My eyes flashed shut when he nudged my chin up with one hand.
“Maggie.” My name was a gruff noise from his lips. “Look at me, Maggie.”
I wouldn’t give in to the temptation. “Yeah?”
“Open your eyes.” His voice was soft, and yet commanding.
His hands fell from my face, and I heard the splash of water. My face pinched together, mimicking my nerves, and I opened my eyes.
“I thought you liked to face your fears.”
Fear—that four letter word I was always fighting. I looked down at the crystal blue water that quivered between us.
My first time on the cliffs at the Gunks had made me feel this way—my knees wobbling uncontrollably. In the climbing area in Upstate New York, I had been frozen against the rock with the climbing rope dangling beneath me, the ground a hundred feet below. I had gripped the ledge, shaking, trying to force myself to move upward, but I couldn’t do it. Well, I thought I couldn’t, but eventually I found the courage inside myself, and I forced my fingers to spread over the quartz pebble and sandstone, feeling the thick, dark shale smooth beneath my hands.
When I reached the top of the cliff and looked out over the Shawangunk Mountain Ridge, I felt invincible. It had been euphoric—even addicting. I started driving out to the mountains a couple of times a month to recapture the adrenaline rush I got from fighting fear.
So I knew how good it would feel to caress Marco’s granite body, for my fingers to skim across his skin, to grip his shoulders and press my body against his . . .
But my fear of the unknown was stronger than my fear of heights.
“Maggie, we should eat.”
I heard the sound of defeat in his voice, heavy and loud, the biting iciness contradicting his forced smile.
He turned away, and I stared at his tanned back as he made his way out of the pool. I moved with slow, disappointed steps to meet him.
“We can shower now.” His eyes flitted to mine as he toweled off.
“Together?” I hadn’t meant to verbalize my question, but out it had popped. I climbed the steps out of the pool, pushing my wet braid to my back.
A smile skirted his lips. “If you would like.”
My mouth opened, but he shook his head and laughed—at least he wasn’t sporting that anguished look any longer. “You can use the guest bathroom where you changed. Meet me in the kitchen when you’re ready.”
Eight
“It smells delicious.” The spicy aroma, a mingling of red pepper and garlic, had floated down the hall as I’d exited the bedroom after showering and drying my hair. I had opted for a white cotton sleeveless dress, which contrasted nicely with my honeyed skin. I let my hair fall naturally, mid back, and I had applied some mascara and lip gloss I always carried in my bag.
Thankfully, I never went anywhere without mascara. My blonde hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes meant I was always in desperate need of the stuff.
I paused at the entrance of the kitchen when I laid eyes on Marco. His back was to me, and he’d changed into white linen pants—God, I was a sucker for him in loose-fitted pants. He had also put on a blue, long-sleeved linen shirt that was the color of the sea. My fingers rushed to my collarbone, hoping to slow the thumping in my chest.
“I hope you like it.” He turned toward me with a spatula in hand, his eyes resting on mine.
“Can I help you with anything?” I forced myself to move into the kitchen and closer to him, then made sure to put the large kitchen island between us.
Marco eyed the cutting board and knife, and a smirk lit his lips. “I think I’d rather keep your limbs intact.”
“I’m normally better with sharp utensils. I swear.” I sat on one of the barstools and crossed my legs. A warmth shot through me at the memory of his touch, and I tried not to groan aloud.
“I’m sure, but I would still prefer not to take the chance.” He winked at me and turned away.
His broad shoulders were a delicious sight, and I placed my elbow on the counter, chin in hand, admiring the view.
I scolded myself for a series of sinfully delicious thoughts, which included Marco naked beneath an apron while cooking for me. Hadn’t I learned my lesson yet? He was out of the realm of possibility for me, and I was too afraid to push the limits.
“What brought you to England when you were younger?” I tried to switch to interview mode.
He stiffened and set the spatula on the counter, remaining turned away from me. “I don’t really want to talk about that.”
I gulped. I hadn’t meant to open a sore subject. “Are you not going to offer me a taste of your sauce?” I desperately hoped to shift his mood.
“What?”
“Usually men offer women a taste when they’re cooking.” I bit my lip. “Well, in the movies, anyway.” What in the hell was I thinking? Apparently, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from flirting, despite our close encounter in the pool.
He lifted the spatula and dipped it into the sauce. “Is this so?” He turned to face me and kept his other hand beneath the spoon to catch drips.
“Of course.”
He stopped in front of me, his eyes a swirl of gray, and he brought the spatula to my mouth. I shut my eyes, savoring the taste of warm spices and tomato on my tongue. “Mmm . . .”
My eyes fluttered open, and he was staring at me. “Bene?”
“Very good. Molto bene.” I smiled.
“I like hearing Italian from you. Italian from your mouth is sexier than—” He cleared his throat and turned away from me. This was probably for the best because any sentence that involved a variation of the word sex was bound to get me in trouble.
“You’re a good cook,” I attempted to dodge the awkwardness that speared the room.
“Grazie.”
“Where’d you learn? Your mom?” He reached for the knife and began chopping green peppers. I zeroed in on the veins in his forearms before my eyes wandered up to his elbows where his shirt sleeves had been rolled.
