Seduced by the Playboy

by Pamela Yaye

  “My new what?” Gritting his teeth, he threw his hands out at his side and glanced around the room. “Nichola, what is all of this?”

  “What? You told me to buy school supplies and bring them to the Cook County Food Bank, so here I am. Just like you asked.”

  “Yeah, but I never told you to bring a cameraman and a huge entourage.”

  “I know. That was my brilliant idea,” she said proudly. “We’ve already filmed the fans and interviewed the food bank director, Mr. Crews. He’s quite the character, huh?”

  “Fans? What fans?”

  Nichola strode over to the window and gestured outside. “Those fans,” she said, pointing at the crowd gathered in the parking lot and spilling out onto the side streets. “Don’t worry. I brought your security guys in to keep an eye on your Lamborghini. If anyone gets too close, they’ll bring them down with ease.”

  Angela watched Demetri shuffle over to the window. He looked like a man who had the weight of the world on his shoulders. She actually felt sorry for him and wished she could do something to help. He’d come down to the food bank to volunteer, but all his publicist cared about was turning his good deed into a sensational news story.

  “Why are there so many people here? I didn’t tell anyone I’d be at the food bank.”

  “That was me again,” Nichola said, giggling. “When you called, I posted the info on all the social-media sites, and your fans came out to show their support. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  “No, Nichola, it’s not.”

  “Of course it is! Think about all the great press you’re going to get and how you being here will draw attention to the needs of the food bank.”

  Curious about what items Demetri’s publicist had bought, Angela moved over to the table and peeked inside the shopping bags. There were thousands of dollars’ worth of school supplies, and when Angela saw the netbook computers and electronic dictionaries, she let out a shriek.

  “This is awesome! Now we have enough school supplies to make backpacks for every student at Englewood Elementary!”

  “Angela, are you sure? I’d hate for you to run out of supplies again.”

  “I’m positive. Thanks so much, Demetri. This is very kind of you.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t do the shopping. I just footed the bill!”

  “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Nichola Caruso, Demetri’s publicist and personal assistant.” Draping her long, thin arms through Demetri’s, she leaned casually against his shoulder. “I keep this guy in line, and I love every second of it!”

  “I’m Angela Kelly. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Nichola is a huge fan of your show,” Demetri said. “She watches it every day.”

  “Not every day. Just when there’s nothing else on.” Her smile was thin, as fake as her spray tan, and when she squeezed Demetri’s forearm, her breasts jiggled under her low-cut designer top. “We better get going. I don’t want us to be late.”

  “Late for what? I don’t have anything planned today.”

  “We’re visiting sick kids at the children’s hospital this afternoon,” she explained. “They’re expecting us at one o’clock sharp.”

  Demetri released a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll go, but the camera guy isn’t coming.”

  “Of course he is! Why do you think I hired him?”

  “No cameras, Nichola.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because this visit to the children’s hospital isn’t about me. It’s about those courageous kids and their families. Pay the videographer and send him home.”

  “Okay, okay, he won’t film you at the hospital,” she agreed. “But I’m not sending him home. Jay’s flying with us to L.A.”

  “What’s in L.A.?”

  “You’re making three nightclub appearances tonight, and in the morning you’re shooting a Got Milk? commercial.”

  Demetri stared at Angela, and a smile fell across his lips. “Cancel it. I have plans tomorrow afternoon. Plans I’m not breaking.”

  “But, Demetri—”

  “Nichola, this is not open for discussion. Reschedule it for another day or cancel it altogether. I don’t care either way.”

  “Fine. You’re the boss,” she said with a shrug. “We’ll be waiting outside.”

  The group shuffled out of the room, wearing long faces, and the storage-room door closed with a bang. When the room was clear, Demetri faced her. “Angela, I’m sorry. I asked Nichola to drop off some school supplies, but I had no idea she’d bring a cameraman and ten of her closest girlfriends to use as human props.”

  “Demetri, you don’t need to apologize. And thanks again for all of the stuff.”

  “I could come back when I finish at the hospital and help you finish the backpacks.”

  “I’ll be fine. If I need help, I’ll just ask one of the other volunteers.”

  “No, you won’t!”

  Angela laughed. “So, I like things to be perfect. Sue me!”

  “You have to learn to relax and live in the moment.” He drew a hand down her cheek. “I love when the unexpected happens. Don’t you?”

  “Yeah, as long as it isn’t taped and posted on YouTube!”

  More laughter filled the room.

  “I’m looking forward to our lunch date tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there at twelve o’clock sharp.”

  “Of course you will.” A grin pinched his lips. “You’re always on time, you always play by the rules, and you do everything just right. I’m hoping your good qualities will rub off on me, because according to the media, I’m a screwup who does everything wrong.”

  His words gave Angela pause. There was something in his tone that troubled her, that made her feel guilty. Her gaze moved over his face. He didn’t look like the terse, surly athlete who’d stormed her studio weeks earlier. Instead he appeared sensitive and vulnerable, and there was nothing cocky about that.

  “I’ll call you later to give you my address.”

  “But you don’t have my phone number.”

