Seduced by the Playboy

by Pamela Yaye

  Angela inspected the posh sports car. It had tinted windows, diamond-studded rims, and when it rolled to a stop, the engine released an audible purr.

  “Someone got lost in the wrong part of town,” Farrah quipped, pulling her keys out of her purse. “Nice wheels, though, huh? Wonder how much drugs he had to sell to afford it.”

  Before Angela could answer, the driver’s-side door lifted in the air, and Demetri slid out. Farrah gasped, dropping her keys to the ground as a hand flew to her open mouth.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Angela shared the same thought. Shock filled her. Not because she was surprised to see Demetri strolling through the parking lot, but because of how ridiculously handsome he looked. It should be illegal for a man to be that fine, she thought, admiring his casual street style. He had the confidence of a runway model and the requisite body to match. She only hoped Demetri didn’t try to kiss her again, because resisting him required superhuman control, and whenever he was around she became helplessly weak.

  Angela ran her eyes down the length of his body. Clad in his trademark Chicago Royals baseball cap and sunglasses, he strode through the parking lot carrying a box of doughnuts in one hand and a tray of coffee in the other. His light, refreshing cologne carried on the breeze, and his boyish grin was dreamy.

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  Desire burned inside Angela, but she gathered herself and returned his warm greeting. “Hey, Demetri. What’s up? I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning.”

  “Why not? I told you I’d be here, and here I am.”

  His grin was wide and disarming. It was meant to charm, to remind her of the special moments they’d shared at Dolce Vita. And it did.

  “We should get inside. There’s a lot to get done today, right, Farrah?”

  Her friend didn’t speak. She just stood there, staring wide-eyed at Demetri.

  Angela scooped the keys up off the ground and pushed them into Farrah’s hands. But she didn’t move. To rouse her friend from her trance, she poked her in the side with her elbow. “Come on, Farrah. Time to go inside.”

  “Huh?” Farrah blinked, then gave Demetri a puzzled look. “I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Morretti, but what are you doing here?”

  “Call me Demetri,” he said smoothly. “Angela invited me. She said you were short on volunteers, and since I had nothing to do today, I figured I’d come down and help out.”

  “You’re here to volunteer?”

  “If that’s okay with you.”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Demetri raised the coffee tray in the air. “I brought breakfast. If there isn’t enough for everyone, I can zip back over to Dunkin’ Donuts and grab some more.”

  “We’re the only ones here so far, so that’s more than enough.” Farrah unlocked the door and disabled the alarm. “Welcome to the Cook County Food Bank. Please, come in.”

  Demetri climbed the steps and strode down the sun-filled hall behind them.

  “Demetri Morretti didn’t come down here to volunteer,” Farrah whispered, clutching her friend’s forearm. “He came here to see you!”

  “I don’t care.” Angela unzipped her jacket. “I told you. I’m not interested in him.”

  “For real? You’re not just saying that.”

  “All I care about is Demetri doing my show.”

  Farrah licked her glossy lips. “Good—then can I have him?”

  * * *

  “I don’t care what anyone says,” announced a tall, full-figured woman, slamming a can of kidney beans on the table. “The Song is rigged! And so was the last presidential election!”

  Demetri chuckled. Over the past hour, he’d sorted and shelved nonperishable food items and listened in fascination to the spirited discussion the other volunteers were having. The only person who didn’t join in the conversation was Angela. But Demetri suspected it was because she was too busy packing backpacks and not because she was being antisocial. He had never, in all his life, seen someone work as hard as her. She checked and double-checked the names on her list, ensured every backpack had the same number of school supplies and had taken the time to write each child a handwritten note.

  “Son, you’re moving too slow. You’ve gotta keep up.”

  Demetri tore his gaze away from Angela and addressed the slim, gangly man with an unkempt beard. The supervisor either didn’t know who he was or didn’t care. Both suited Demetri fine.

  “Sorry, sir, but I’m going as fast as I can.” To prove it, he scooped up the cans in his cardboard box, dropped them on the shelf and lined them up in a straight, neat line. He felt a twinge in his shoulder but smiled through his pain. “How does that look?”

  “Fine, but at the rate you’re going, we’ll be here all day. You’ve only unloaded three crates in the last two hours, but Mr. Sullivan, who’s thirty years your senior, has done eight!”

