“Give me a fucking break. It’s all over the tabloids today that you and Frankie-whatshisname aren’t practicing bed gymnastics anymore.”
“And what does this have to do with the new kid playing on your jungle gym?”
I really needed to send Sandy a gift certificate to a day spa. I never anticipated Mark’s call prior to reading her piece. Her article must have been a doozie.
“Suzy, you know damn well what you’ve done. Sandy Cramer prints everything you tell her.”
“I don’t know a Sandy Cramer.”
“The hell you don’t,” he said, raging. “I want you to call her and retract your statement. This is an embarrassment. You aren’t seeing Marco Giovanni.”
“Would you like to place a wager on that, Mark?”
“I mean it, Suzy. Corby and I will talk to him if you go anywhere near him. Do you hear me? The kid is top notch, and the last thing he needs is someone like you screwing things up for him.”
I paced the foyer. The media continued to pounce on the front porch. “What’s it worth to you, big boy?”
“What’s it worth to me?” he asked. “Damn you, Suzy. Are you doing this to try and get me back?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mark. It’s been three years, and I’m having the time of my life. I wouldn’t take you back if you came with a twelve-inch cock and more stamina than a vibrator with long lasting batteries guaranteed for a thousand charges or more.”
“Do you really expect me to believe you have a thing for Giovanni, a kid you haven’t even met?”
I closed my eyes and tried to imagine first introductions. Thanks to Mark, I probably needed to step up the game, hurry up, and find a reason to meet Marco. Maybe I could have my people call his people and arrange a dinner for this weekend. Opening my eyes, I remembered one crucial point. I didn’t have people.
* * * *
“Sandy,” I drawled later that afternoon. “I’m calling to congratulate you on the marvelous piece you wrote.”
“The article covered your life, darling. Of course it’s remarkable,” she said in a hurry. “What are you doing calling so late? Anything new to report?”
“No,” I said. “But I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Have you heard from the Marco Giovanni camp yet?”
“Oh yes, I have numbers for his agent, his PR staff, his mother—if you can believe that—and, uh, actually, Marco called himself.”
“Have you returned any of those calls?”
“No, not yet.”
I smiled. At times, life was so sweet. I didn’t have to worry about getting any sugar, the cubes simply bounced my way. “Why don’t you give me his agent’s number and the number Marco gave you?” I paused and then said, “And while you’re at it, let me have his mother’s number, too.”
A few minutes later, I clutched the pastel stationary with three very important numbers scribbled across it. I dialed Danny Reuning. My stomach in knots, I couldn’t remember the last time I felt so alive. Danny Reuning was Corby Teller’s agent. He worked a few deals for Mark early in his career, but we never met face to face.
The phone rang and rang and rang. I shifted my weight from one foot to the next.
“This is Mr. Reuning.”
Something about someone calling themselves Mister truly irked me. I took a deep breath, and the impatient sucker said, “Hello? Is anyone there?”
“Hello, Danny Reuning?”
“Yes, this is Danny Reuning.”
I sighed, acting the part of disgruntled media diva. “This is,” I cleared my throat and acted as pained as I could possibly convey over the phone, “this is…Suzy Illiani.”
“What can I do for you, Miss Illiani?”
Shit. Corby must have told him I’d call. “It’s not what you can do for me, Mr. Reuning, but what I can do for you.”
He chuckled. “You have nothing I want.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I said, studying my reflection in a nearby mirror.
“Considering my new money maker is now connected with the PFC’s number one tramp, I think you’ve done enough.”
“Oh?” I giggled now. “Mr. Reuning, I called to see if you could arrange a meeting with your client.”
“The answer is an emphatic no.”
I gathered as much, which is why I had Marco Giovanni on my house phone speed dial prior to dialing his agent’s number. “Do you mind if I ask why?”
I hit speed dial. It rang twice before I heard Marco. “Hello?”
I hung up on agent smartass and said, “Hello, Marco?”