  “Yeah, I do. I’ve had it for weeks. Got it from your station manager.”

  “Then why did you ask me for my number last night at Dolce Vita?”

  “Because I wanted to see if you were feeling me.” He grinned. “I’m glad you are.”

  He bent down, kissed her on both cheeks and then turned and strode out of the storage room.

  * * *

  Angela sashayed through Woodfield Mall with a smile on her lips and glitzy shopping bags in her hands. Slipping on her diamond-studded sunglasses, she sailed through the sliding glass doors and out into the warm spring night.

  The air smelled of tobacco, but despite the putrid odor, her stomach released a loud, audible growl. Angela had been so busy trying on clothes and fretting over how she looked in each outfit, she’d forgotten to eat lunch. But after countless trips between the clearance racks and the fitting room in her favorite store, she’d finally found an outfit to wear for her lunch date tomorrow with Demetri. And not just any old thing. A dress that would make the man drool all over his Chicago Royals jersey.

  Angela shook her head, and the thought, out of her mind. “It’s not a date. It’s a business lunch,” she told herself, unlocking the trunk of her car and dumping her purchases inside.

  Anxious to get home and pair her dress with the right shoes and accessories, she slid into the front seat of her car and started the engine. Hearing her cell phone ring, she rummaged around in her purse until she found it.

  “Hello?” she said, putting her cell phone to her ear seconds later.

  “Angela, it’s Salem. Sorry I didn’t get back to you last night. That lousy hockey game went into triple overtime, and my husband wouldn’t leave!”

  Angel
a laughed. “It’s no problem. I understand.”

  “How did everything go at Dolce Vita?”

  You don’t want to know, she thought, releasing a deep sigh. But instead of ratting out her crew to her boss, she said, “Everything went great. We did a ton of interviews, got some amazing shots from the roof and taped a group of college kids singing the show’s theme song!”

  “Everything went okay? Really? That’s not what Phil and the guys said.”

  “What?” The word blasted out of Angela’s mouth. “What exactly did they say?”

  “They said you went to the ladies’ room and never came back!”

  “No. They. Didn’t.” Angela was gripping her BlackBerry phone so hard, she was surprised it didn’t shatter into a million pieces. “They’re lying! That’s not what happened!”

  “Okay,” she said slowly, “so why don’t you tell me what really happened, because Phil’s version of events was just too fanciful to believe.”

  Slumping back in her seat, Angela recounted every moment of the previous night—except for the kiss she’d shared with Demetri and the time they’d spent alone together in the VIP lounge. Thoughts of Demetri kept Angela from firing up her car, driving to the station and kicking Phil’s country ass. How dare he double-cross her! Was he in cahoots with the lead anchor or just trying to make himself look good? “Wait until I see Phil on Monday,” she thought aloud. “I’m going to make him wish we’d never met!”

  “Slow your roll!” Salem laughed. “Leave Phil and the rest of his crew to me. I have something extra-special in store for them.”

  A sigh of relief escaped Angela’s lips. “I’d never bail on an assignment,” she said, shivering at the thought. “I’m so glad you believe me, Salem. It means the world to me.”

  “Of course I believe you! You’re one of the most diligent and hardworking newscasters I’ve ever met.”

  Angela smiled, but inside she was still fighting mad.

  “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “The bad. I’ll forget all about it when I hear the good news.”

  “I presented your proposal this morning at the producers’ meeting, and the team hated it. They said the topic was too dark and heavy for Eye on Chicago.”

  Angela’s shoulders sagged in defeat. To ward off tears, she pressed her eyes shut and bit the inside of her cheek. She felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. The pain in her chest was so sharp, she could barely breathe.

  “They want to keep the show fun and current,” Salem explained, her tone loud and exuberant. “We want you to play it up for the cameras and flirt even more with your male celebrity guests. That’s your niche, Angela! That’s where you shine!”

  Strangling a groan, Angela slumped back in her seat, feeling deflated and defeated. She was more than just a pretty face, and she had the education to prove it. Working for WJN-TV was a dream come true, but Angela was sick of having the same argument with her boss. Viewers tuned in to see her on Thursday nights—not the show’s producers—so why was she letting them tell her what to do?

  “What’s the good news?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment and anxious to get off the phone.

  “Earl is having hip surgery next month, and he’ll be out six to eight weeks.”

  “That’s too bad. I hope everything goes okay.”

  “How do you feel about filling in for him?”

  Angela shot up in her seat. “Seriously? You want me to do the live morning show?”

  “Yeah, I think you’d be great,” she said with a laugh. “I already know you’ll be on time. You’re always the first one at the station!”

  “Howard will never go for it. He hates having female cohosts.”

  “Don’t worry. We go way back. I can handle him.”

  “Do you think the head-ups will go for it?”

  “They already have!”

  Angela squealed like a teenage girl on a roller coaster. “Really? No way!”

  “Once they heard that you’d scored an exclusive sit-down interview with Demetri Morretti at his Lake County estate, they were putty in my hands.”

  “But...Demetri hasn’t agreed to be on my show.”

  “Not yet,” Salem quipped, “but he will. I have complete faith in you.”

