I never got a chance to see the steps on my last visit to Rome, and with the light splashing down, the people holding hands as they climbed the stairs, even at this late hour, and then kissed at the top . . .
“Ah. Scalinata di Trinità dei Monti. You like?”
“It would be an amazing place to get married,” I said in a soft voice before checking my damn filter. I wasn’t exactly planning our wedding, but he might suspect I was.
“Yes, it is a nice spot.”
“Can we walk the steps?”
“Of course.”
“First things first.” I bent over and slipped off my heels, the stone a tad cool to the touch with the sun now tucked away in the darkness of night. “I don’t want to break a leg.”
Marco’s lips quickened into a smile. “No. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.” He reached for my heels and held them in his hand. Then he tipped his head in the direction of the stairs.
It was a moment before I could look away from him and back to the stairs, but when I did, a bubbling of energy burst inside me—maybe it was the result of my champagne consumption. Nevertheless, I moved past the fountain and started the climb.
I nodded and smiled at a few couples I passed on my way to the top, and I kept my eyes up instead of looking over my shoulder at Marco. For all I knew, someone had stopped him for an autograph. That would probably be best.
“Do you like the view? Bellissima?” He was at my side, his breath almost a whisper against my already flushed skin.
“Molto bellissima.” I swallowed, then shut my eyes, hoping to lock the view into some deep part of my mind so that I would never forget. When I opened my eyes, a flash of light was on my face. “What are you—”
Marco was taking a picture of me with his phone. “You look—well, it is a nice picture. I can text it to you.”
“Oh.” I cleared my throat in a less-than-subtle way. “Um. Thanks.”
I turned away from him, not wanting him to see the change in the color of my cheeks.
Soft notes of music from the distance floated to my ears. “Do you hear that?”
“Sì.”
A saxophone? Trumpet, too? “Where’s it coming from?”
Marco was at my side. “They often play music in the plaza beyond the church.”
“On a Tuesday night at this hour?”
“Music is good any day, any hour, no?”
The man had a point. “Can we go see?” I looked at him now, which was a mistake.
His eyes were glossy, but beneath their veneer was a smoldering mess of damn hot Italian desire. I wanted him to consume me again, to finish where we had left off before . . . but we were in front of a church, and he was a taken man.
I did a mental Hail Mary, even though I wasn’t Catholic, before reaching to pick my heels off the ground where he had set them. I put them back on and started walking toward the music.
A beautiful mix of instruments was being played by four older men. They were standing in front of an audience of a dozen or so people. A few couples were moving to the music, and one woman twirled, her flowy, sapphire dress swinging about her knees like flower petals.
There was no singing, but the blend of notes had me swaying from side to side.
“Shall we?”
Marco’s hand was in front of me again, and I blinked a few times, trying to allow my rational mind a few brief moments to assume control. Then my hand slipped inside his, and a sense of safety sparked inside me.
He gently pulled me to him, and I gasped as he spun me under his arm. Did I look as graceful as the woman in sapphire? Probably not. I could dance by myself no problem, but with a man, I was never in time.
Despite my normal lack of rhythm, I moved with as much poise as possible as Marco held on to me. His one hand slid to the small of my back, lying flat against my bare skin, which had my core clenching. Then his other hand grasped hold of mine. I allowed my free hand to brush down his shoulder, feeling the hard muscle beneath his blazer against my palm.
Marco kept his eyes on me as we danced, with the exception of a few twirls, and I couldn’t tear my gaze from him, either.
“Ah, scusi?” a voice sounded from over my shoulder a few minutes later, forcing me to look away from Marco.
Before I could respond to the twenty-something-year-old guy, Marco was speaking to him in Italian. Moments later, the man tossed his hands up in apology and backed away.
“I could have danced with him.” A smile crept to my lips as Marco drew me closer.
“I’m not a fan of sharing.”
I started to protest his absurd but slightly adorable (albeit, confusing) comment, but I sucked in a breath and squealed as he lifted me in the air.
In that moment, I was totally done for.
He set me down and stepped back to shirk off his blazer, tossing it to the street like it wasn’t worth hundreds of dollars.
An elderly man with messy black hair scrunched his nose and squinted up at Marco. His eyes began darting back and forth between Marco and the jacket.
“Marco—” I started to warn him, but the man seized the jacket before I could continue.
Marco casually looked over his shoulder as he popped the top button of his dress shirt open and began rolling his sleeves. “If he’s stealing it, he must need it more than me.” He tipped his shoulders up in a nonchalant manner.
Marco would never cease to amaze me. I could see the headline of my article now: Saint Marco Valenti.
“Maggie, would you do me a favor?” His silky voice had my nipples hardening, and a gust of need traveled through me as the pad of his thumb touched my cheek. He held my eyes, and the music faded to a dim memory, the chatter of the crowd slipped away into the night air and all I could feel, think, and want—
“Could you forget for one dance that I am not your story?”
“I—” What was I supposed to say to that?
A small, white light caught my attention as I scrambled for words. Someone was holding their phone in our direction—they were recording us.