“Yes, this is Marco.”
“This is Suzy Illiani.”
“Yes?”
“I’m calling to see if you and I can sit down to a quiet dinner and see what we can do about these current rumors flying around.”
“Rumors?” He laughed. “What are you doing, Miss Illiani? Trying to give the journalists covering our stories something more to talk about?”
“You know it, darling,” I purred. The pet name might have been a bit much, but seducing an athlete was my specialty.
“And just why would you want to do something so absurd?”
Such a kid, I reminded myself. “Marco, I’ve been playing this game for a long time. I’m a pro. Ask anyone.”
“Oh, I’ve asked. Don’t ever think I haven’t. When some broad is connected to my name all over the national tabloids and sports reporters want an interview about my relationship with this random gal rather than my position with the Dallas Rascals, I take notice.”
Good, I thought. So I definitely grabbed Marco’s undivided attention. “I tried to talk to that agent of yours, but he, uh…well, you’ve been in this long enough to know that agents often take over every aspect of their players’ lives.”
“Is that right?” he asked. “I make my own decisions, Miss Illiani.”
“Is that right?” I fired back. “Then what do you say we give the press something more to write about?”
The brief silence made me a little uncomfortable. I hurriedly tried to think of a plan B and came up short.
Take the offer. Take a chance.
“So you called to invite me over for dinner?”
I had hoped he would turn the tables and ask me out, but okay, a candlelit meal at my place worked too, especially with the press camped in my front yard. Standing taller, like posture mattered, I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. How does eight o’clock sound?”
“Tonight?”
“Do you have a problem with spontaneity, Marco?”
“That’s funny,” he said. “Evidently you didn’t see the tagline attached to my name, Miss Illiani. A man doesn’t earn that sort of nickname without living on the edge.”
I wanted to laugh out loud. I gave him the name that would stick with him for his entire career. He owed me big time. He could thank me with dinner and pay me back with dessert.
Chapter Three
Marco Giovanni wasn’t just sex in shoulder pads or even a wet slide show. Good God, he was five screaming orgasms in the middle of a crowded street.
I watched him retrieve his dinner jacket from a hanger in the back of his SUV. He shrugged his arms into the navy blue blazer and dusted off the sleeves. Handsome to a fault, Marco was everything I imagined and then some. And I had big plans to change Marco Giovanni’s life, starting tonight.
Smoothing my hands over my short white dress, I pinched my nipples so they protruded enough to gain his attention and keep it. Yes, the slutty image might as well grab him at the door and hold him by the balls throughout the main course.
I brushed my bangs over to the side and decided the auburn hair color complimented my golden tan. Boobs, I reminded once more, pinching my nipples again and making sure my low-cut neckline provided enough cleavage to draw Marco’s lingering gaze.
Reaching for the door, I refused to wait for the doorbell announcing his arrival. Numerous microphones were shoved toward Marco’s face before he
knew what hit him. I should’ve warned the poor fellow about the media tents pitched in the side yard. My favorite reporters received an earlier delivery of picnic baskets full of fried chicken and all the trimmings. I made sure they stayed very comfortable and well-fed prior to Marco’s arrival.
Grabbing his wrist, I yanked him inside and he looked grateful. “I’m Marco,” he said soon after the door slammed behind him.
“Suzy,” I drawled, extending my hand.
Nervously, he took my wrist and raised the back of my hand to his lips. Brownie points, right off the bat. Then again, he didn’t need any.
He glanced upstairs and then to his right. “You have a nice home, Miss Illiani.”
“Suzy.”
He laughed. “Yes, I know. Although I have to admit, I expected someone older.”
Plastic surgery—worked like a charm.
I still acted appalled. “Older?”
“Weren’t you married to—”
“Let’s not talk marriages and divorces,” I interrupted. Soon, I’d sharpen my claws across the man’s chest and he would forget to inquire about past mistakes.
