by Anna DePalo
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
She lowered her shoulders and stepped toward her car.
“Are you okay to drive?” he asked, hands still shoved into his pockets.
“Yes. I feel fine now.” Tired, defeated and mortified, but fine.
“Goodbye, Marisa.”
He’d closed the door on her years ago, and now he was doing it again, with a note of finality in his voice.
She pushed aside the unexpectedly forceful emotional pain. As she stepped into her car, she was aware of Cole’s brooding gaze on her. And when she pulled away, she glanced in her rearview mirror and saw that he was still watching her from the curb.
She should never have come. And yet, she had to get him to say yes. She hadn’t come this far to accept defeat like this.
* * *
“You look like a man in need of a punching bag,” Jordan Serenghetti remarked, hitting his boxing gloves together. “I’ll spring for this round.”
“Lucky bastard,” Cole responded, moving his head from side to side, loosening up. “You get to work out the kinks by slamming someone on the ice rink.”
Jordan still had a high-velocity NHL career with the New England Razors, whereas Cole’s own had finished with a career-ending injury.
Still, whenever Jordan was in town, the two of them had a standing appointment in the boxing ring. For Cole, it beat the monotony of working out at the gym. Even as a construction executive, it paid to lead by example and stay in shape.
“Next hockey game isn’t for another three days,” Jordan responded, approaching with gloves raised. “That’s a long time to be holding punches. Anyway, don’t you have a babe to work out the kinks with?”
Marisa Danieli was a babe, all right, but Cole would be damned if he worked out anything with her. Unfortunately, she’d intruded on his thoughts too often since she’d dropped back into his arms last Friday.
Jordan touched a glove to his boxing helmet and then grinned. “Oh yeah, I forgot. Vicki dumped you for the sports agent—what’s his name, again?”
“Sal Piazza,” Cole said and sidestepped Jordan’s first jab.
“Right, Salami Pizza.”
Cole grunted. “Vicki didn’t dump me. She—”
“Got tired of your inability to commit.”
Cole hit Jordan with his right. “She wasn’t looking for commitment. It was the perfect fling that way.”
“Only because she’d heard of your reputation, so she knew she had to move on.”
“As I said, everyone was happy.” They danced around the ring, oblivious to the gym noises around them.
Even on a Wednesday evening, Jimmy’s Boxing Gym was humming with activity. The facility was kept cold but even the cool air couldn’t diminish the smell of sweat and sounds of exertion under the fluorescent lights.
Jordan rolled his neck. “You know, Mom wants you to settle down.”
Cole bared his teeth. “She’d also be happy if you quit risking thousands of dollars in orthodontia on the ice rink, but that’s not going to happen, either.”
“She can pin her hopes on Rick, then,” Jordan said, referring to their middle brother, “if anyone knew where he was.”
“On a movie set on the Italian Riviera, I’ve heard.”
Their brother was a stuntman, the risk taker among them, which was saying a lot. Their long-suffering mother claimed she’d lived at the emergency room while raising three boys and a girl. It was true they’d all broken bones, at one time or another, but Camilla Serenghetti still wasn’t aware of her sons’ most hair-raising thrills.
“It figures he’s on a paparazzi-riddled set,” Jordan grumbled. “No doubt there’s at least one hot actress in the picture.”
“Mom has Mia to fall back on, even if she is in New York.” Their youngest sibling was off pursuing a career as a fashion designer, which meant Cole was the only one based in Welsdale full-time.
“It sucks being the oldest, Cole,” Jordan said, as if reading his thoughts, “but you’ve got to admit you’re more suited to run Serenghetti Construction than any of the rest of us.”
In the aftermath of Cole’s career-ending hockey injury, their father, Serg, had suffered a debilitating stroke. Cole had grasped the reins of Serenghetti Construction eight months ago and never let go.
“It doesn’t suck,” Cole said. “It just needs to be done.”