“Sì.”
“Is she a good cook?”
He set the knife down and pressed his hands on each side of the cutting board. “Could we talk about you, Maggie?”
How was I ever supposed to write a story about the man if he wanted to talk about me the whole time? I would have to resort to Google, after all. “Um. I guess.”
He rolled his shoulders back, moved his neck from side to side, and proceeded to chop again. “Tell me about your family.”
Well, that was an easy topic. “My parents live in Alabama still. They’ve always lived there, even when my dad went into the pros.”
“Pros?” Marco looked up at me with a brow raised.
I laced my fingers together in front of me as if in prayer—memories from my past began piling up in my mind—the good and the bad. “Um, yeah. He went to Auburn in Alabama. He was the quarterback and was drafted to the NFL. He only played two seasons before he got injured, though. He was never really that famous.”
“Aw, I see now why you love American football.”
“I didn’t have much of a choice. My father wanted a football player in the family, but he ended up with four daughters. He bred us girls to live for the sport. One of my sisters is a cheerleader for an NFL team, and another is married to a college football coach. And my youngest sister is dating a pro-NFL player.”
“Wow.”
“It can be hard being the daughter of a player. Particularly in my industry.”
“How so?” Marco added the peppers to another pan, sautéing them. He turned around, lifted a glass, poured red wine into it, and passed it across the island to me.
I took an eager sip of the burgundy liquid, swished it around in my mouth, and swallowed. “I’m worried people will think I got my job because of who my father is. I feel like I work twice as hard, not only because I’m a woman, but because of my dad.”
Marco rubbed the back of his neck with one hand and studied me. “I’m sure no one thinks that. I bet you are very talen
ted. Otherwise, why would your boss send you here to write a story on a subject you know nothing about?”
Um, because Sean and my boss want me to manipulate you.
I sighed. “I’m thinking I’d better learn the sport and research you, though. Since you’re not too forthcoming.”
“You already know I’m a private person. Just because we have spent time together, does not mean that has changed.”
“And yet, you’re in a public position,” I countered, purposefully ignoring his last remark.
“Was.” He turned away and stirred the sauce, then added the peppers to it. With his back still to me, he asked, “Is it hard?”
“Is what hard?”
“Interviewing athletes?” He shifted back around, leaning against the counter next to the stove. “It is hard for me to be interviewed by you, so I have to believe it has been hard for the American men you’ve worked with, to spend time with you.”
My mouth edged open. “Am I that bad to be around?”
His eyes darkened, and he gulped. “It is bad, yes.”
My hands went to my lap as my cheeks grew warm. “Wow. Sorry.” I couldn’t look at him anymore, so I stared at the wine glass.
“I don’t mean bad as in bad.” He chuckled a little, which had me looking back up. “What I mean is that you are an amazing and beautiful woman. It is hard for me to focus when I am around you.”
My cheeks probably tinted to match my wine. I was in trouble again.
“I can imagine that the American football players have felt distracted by your beauty when you have questioned them,” he added after a long, painful moment.
I rubbed a hand over my face as my gaze traveled from his tanned throat and up to the stubble on his face. “I’m not that—”
His hand was in the air. “You are that . . .” was all he said before turning back to the stove.
I watched him cook for a bit, then admitted, “I’ve never dated a player.”
“Really?”
“It’s a rule of mine.” I figured now was as good a time as any to let him know the rules in my playbook. We needed to stop dancing around our desire. To squash the temptation of giving into lust.
“Why?”
He placed the pasta on our plates, covered it in his delicious sauce, and carried the plates over to the table behind me.
I slipped off the barstool and sat at the table with my back to the open bay window. The breeze from the outside cooled my skin. “For a few reasons, but one of them is because of my profession. I can’t exactly date the people I write stories on, and I can’t be objective about games if I’m dating a player.” I’m struggling with you because of my damn confusing feelings.
“And why else?” he probed before swirling some of his pasta with his fork and spoon.
My pasta looked insanely good, and I was famished, but our conversation had my stomach doing small, sickening flips. “I don’t think I would be able to trust . . .” I couldn’t finish my sentence.
I’d never admitted it to anyone before. To start with a stranger would be crazy.
He leaned back in his chair and rested his fork beside his plate. “You think we all sleep around?” His voice was eerily low, giving me the chills.
I’d pissed him off, hadn’t I?
“Of course not. But I’ve witnessed a lot of men in football cheat. I’ve been privy to a lot of up close and personal confrontations with it—I’ve been hit on by men who are married.” My thoughts drifted to his earlier comment, about it being hard to be interviewed by me.
“They have ruined your ability to trust?”
“A little,” I answered, but kept my eyes on my plate.
“Maggie, look at me.”
His order had my head jerking upright. His eyes may have been the cold color of steel, but there was a deep warmth there that heated me to the core. “Yeah?”
“Those men are cowards. They are weak men. A real man does not cheat. A real man knows what he has in front of him.”
One big fat gulp was what I needed. That and so much more.
He blazed a hand over his jaw before snaking it behind his neck. He let out a loud breath and began eating.
