hurried after him.

  “And that is all you get from me.” He spun around just inside the doorframe of the locker room, and I bumped into him . . . again. My hands were pressed to his chest, and his heart was beating fast against my right palm.

  I jerked my hands free and took an immediate step back.

  “We will meet here tomorrow at four,” Marco said after a few long and agonizing seconds of what could only be described as a stare until the first person blinks contest. “Your photographer can take pictures if you would like. Bene? Good?”

  “Okay . . .” A strange guilt snuck up on me, and I had to believe it was because part of me felt like I was doing this story to help Travis, and the idea made me feel dirty. Of course, I wouldn’t try and coax Marco into returning to soccer, like Travis and Sean wanted. Besides, Marco couldn’t stand me, so I was pretty sure he wouldn’t give a damn about what I thought or wanted.

  Then again, he did say yes to the story without too much pestering.

  “Come on. I have somewhere I must be. I will return you to the hotel.” He was moving again, and I had to rush to keep up with him. My sandals slapped against the concrete floor.

  “Thank you,” I said once we were back in his sporty car and flying down the road.

  He didn’t make eye contact, and so I shifted my focus out the window. A blur of trees and buildings flashed by as we drove.

  “How did you not know who I was when we met?” he asked as we neared the hotel.

  “What?”

  His eyes remained on the road, his jaw clenched. He looked confused or pissed. What happened to the sexy Casanova I’d met my first night in Italy? Of course, I was probably safer with angry Marco than flirty Marc.

  “You were sent here to write a story about me, and you didn’t know who I was? What do you know about me?”

  I cupped my neck, working out the kinks. “I like American football. I’m not interested in soccer. Or Italian football. My editor sort of forced the story on me, and so I didn’t do the research on you.” Honesty usually worked, right? “All I know is that you play center, which means nothing to me—and you’re now an ex-player with a British agent, you speak great English, and you have excellent kissing skills.”

  The car jerked to a stop, and I pressed my lips together, realizing what I’d said.

  His hands fell to his lap, but he looked over at me, studying my mouth. I struggled to breathe as his gaze lifted up to my eyes.

  He observed me for a beat longer and said, “A sports writer writing about a sport she does not like? Should be a great article.”

  I had the urge to slap at him, but his words had been soft, joking. Seductive, somehow. Plus, he’d ignored my mention of the kiss, thank God. “It will be a great story,” I said in a firm voice, “even if the sport is dull.” I r
ealized that we were stopped out front of my hotel.

  His breath hitched. “Dull?” Marco’s lips parted as a low rumble of laughter sounded.

  Heaven help me now.

  “I will teach you just how incredible it is,” he promised.

  Shit. Travis’s plan was already working, and I hadn’t even tried. “It will take a hell of a lot of convincing,” I responded in all sincerity.

  ***

  “He’s doing the story? I have to say I’m bloody impressed.”

  I had Sean on speakerphone, and Will sat across from me, smirking.

  “He doesn’t want me to write about why he’s quitting, which is going to be a bit hard for me to do. And he doesn’t want anyone other than Will and I involved in the story. I’ll have to stop by the magazine’s office in Rome and let them know. They probably won’t be too happy.” I grimaced.

  “Hey, this is good news. Is there anything I can do to help?” Sean asked.

  “I’d like to get some shots of Marco around the city. Add a bit of the Italian culture. Kind of show where he’s from and stuff,” Will answered. “We have three weeks. Travis wants us staying here until the opening game, regardless of whether Marco plays in it.”

  “Maybe he will,” Sean said.

  I rolled my eyes. “You’ve known him since you were fifteen. Don’t you feel a little bad about going behind his back?”

  “How’d you know—did Marc tell you that?” Sean’s voice dipped low. “I’m surprised he mentioned London.”

  Well, technically, he hadn’t.

  “He doesn’t tell people about that.”

  It was moments like this that had me dying to research Marco’s past, although I also wanted to remain in the dark about the man. It would make my article more honest, intimate, and real if everything I wrote came from my time with him and not from third-party sources. It was hard for me to write that kind of story in the States because I already knew so much about the American football players. But this story from the start had promised to be different in so many ways.

  “We’re meeting Marco at four tomorrow,” Will told Sean. “At the stadium.”

  “Perfect. The team will be there—maybe they can talk some bloody sense into him. They’re going to be pissed as hell. His announcement came as a surprise to them, too.”