  “Really? Wow! Good for him.” Demetri chuckled, but when the supervisor crossed his fleshy arms, he halted his laughter. The man looked as if he was about to blow, and since Demetri didn’t want to get tossed out of the Cook County Food Bank, he quickly unloaded the rest of the items in his crate. He was here to give back to the community and spend quality time with Angela, and he couldn’t afford to piss anyone off—especially the ill-tempered supervisor. “I’ll work harder from now on, sir. I promise.”

  “If you don’t pick up the pace we’ll be here all day, and I have plans with my old lady tonight,” he said, hoisting a sack of potatoes onto the top shelf and dusting the dirt off his wide, fleshy hands. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “Just call me D.”

  “D., you should go help Angela and the ladies and leave the sorting to us.”

  Demetri gestured to the black flatbed truck parked in front of the storage-room door. “There’s still a lot of groceries to unload, and I’d hate to leave you hanging, sir.”

  “Go. I insist.” The matter decided, the supervisor rested a hand on Demetri’s shoulder and steered him across the storage room. “Angela, this fine young man is going to help you and your team for the rest of the morning.”

  Angela kept her eyes on the ribbon she was tying into a large, elaborate bow.

  “Angela’s a little intense,” the man said, lowering his voice. “But she’s the best volunteer here. Don’t worry, son. You’re in good hands.”

  Demetri didn’t doubt it. Angela did it all and made it look easy. He’d been watching her on the sly for hours and marveled at her humility in serving others. Her physical beauty was striking, but he was attracted to her mind more than anything.

  Sunlight poured through the window and cast a bright glow around Angela. Dressed in a belted blouse and tights, her hair cascading down her shoulders, she looked like a beautiful brown angel. And she was. After seeing her cheerfully answer the phones, pack dozens of food hampers for single mothers and clean the freezer from top to bottom, he realized Angela Kelly was an unstoppable one-woman show.

  And he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone.

  Where the hell is Nichola? he wondered, stealing another glance at his watch. He’d called her hours ago, and she’d promised to be at the center by noon. It was twelve-thirty, and he still hadn’t seen any sign of her.

  Taking his cell phone out of his pocket, he checked for missed calls or texts. He had dozens of texts but none from Nichola. He considered calling her again, but when he spotted the elderly woman in the peach blouse giving him the evil eye, he shoved his cell phone back into his pocket. “What needs to be done?” he asked.

  “Nothing. I got this. Just relax.”

  “Angela, I’m here to help, so let me.”

  Her eyebrows were furrowed, and she looked worried. “Englewood Elementary School was severely damaged during the thunderstorm we had a few wee
ks back, and the students were left with practically nothing. This project is near and dear to my heart and I want the backpacks to be perfect.”

  “I know, and don’t worry. I’m not going to screw anything up,” he said, rolling up his shirtsleeves. “Just tell me what you want me to do, and I’ll do it.”

  Angela gestured to the wooden table to her left. “Put a box of crayons, a ruler and a spiral notebook in each backpack.” She wore a sheepish smile, one that caused her eyes to sparkle like diamonds. “Thanks, Demetri. As usual, I’ve fallen way behind, and Mr. Crews is mad at me.”

  “I bet. That brother doesn’t play,” Demetri said, wearing a wry smile. “He should enlist in the U.S. Army. He’d make one hell of a drill sergeant!”

  They shared a laugh. As they worked, they talked about the weather, movies they were anxious to see and the Fourth of July extravaganza his foundation was throwing.

  “Angela, I’d love if you and your friends could come,” Demetri said, glancing at her. “The event is for a great cause, and all the money raised will go toward sending disadvantaged kids to private school and junior college.”

  “When is it, and where is it being held?”

  He thought hard but drew a blank. “I can’t remember.”

  “Are you actually involved in the organization or just the face?”

  “Just because I don’t run to the papers or post it on Facebook every time I make a charitable donation doesn’t mean I don’t give.”

  “Million-dollar checks are wonderful, Demetri, but the greatest thing you can give a kid is the gift of time. They’ll probably never remember what toy they got from your foundation, but they’ll never forget the time they spent with their hero.”

  “I never asked to be a role model.”

  “Well, you are, and it’s time you started acting like it.”