After a few silent moments, I began to eat, as well. The food was great, but all I could think about were Marco’s words, and eating was the last thing I wanted to do.
“Let’s go outside on the deck and get some fresh air,” he suggested after we’d cleared our plates. It had been the first that either of us had spoken in a long while.
The sun was dipping out of sight as he sat on a double-wide lounge chair, which looked more like a two-person bed than a chair.
I stood stupidly in front of him, not sure what to do. Then I located a lone chair off to the side. But before I could move to it, his hand had captured my wrist, and he was pulling me down.
“Come here,” he commanded.
Our bodies were close, practically tangled together. He stretched his legs out, lying down, and I followed suit. We lay side by side, our bodies brushing up against each other. I clasped my hands on my chest, not sure what to do with them.
The waves lapped against the shore, a soft sound. It would have been a lot more peaceful if my heart wasn’t pounding, and if I wasn’t worried about being so close to the Roman god of a man.
“Tell me something.”
Oh God. Him with his questions. It was supposed to be the other way around—I was losing my edge. What was this man doing to me? “You need to give me a little something, first.”
He sighed. “Okay.”
Okay? Finally! I shifted onto my side, propped my elbow up, and held my head in my hand.
He mimicked my move, and I had to try not to grin like a damn school girl. His face hovered inches from mine. A couple of very dangerous inches.
“Do you have any tattoos?” Why had I asked that? Well, perhaps because the only soccer player I knew of was David Beckham, and the man was covered in tats.
“Would you like to check for yourself?”
I slapped his chest with my free hand and sucked in a breath as his other hand came over mine. “Do you feel that?” he asked, holding my hand to his heart.
“What?” I rasped.
“It beats fast around you.”
I tried to lighten the mood and smiled at him. “Because I drive you crazy, right?” I pulled my hand free from his grasp and rolled to my back. It was too hard being face to face with him, with the memory of his lips from our first meeting on my mind.
“You have no idea.” His voice was near my ear.
“Next question,” I babbled. I would get through this if it were the last thing I did. “Why do you like soc—football?”
Marco began to tell me about his love for the game, but I felt like he was skating around the real reason, only delivering superficial and practiced responses, ones’ he’d probably given reporters dozens of times before. “After I played for Milano for two years, I ended up in my home city of Roma, and I played here ever since,” he finished his answer.
“And now you’re quitting. For how long?” The journalist hat had snuck onto me, but I had wanted to avoid that question, at least for tonight.
“Maggie . . .” he warned.
“I believe you have a good reason. Of course, it’s nobody’s business, but I saw the way you interacted with your fans. With those kids,” I spoke fast in my lame attempt to break through his shield of ice. “If they knew your reason, they would understand. I’m sure.” I peeked over my shoulder at him and studied his profile.
His eyes were closed, his hands clasped on his chest. His firm jaw and sculpted cheekbones were set beneath his five o’clock shadow. He had no intention of continuing with the topic, so it seemed.
After a few minutes, his voice sounded in my ears, “Maggie?”
I murmured, “Yes?”
The feel of his fingers intertwining with mine made me still.
“Have you ever slept on the deck overlooking the sea with someone before?” He
was avoiding my comments, of course.
“Sleep as in sleep?”
“Sì.”
“No, I haven’t.” Nor had I ever had hot, sweaty sex on a deck overlooking the sea, either, but I’d leave that comment to myself.
“Would you like to?”
I allowed the warmth of his touch to soothe my nerves, but instead of answering, I faced him, finding his mouth close to mine . . . and I did something stupid—I kissed him.
Heat traveled through my body, and a sharp spark of pain slapped my core. His lips left mine as he pulled me on top of him and stared at me. His face pulled together in confusion.
Chest heaving with each breath, he cursed low, in Italian, before his hand tore into my hair and pulled my head back down to meet his mouth.
I groaned as our lips brushed together and his tongue found mine. His hard length pressed against me through the thin material of his pants, and I did my best not to cry as I shuddered with need.
My head tilted back as his mouth wandered to my bare shoulder. Each touch of his lips made me breathe a little deeper. A little harder.
Cloaked by some wild need, I found myself desperate to be closer to him, and I wriggled to press my skin to his. His hands went under my dress and cupped my ass, my sex clenching at his touch. He pulled me even closer to him and nipped my bottom lip before kissing me once more. His fingers wandered over the silk panties I wore and found my wet center.
I pulled back from his mouth and gasped when his fingers dove inside me, filling me.
His eyes held mine, making me slightly dizzy. It had been so long since I’d been touched.
My chest strained against the fabric of my dress, then his free hand moved back up my body and pushed the top of my dress down, freeing my heavy breasts, exposing my nipples.
I was feeling so many sensations at once, barely hanging on. I moaned as I came—sooner than I wanted—and collapsed, breathless, against his body.
“Maggie,” he whispered my name as I listened to the sound of his heart thundering beneath my cheek.
Reality of what happened settled in and fear took hold of me. I sat upright, and he braced my elbows, studying me.
His eyes became thin slits of concern, and he dropped his hands to his sides as he pursed his lips together.
Forever Rome (Forever #1) Page 8