He took the opportunity to hit Jordan with a surprise right. Damn, it felt good to rid himself of some frustration in the ring. He loved his brother, so it stunk to be even a little envious of Jordan’s life. It wasn’t just that Jordan was still a star with the Razors, because Cole had had a good run with the team himself. His younger brother also enjoyed a freedom missing from Cole’s own life these days.
Their father had always hoped one or more of his sons would carry on the family business. And in the casino of life, Cole had drawn the winning card.
Cole had been familiar with the construction business ever since he’d spent summers working on sites as a teenager. He just hadn’t anticipated having his hockey dream cut short and needing to pull his family together at the same time. Business had been tight until recently, and with Serg nearly flat on his back, Cole had been doing some scrambling with the hand he’d been dealt.
With any luck, one way or another, Cole could get on with his life again soon. Even if his future wasn’t on the ice, he had his own business and investment opportunities to pursue, particularly in the sports field. Coaching, for one thing, was beckoning...
“So why don’t you tell me what’s got you in a bad mood?” Jordan asked, as if they weren’t in a ring trying to knock each other off their feet.
Cole’s mind went to his more immediate problem—if she could even be called that instead of...oh yeah, a wrecking ball in heels. He built things, and she destroyed them—dreams being at the top of her list. Best remember her evil powers. “Marisa Danieli stopped by the construction site today.”
Jordan looked puzzled.
“High school,” Cole elaborated and then watched his brother’s frown disappear.
He and his brothers had graduated from different high schools, but Jordan knew of Marisa. After her pivotal role in Cole’s suspension during senior year, she had for a time become infamous among the Serenghetti brothers and their crowd.
“Luscious Lola Danieli?” Jordan asked, the side of his mouth turning up.
Cole had never liked the nickname—and that was even before he’d started thinking of Marisa Lola Danieli as the high school Lolita who had led him down the path to destruction. She’d earned the tongue-in-cheek nickname in high school because she’d dressed and acted the opposite of sexy.
He hadn’t told anyone about his intimate past with Marisa. His brothers would have had a field day with the story of The Geek and The Jock. As far as anyone knew, she was just the girl who’d scored off him—ratting out his prank to the principal like a hockey player slapping the puck into the goal for the game-winning shot.
For years the moment the principal had let slip that Marisa was the person who’d blabbed about him had been seared into his memory. He’d never pulled another prank again.
Still, he wasn’t merely dwelling on what had happened when they’d been about to graduate. The fact that his hockey career had ended in the past year made it bad timing for Marisa to show up and remind him of how close she’d come to derailing it before it had begun. And as he’d told Jordan, he’d accepted his new role as CEO, but it wasn’t without its frustrations. He was still on a big learning curve trying to drive Serenghetti Construction forward.
His brother’s punch caught him full on the shoulder, sending him staggering. He brought his mind back to what was happening in the ring.
“Come on. Show me what you’ve got,” Jordan jeered, warming up. “I haven’t run into Marisa since you two graduated from Pershing.”
“Until today, I could say the same thing,” Cole replied.
“So, what? She’s come back for
round two now that you’re on your feet again?”
“Hilarious.”
“I was always the funny brother.”
“Your sense of fraternal loyalty warms my heart,” he mocked.
Jordan held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, nearly coming to a stop. “Hey, I’m not defending what she did. It sucked big-time for you to miss the final game and for Pershing to lose the hockey championship. Everyone avoided her wherever she went in town. But people can change.”
Cole hit his brother with his left. “She wants me to headline a fund-raiser so Pershing can build a new gym.”
Jordan grunted and then gave a low whistle. “Or maybe not. She’s still got guts.”
Marisa had changed, but Cole wasn’t going to elaborate for his brother. These days there’d be nothing tongue-in-cheek about the nickname Luscious Lola, and that was the damn problem.