“You look younger than I imagined.”
“And that’s a bad thing?” I asked over my shoulder, working my sway right on into the kitchen.
“No,” he said, following on my heels. “It’s never a bad thing to look younger than your age.”
I felt the sudden stab in my heart. Age and I didn’t have a close friendship. I defied numbers at every angle.
Bypassing the kitchen, I headed for the dining room and stopped in front of the massive walnut table. The only purpose the table ever served during my marriage to Mark was the obvious, to entertain guests. I once had other ideas for the elegant furniture. Tonight, maybe the extravagant piece would live up to a few fantasies.
“You went to a lot of trouble,” Marco said, pulling out a chair and waiting for me to take a seat.
I glanced at the array of food piled high in exquisite serving dishes and platters, compliments of Royal Prince Fabre’s Exclusive Collection. Reaching for a delicate cloth napkin, I said, “After the commotion I’ve caused, I wanted to make sure you felt like our dinner was worth your effort.”
A perfect gentleman, he took his seat and eyed my martini and his. “I don’t drink.”
“I do,” I said, sipping and quite amused.
A twitch in his upper jaw proved he not only didn’t like alcohol for his own consumption, but he didn’t necessarily want to see someone else indulge, either. What a pity.
He opted for a sip of water and then asked, “So what’s this dinner really about?” He tossed his napkin across his lap.
I noticed his expression, and his tone changed considerably the moment he spotted the martini.
Shit, I thought. Of course he didn’t drink. The PFC strictly prohibited underage drinking, and I was entertaining a man under the legal age of twenty-one.
Cupping my chin, I said, “Can I shoot straight with you?”
He helped himself to various food choices and then picked up his fork and knife. Cutting the bowtie pasta and chicken, he replied, “Why don’t you? I like direct women.” He eyed my boobs then. Honestly, he should’ve looked at the door. At least the dress pushed up plenty for show.
“I wanted to meet you.”
“There were subtle ways to arrange an introduction, don’t you think?”
I batted my eyelashes. “What do you mean?”
He licked his lips and dabbed the napkin across his mouth. “Oh, come on, Suzy, don’t play dumb with me. I’m young, but I’m not inexperienced.”
Thank God.
“I’m not following what you’re implying,” I said, taking a bite of pasta.
He gulped a swig of water and set the large, pink crystal tumbler on the edge of the placemat. “What happened with being direct?”
“I told you, I wanted to meet you and here you are.”
“Yes,” he said. “Here I am. Did it ever occur to you that you could’ve invited me over for dinner minus the fanfare and without every gossip columnist in the country awaiting my arrival?”
He took another couple of bites. I watched him eat, trying to decide how much information I should reveal and realizing he probably wouldn’t believe anything close to a full-fledged denial. I may have underestimated Marco Giovanni.
I hoped so. I liked a challenge and loved surprises.
“You surely don’t blame me for tabloid lies and assumptions.”
He pushed away from the table, crossed his thick arms across his chest, and leaned back.
My gaze drifted down his fit body and stopped long enough to eye the package below the belt. Good heavens, I suspected a long time ago—and apparently reached an accurate decision—men in the PFC sported big cocks with their larger-than-life attitudes. It must’ve been a prerequisite for the players.
It took some effort to tear myself away from the image of young football hopefuls standing in line, waiting for the draft picks to begin while medical personnel measured their penises. The smile crept across my lips anyway.
“Something funny?”
“No,” I replied. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not really. I could eat, of course. But I’d like some answers first.”
“Where would you like to get them?” I asked, a saucy nip in my reply.
He licked his bottom lip and looked toward the stairs. Oh God, I thought, my heart racing more than ticking. Surely not!
Marco stood. “A lot of the players warned me about you,” he said, walking over to the bay window overlooking my yard. “Everyone seems to have a Suzy story. My agent, the players, the coaches, pretty much everyone—including your ex-husband and Corby Teller, by the way—told me to cancel this dinner.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He grinned, pointed toward the pool and waved at a photographer. “I’m a competitive player, and I like a challenge. From what I hear, you’re one of those women who can keep a man on his toes.”