Just great.
“Marco, someone’s filming us.”
“Then let them.”
“Marco . . .” I took a cautious step back, and his hand dropped from my cheek.
He whispered something in Italian beneath his breath. “I apologize. You are right. We shouldn’t be on camera dancing.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “What would people think?”
English or Italian, I was pretty damn familiar with sarcasm.
“Well, my editor and Sophia might have something to say about it,” I snapped out, regretting the bitter tone of my voice.
There was a moment of silence between us as he examined the ground, then he said, “We should get you back to the hotel.”
“Sure,” I answered in a slightly shattered voice.
We made our way back to the art gallery and a harsh, sick pain burned inside me as we walked. I had kept my shoes on, even though my feet felt like two big bruises.
“Will wants to meet at the stadium tomorrow. Then he has some surprise planned for Thursday. Is that okay?” I asked as we neared Marco’s Lamborghini, which was parked around the block from the gallery.
Marco pressed his hands to the top of his car and looked over the vehicle at me as I stood outside the passenger door. Time stilled in that moment as he held my eyes. I wondered what was going on in his head, but part of me didn’t want to know.
I was growing weary of battling over what I knew to be right, and yet feeling like the fight was all wrong.
“That’s fine. Are you still planning on coming to the charity event this weekend? It’s at another hotel, not far from yours.”
I nodded and opened the car door before slipping inside. “I never asked you what the charity is for.”
He joined me in the car and started up the engine. It purred to life, echoing the rumbling of my heart.
Marco kept his eyes on the road as he pulled onto the street. “It’s to raise money for childh
ood cancer. I started it awhile back.”
“Really? Wow. It’s obviously a good cause, but what made you—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, right now, if you don’t mind.” His thick accent swooshed into my ears.
I should have been getting used to his dismissive responses when it came to anything relating to his personal life, but each time it still stung.
Then again, maybe he was doing me a favor by lighting a field of fire around his heart. Maybe it would be easier for me to detach myself so I could do my job and write my story.
Twelve
I had interviewed the quarterback involved in the famous deflate-gate scandal, a little while back—you know the one—and it had been excruciatingly difficult to sit across from him and ask the painful and awkward questions, but I got through it.
Damned if I couldn’t get through this.
Marco was frowning at me. He shook his T-shirt as if the afternoon was a lot hotter than it was, and his words barreled at me hard and fast, “I can’t do this right now. I need a break.”
“From what? I’ve barely asked you anything,” I protested.
But Marco was on his feet and moving away from me and toward Will, who was on the field snapping photos. I watched as he peeled off his shirt—I wondered if he realized what a surefire way that was to ruin my focus.
We’d been sitting on the team bench for ten minutes if that. I studied my chicken scratch notes. He’d given me basics, sticking to football only.
I researched him online earlier today, but aside from rumors and photos from paparazzi—Google didn’t give me much. Since Marco never did interviews, I assumed that was why. But come on, there wasn’t even anything on his family. Who was this man? Did he double as a covert spy for Italian Intelligence? I laughed on the inside at the thought of Marco as an Italian version of James Bond.
I glanced over at Marco’s tall, muscled body as he stood in the middle of the field chatting with Will.
Hell yes, he could pull that off.
I needed to refocus. I pulled out my phone and texted Sean. It was time I rolled up my sleeves and dug a little deeper into the mystery of Marco. Of course, I wasn’t sure how much Sean would say either.
My eyes darted to the woman entering the stadium. “What the . . .?”
Francesca, the editor-in-chief from the Roman office of our magazine, was walking down the field, straight toward Marco.
I popped up to my feet, dropped my notebook, and rushed to intercept her.
“What are you doing here?” I positioned my hands on my hips and stood in her path. She was holding her heels in her hand to protect them from the turf; her flowy, cream-colored dress was a puddle of silk at her feet.
“Eh, scusi?” Her forehead should have creased when she looked at me with the eyes of the devil, but Botox prevented the expression.
Shit, I was going to get myself in trouble. “I told you that Marco didn’t want you here.”
She flashed me her too-perfect (probably capped) teeth, and I had the urge to knock the woman to her ass.
There was a cigarette in her other hand, which I hadn’t noticed before. She narrowed her eyes at me as she brought the small cylinder of death to her mouth.
“Do you think you have a right to question me? You are in my country, my dear.” A puff of smoke flirted with her lips before swirling out in front of her and toward my face. Bitch.
“I have this covered.”
“Apparently so. Your little dancing charade with Marco is all over the Internet.”
My mouth dropped open in an oh-shit moment. “Does Travis know?” Had Sophia gotten the wrong idea?
“Of course,” she said as smoke traveled with her words. “Why do you think I am here? I’m doing damage control.”
“Damage control . . .?” I repeated her words like an idiot, but what in the hell was she talking about?
“Yes. Those were Travis’s words.” She looked over my shoulder in Marco’s direction.
The clouds were pooling together in the sky, a storm threatening. I hoped it rained all over her. I had the feeling she wasn’t the kind of woman who liked to get wet.