Before he’d recognized her, his senses had gone on high alert, and his libido had gleefully raced to catch up. The woman was sex in heels. It should be criminal for a schoolteacher to look like her.
The eyeglasses that she used to wear in high school were gone, and her hair was longer and loose—the ends curling in fat, bouncy curls against her shoulders. She was no longer hiding her figure under shapeless sweatshirts, and she’d filled out in all the right places. Everything was fuller, curvier and more womanly. He should know—once he’d run his hands over those breasts and thighs.
Before she’d announced who she was, he’d been thinking the gods of TGIF were smiling down at him at the end of a long workweek. Then he’d gotten a reprieve until she’d literally fallen into his arms—a one-two punch.
In those seconds staring down into her face, he’d been swamped by conflicting emotions: surprise, anger, concern and yeah, lust. More or less par for the course for him where Marisa was concerned. He could still feel the imprint of her soft curves. She sent signals that bypassed the thinking part of his brain and went straight to the place that wanted to mate.
Jordan caught him square on the chest this time. “Come on, come on. You’re dazed. Woman on your mind?”
Cole lifted his lips in a humorless smile. “She suggested that participating in the fund-raiser for Pershing might be good PR for Serenghetti Construction.”
Jordan paused before dancing back a step. “Marisa is a smart cookie. Can’t fault her there.”
Cole grumbled. Marisa’s suggestion made some sense though he’d rather have his front teeth knocked out than admit it. He’d never liked publicity and couldn’t have cared less about his image during his professional hockey days, to the everlasting despair of his agent. And since taking over the reins at Serenghetti Construction, he’d been focused on mastering the ropes to keep the business operating smoothly. Community relations had taken a backseat.
Marisa had a brain, all right—in contrast to many of the women who’d chased after him in his pro days. She’d literally been a book-hugger in high school. The jocks in the locker room hadn’t even been able to rate her because it had been hard to do reconnaissance.
He’d eventually had the chance to discover the answer—she’d been a C-cup bra. But the knowledge had ultimately come at a steep price.
These days he’d bet the house that she had an A-plus body. She was primed to set men on their path to crashing and burning, just like old times.
Except this time, her next victim wouldn’t be him.
Two
Squash racquet back of hall closet. I’ll pick it up.
Marisa hit the button to turn off her cell phone. The message from Sal had come while she was out. She’d been so shaken by talking to Cole for the first time in fifteen years that she hadn’t realized she had a text until after she’d gotten back to her apartment.
Annoyance rose up in her. As far as text messages went, it wasn’t rude. But it hadn’t come from just anybody. It had come from her former fiancé, who’d broken things off three months ago.
During their brief engagement, she’d been sliding into the role of the good little wife, picking up Sal’s dry cleaning and making runs to the supermarket for him. From Sal’s perspective, asking her to retrieve his squash racquet from her hall closet was unquestionably fair game. No doubt Sal had an appointment to meet a client at the gym, because even sports agents had to establish their athleticism—though Sal played squash only once in a blue moon when an invitation was issued.
She contemplated heaving the racquet out the window and onto the lawn, and then asking Sal to come find it.
Before she could overrule her scruples, she heard someone turn the lock in the front door. She frowned, nonplussed. Hadn’t she asked Sal to return his key...?
She yanked the door open, and her cousin Serafina stumbled inside.
Marisa relaxed. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Of course it’s me,” Serafina retorted, straightening. “You gave me a key to the apartment, remember?”
“Right.” She’d been so lost in thought, she’d momentarily assumed Sal had come back to retrieve the racquet, letting himself in with an extra copy of the key. And he was uptight enough to do it. The rat.
She was glad now she’d kept her condo even when her relationship with Sal had started getting serious enough that they’d contemplated moving in together. She’d bought the small two-bedroom five years ago, and at the time, it had been a major step toward independence and security.
She wondered where Cole called home these days. In all likelihood, a sprawling penthouse loft. She wouldn’t be surprised if he lived in one of his own constructions.