“Really?”
“I read the tabloids, too, Suzy.”
“I’m not surprised. Most men with front page stories tend to like those newsworthy magazines,” I said. “But as far as challenges, you must know I haven’t played hard to get, at least not yet.”
He chuckled and reached in his pocket. “No, you haven’t,” he said, retrieving his keys. “But I will.”
“You aren’t leaving so soon, are you?”
“Actually, we’re leaving,” he said, eyeing my breasts once more. “Grab a sweater. I want to show you something.”
* * * *
Marco Giovanni grew up in a neighborhood similar to one not far from the expensive Highland Park, and for some reason, wanted to show me the kind of place where he felt at home. Closer to downtown, Marco pointed out a house on a side street that looked like it may have been around twelve hundred square feet. Something I couldn’t quite imagine since I lived in a ten thousand square foot home all by my lonesome.
Shifting in the leather seat, I said, “I’m not sure why you brought me out here.”
He pulled his SUV onto the gravel driveway and stopped in front of a little cottage, one with a white picket fence and tacky royal blue shutters. Then, he shoved the gearshift upward.
Parked in front of the house, he leaned over the steering wheel and then glanced my way. “This is who I am. I’m not the rookie quarterback with stars in his eyes like everyone thinks. I’m certainly not the Italian Stallion your tabloid puppets have dubbed me. I’m a simple guy, Suzy, and one who plans to live within modest means.”
I swallowed hard. This presented a new obstacle because after being this close to Marco Giovanni, I realized three things. I wanted him. He was young enough for change, and most definitely worth the time I’d spend rehabilitating him.
Grinning, I patted his arm. “You just leave things to me,” I said. “You haven’t had the chance to get adapted to the PFC lifestyle. I understand.”
“No, I
don’t think you do.” His smile widened and he said, “Suzy, let me be honest with you now. I knew who you were long before you pulled this little stunt. A woman doesn’t make the Playpen’s Top Ten Most Beautiful Women in the World list without men paying attention.”
No, I didn’t think so, either. I tried to blush but sometimes even I couldn’t act the part. Modesty wasn’t my strongest attribute.
“Anyway, we share a mutual interest in one another.”
“Good,” I said, leaning toward him.
He tapped the driver’s window. “That’s why I brought you here. There’s little reason to lead you on if you don’t know who I am, where I came from, and what my goals are.”
“Right,” I said, propping my elbows on the console and cupping my chin.
“So now you know.”
“Right again.”
Whatever he thought he easily relayed would soon change. Why not play along until date number one passed?
He started the car and put it in reverse. After he backed out of the driveway, he said, “I bought that house, by the way. Once I have the place remodeled, I’ll bring you back. I think you’ll like what I plan to do here. Either way, it will be home while I play for Dallas.”
I gulped. “Wait a minute. Did you say…you bought that small bungalow and plan to live there?”
“It’s close to town, right smack dab in the middle of everything, and I’m a man who appreciates convenience.”
I wondered if that’s why he liked the idea of a potential relationship with me. My reputation suggested availability if nothing else.
“I’m gutting the whole thing and adding some upgrades,” he continued. “But after a few repairs and some fresh paint, I think the house will be perfect, exactly what I want.”
Oh shit, I thought. I had a long way to go from diapers to training wheels. If Marco Giovanni thought he belonged on the wrong side of town, he was sorely mistaken. I needed to introduce him to the finer things in life, and I planned to start with me.
Chapter Four
Sometimes I missed Cassie. Those moments only lasted a few seconds once I remembered who whispered sweet nothings in her ears these days. My husband, my ex-husband, now shared the lovely Cassie Teller’s bed. What a pal.
Damaged Goods Page 2