“Travis said he trusted you to write the story without mixing business with pleasure.” She waved her cigarette in the air as she spoke.
“Why hasn’t he called me, then?”
“I told him I’d handle it.”
Like hell she would—what’d she think she was going to do? “There’s nothing going on between Marco and I. Whatever you think you saw . . .”
She angled her head at me, her eyes becoming slits. “Of course there would be nothing going on. Do you think a man like him would want,” she dragged her gaze from my face and down, then back up again, “you?”
My short fingernails dug into my palms, my coping mechanism for dealing with anger—or in the case of Marco—lust.
“Is there a problem?” Marco’s voice had me spinning to face him. “How’d you get in here?”
Francesca came around and in front of me. She handed her cigarette to me—no joke—and reached for Marco’s hand. “Marco, good to see you. It has been awhile.” Her shoes dropped to the ground, and she leaned in to press her lips against his cheeks.
I stared at the cigarette in my hand, put it out with one of my Converse, and picked it back up. Just because I was mad at the woman didn’t mean I would stoop to littering.
“Do I know you?” Marco asked—and I loved that he’d erased any memory of her. “Why are you here?” He folded his tan arms across his chest. He looked at me, then back at Francesca.
Will peeled his lips back into a frown, and all I could do was grimace right back.
“I’m the editor of the office in Roma, and I spoke to Maggie’s boss, Travis, and Travis and I agreed it would be best if I take over the story from here on out. It makes more sense.”
I didn’t believe that for a minute. Travis wouldn’t throw me under the bus—not without telling me first.
Francesca blinked—probably realizing she was speaking English to a fellow Italian—and she switched to her native tongue. Now I had no idea what she was saying.
Marco tossed his hands in the air and cursed under his breath before looking over at me. His eyes grew stormy. “Maggie will write the story. If not, there will be no story.”
He turned, grabbed a ball off the ground, and head butted it. My eyes were glued to his toned calf muscles as he moved down the field.
“I don’t like this.” Francesca’s voice grated my ears, and I spun to face her, my blonde hair a flash before my eyes as I whipped around.
Part of me was surprised by Marco’s reaction. He’d been acting so distant since last night. I almost expected he’d appreciate Francesca’s offer to be rid of me.
“Guess Marco calls the shots, though,” Will answered, a glib expression on his face.
Francesca picked up her shoes and shook her head at me. “If you screw this up, consider yourself out of a job.” Her ashy breath mixed with a hint of garlic smelled foul in my face as her words screeched in my ears. “I’ll find someone who has the guts to right the story if you cannot!” She gave a curt tip of the head to Will and turned away.
Oh I had the guts—but I had ethics, too.
Will blew out a loud breath. “What the hell are we supposed to do now?”
“Shit. Maybe I need a new job,” I joked.
Will wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer to him. “Sure. Like you’d really give up because things got a little tough.”
Marco was looking our way, and I cleared my throat and pulled free of Will’s embrace, worried Marco would misinterpret the gesture. Then I realized the craziness of my thoughts and pressed my hands to my face.
“You okay?”
“Nothing about this is okay.”
***
“Bravo!” Marco looped his arms around my waist and lifted me into the air. My chest pressed against his naked one. “That was a perfect shot.” His lips spread i
nto a grin, and his face lit up as he smiled.
His cool, aloof behavior was gone. All I could see now was a man who loved football. I was even beginning to think of it as football, instead of soccer.
But the way Marco now held me in his arms, my hands settling on his hard, broad shoulders . . . I wasn’t sure what to think or feel. My fingers smoothed over his muscles as raindrops began to splatter against his skin.
I angled my head up, peering at the dark blue rain clouds. Marco cursed. “Sorry.” He lowered me to the ground as the sky opened and the heavens showered us in sheets of hard rain.
The water rolled off the skin of his bare chest but quickly drenched my clothes. My hair became a cold, wet mess as we rushed off the field. Will must have ducked inside at the first sight of rain in order to protect his camera, because I didn’t see him.
Marco and I rushed under an overhang at one of the access points to the field, and we stood there, quiet for a minute, side by side watching the rain hammer the lush green grass.
“Glad we put our phones and stuff in the locker room before we began playing.”
“Sì.” Marco’s dark locks lay messy across his forehead, and my body shuddered at the sight of a half-naked and wet Marco standing by me. It was too much. He was such a damn tease.
Why was God doing this to me? I wasn’t all that religious, but I was starting to feel like I was being punished for something—why else would this man be dangled in front of me like a delicious piece of forbidden fruit? But I knew I couldn’t give in to the temptation again. My heart wouldn’t be able to handle it.
“You will catch a chill. You should change.”
“I’m fine. It’s still warm outside.” I pushed my heavy hair off my shoulders, and the long, wet strands slapped my back.
“Hey guys.” Will was making his way toward us with towels.
I approached him and thanked him for the towel he gave me.
I should have looked away as Marco rubbed the towel over his chest and abs, then lifted it up over his head and ruffled his hair.
Jeez. How many more days did I have left until I went home?
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