One thing was for sure. He was still one of Welsdale’s hottest tickets while she... Well, shapely was the most forgiving adjective for her curves. She was still a nobody, even if she had a name at the Pershing School these days.
“What’s with you?” Serafina asked, taking off her cross-body handbag and letting it slide to the floor.
“I was thinking of a place to bury Sal’s squash racquet,” she responded and then waved a hand at the back of the apartment. “It’s in the hall closet.”
“Nice.” Serafina smiled. “But with all the dogs in this complex, someone’s bound to sniff out the cadaver real quick.”
“He needs it back.” She’d been hurt when she’d been dumped. But notwithstanding her irritation at Sal at the moment, these days she simply wanted to move on.
Serafina’s lips twitched. “The racquet is an innocent bystander. It’s not like you to misdirect anger, especially the vindictive kind.”
After a moment Marisa sighed and lowered her shoulders. “You’re right. I’ll tell him that I’m leaving it on the table in the building foyer downstairs.”
Ever since her debacle with Cole in high school, she’d been worried about being thought of as a bitch. She didn’t need Cole Serenghetti; she needed a therapist.
“But tell the jerk what he can go do with it!” Serafina added.
She gave her cousin a halfhearted smile. Serafina was a little taller than she was, and her hair was a wavy dirty blond. She’d been spared the curly dark brown locks that were the bane of Marisa’s existence. But they both had the amber eyes that were a family trait on their mothers’ side, and their facial features bore a resemblance. Anyone looking at them might guess they were related, though they had different last names: Danieli and Perini.
While they were growing up, Marisa had treated Sera as a younger sister. She’d passed along books and toys, and shared advice and clothes. More recently, having had her cousin as a roommate for a few months, until Serafina found a job in her field and an apartment, had been a real lifesaver. Marisa appreciated the company. And with respect to men, her cousin took no prisoners. Marisa figured she could learn a lot there.
“Now for some good news,” Serafina announced. “I’m moving out.”
“That’s great!” Marisa forced herself to sound perky.
“Well, not now, but after my trip to Seattle next week to visit Aunt Filo and Co.”
“I didn’t
mean I’m glad you’re leaving, I meant I’m happy for you.” Three weeks ago her cousin had received the news that she’d landed a permanent position. Serafina had also gotten plane tickets to see Aunt Filomena and her cousins before starting her new job.
Serafina laughed. “Oh, Marisa, you’re adorable! I know you’re happy for me.”
“Adorable ceases to exist after age thirty.” She was thirty-three, single and holding on to sexy by a fraying thread. And she’d recently been dumped by her fiancé.
Of course, Cole had been all sunshine and come-here-honey...until he’d recognized who she was. Then he’d turned dark and stormy.
Serafina searched her face. “What?”
Marisa turned, heading down the hall toward the kitchen. “I asked Cole Serenghetti to do the Pershing Shines Bright fund-raiser for the school.”
She hadn’t died of mortification when she approached him for a favor after all these years, but she’d come close. She’d fainted in his arms. A hot wave of embarrassment washed over her, stinging her face. When would the humiliation end?
Some decadent chocolate cake was in order right now. There should be some left in the fridge. A pity party was always better with dessert.
“And?” Serafina followed behind.
Marisa waved her hand. “It was like I always dreamt it would be. He jumped right on my proposal. Chills and thrills all around.”
“Great...?”
“Lovely.” She spied the cake container on her old scarred moveable island. “And yummy.”
Cole Serenghetti qualified as yummy, too. There were probably women lined up to treat him as dessert. A decade and a half later he was looking better than ever. She’d seen the occasional picture of him in the press during his hockey days, but nothing was like experiencing the man in person.
And tangling with him was just as much a turn-yourself-inside-out experience as it had always been.
“Um, Marisa?”
Marisa set the cake container on the table. “Time for dessert, I think.”