  “I’m glad one of us does.” Angela felt her smile fade and her excitement wane. Resisting the urge to scream in frustration, she took a deep breath and channeled positive thoughts. None came. All she could think about was how her good mood had been shot to hell. First, her crew lied about her and then her boss fabricated a story about her show to impress the studio heads. What else could possibly go wrong today?

  “Stay close to your phone, Angela. I might need you to cover the hot-dog-eating contest out at Six Flags this afternoon.”

  It’s true, she decided, shaking her head. Bad things do happen in threes!

  “I have to run. The in-laws are coming over for dinner, and I’m still in my bathrobe.”

  “Okay. Talk to you later.”

  “Oh, and, Angela, one more thing.” Her tone grew serious. “The next time Demetri Morretti shows up at the food bank, text me immediately, because that’s breaking news!”

  Chapter 12

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Nichola asked, climbing down the front steps of Demetri’s Lake County estate and joining him in his Mediterranean-style garden. “Angela Kelly’s a piranha in Gucci pumps. You might need backup.”

  “Go home, Nichola. I’ll be fine.” Demetri pointed his silver watering can at the terra-cotta pots and moved slowly down the row of leafy plants. He wanted his publicist to leave so he could go inside and get ready for his date in peace. It had been months since he’d invited a woman to his house, and he wanted everything to be perfect—the food, the ambience, his appearance. Angela was in a league of her own, and Demetri knew if he wanted to make headway with her this afternoon he had to bring his A game. “Have fun at your sister’s bachelorette party.”

  “I have a bad feeling about Angela Kelly coming here.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s all good. We made a truce.”

  Nichola’s eyes thinned and shrunk into a glare. “You’re not interested in her romantically, are you?”

  “Who, me?” Demetri coughed to clear the lump in his throat. He didn’t want anyone—especially his brothers—to know he was interested in Angela. In part because he knew they’d laugh him out of the room. He was attracted to the very woman who had dissed him on national television, and more shocking, he’d been thinking about her nonstop since they’d kissed at Dolce Vita. If that isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is! he thought, shaking his head.

  “This is a business lunch,” he said. “We’ll talk, and then she’ll be on her way.”

  “And you’re sure you don’t want me to stay and run interference?”

  “I’m a grown man. I don’t need anyone to hold my hand or fight my battles,” he said, trying to keep the lid on his frustration. “And besides, Angela Kelly isn’t a threat. I can handle her.”

  “Speak of the devil...”

  Demetri glanced over his shoulder. When he saw Angela exit her navy blue jeep, the fine hairs on the back of his neck shot up. Wide-eyed, he watched her glide up the mosaic-tile steps with the grace of the First Lady. Her walk was poetry in motion. Mesmerized, he stood beside the decorative oak bench, speechless. Angela’s belted mustard dress showcased her curves, and her ankle-tie pumps gave her a sexy bad-girl edge. Her classy, sophisticated look was a home run, and he was so aroused by the sight of her mouthwatering shape, his brain turned to mush.

  Smiling brightly, Angela waved as she approached. Her long, black hair flapped wildly in the light spring breeze, drawing his gaze up from her hips to her beautiful oval face.

&nbs
p; Demetri felt the urge to run, to sprint full speed ahead toward her. It was impossible to be around Angela and not feel good. Yesterday at the food bank, they’d talked and joked and laughed with ease. He’d felt like his old, jovial self, like the person he used to be before the media started gunning for him and his injuries began piling up.

  “Welcome to my home.” Taking her hand, Demetri leaned in and kissed Angela on each cheek. It was a standard Italian greeting, but there was nothing innocent about the surge of blood flow he felt below his belt. He wanted to take Angela in his arms and tease her soft, moist lips with his mouth, but for now holding her hand was enough. “You’re early. I wasn’t expecting you for another half an hour.”

  “It’s raining in the city, and the streets are crazy, so I decided to leave early,” she explained. “Surprisingly, I made it here in record time.”

  Nichola appeared, like a puff of smoke, scowling in earnest. She looked Angela up and down but addressed Demetri. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, her voice terse. “Don’t forget, the rep from Rolex International will be here at one to discuss your new signature line.”

  “I won’t forget. Have a good time with your girls tonight.”

  “I will, but if you need anything, just call. It doesn’t matter how late.” She gave a curt nod and then hustled down the steps to her white sports car.

  Angela was glad to see Demetri’s publicist go. Not because she wanted to be alone with him, but because there was something about the petite strawberry blonde that unnerved her.

  “Perfect timing,” Demetri said, squeezing her hand. “I was just finishing up in the garden.”

  “You garden?”

  “I love it. Being outside and working with my hands is very therapeutic. If not for the helicopters buzzing around here all day, I’d probably sleep on the lawn!”

  “A baseball star with a green thumb? Who would have thought?”

  Demetri chuckled. “I’m no Martha Stewart, but I’m getting there.”

  The estate was as calm as it was scenic and dotted with dozens of trees, flower beds and white stone structures. The soothing sound of rushing water added to the tranquillity of Demetri’s ten-thousand-square-foot home. The fragrant scent of jasmine was heavy in the air.