  Demetri folded his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Whether you like it or not, you’re the face of the Chicago Royals franchise and idolized by practically every kid in this city,” she explained, hurling a box of crayons into a pink Hello Kitty backpack. “Quit bellyaching about how it sucks to be famous and use your stardom for good. Read to schoolchildren, play ball in the park with neighborhood kids and, for goodness’ sake, get to know the families who use the services offered by your foundation.”

  Demetri stood there, stunned by her criticism and the harshness of her tone. He felt small, and guilt troubled his conscience. It wasn’t every day he got put in his place, and Angela’s words stung. “I’m not a bad guy.”

  “I never said you were,” she countered, “but the next time you’re tempted to complain about the media hounding you or have a pity party in your twenty-room lakefront mansion, remember all the Chicago kids who look up to you.”

  Silence fell between them. For the next hour, Demetri worked side by side with Angela but didn’t say a word. Not because he was mad, but because the tension in the room was high, and he didn’t know what to say to break the silence. Her words stuck with him, played over and over again in his mind. Was Angela right? Was he a spoiled, rich athlete who did nothing but complain? Had he allowed the trappings of success and fame to make him bitter?

  “Lunch is ready!” Farrah announced, sticking her head inside the storage room and waving her hands wildly in the air. “Y’all get in here and eat before my gumbo gets cold!”

  A cheer erupted from the group, and everyone sped out the door.

  “Aren’t you going to eat?”

  “I will, after I finish the rest of the backpacks.” Angela stood and walked up the aisle. Slowly and carefully, she searched the shelf for more boxes of cartoon character–themed fruit snacks. “Go ahead and eat, Demetri. I bet you’re starving. You’ve been working hard all morning.”

  “Not as hard as you.”

  Angela’s shoulders tensed when Demetri moved to stand directly behind her. He was so close that she could hear him breathing.

  Turning around, she pressed her back flat against the shelf. Her eyes settled on his lips. Desire swept over her, mercilessly battering her inflamed body. Angela had to find a way to withstand the heat in order to overcome the power he held over her.

  Conversation and laughter flowed out of the kitchen, reminding Angela that they weren’t alone, that one of the other volunteers could walk in at any minute.

  “We need to talk.”

  “We’re talking now.”

  “Are you mad at me?”

  His words floored her. “No. Why would I be mad at you?”

  “Because I’ve been a terrible role model for Chicago kids.”

  Angela wore an apologetic smile. “You came down here to volunteer, not to listen to me gripe. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Demetri touched a hand to her waist, and her heart stood still.

  “Don’t censor yourself around me. I find your honesty refreshing.”

  “Then why did you barge into my studio two weeks ago and threaten to sue me?”

  “To get your attention,” he said smoothly.

  Angela wasn’t buying it but didn’t argue the point. To keep from staring at Demetri, she fixed her eyes on the storage-room door, watching to make sure no one was coming.

  “We need to finalize the details of the interview, and the sooner the better.”

  “Yeah, right, the interview,” she said, tearing her gaze away from the door. “Why don’t you come by the station one day next week?”

  “You had me banned from the building, remember? And besides, I’d prefer something less formal and more relaxed.”

  “Um, okay. What did you have in mind?”

  Demetri moved closer, lowered his voice. “Dinner, at my place, tomorrow night.”

  “I already have plans.”

  “Break them.”

  “I can’t,” Angela said, shaking her head. “My dad has been looking forward to the Harlem Globetrotters show for weeks, and I promised I’d meet him and my brother.”

  “I’d hate to piss off Pops.” He gave a hearty chuckle. “All right, let’s do lunch instead.”

  “I’ll have to check to see if my producer’s available,” she explained. “Salem normally doesn’t work weekends, but I have a feeling she’ll make an exception for you.”

  “Mrs. Velasquez is not invited. It’s an intimate lunch for two.”

  Playing with her necklace gave Angela something to do with her hands. Something that wouldn’t get her in trouble. But when Demetri stepped forward, she braced her hands against his chest, which was what she’d been itching to do from the moment he’d barged into her studio.

  “I’m going to make you an authentic Italian meal and you’re going to love it.”

  “No,” she corrected, “your personal chef is going to cook, and you’re going to pass the food off as your own!”

  Demetri shook his head. “I don’t need to. My dad taught me and my brothers how to cook at a very young age, and I can really throw down in the kitchen.”

  I bet you can throw down in the bedroom, too.

  “I can’t stop thinking about that kiss.”

  “Really? I forgot all about it.”

  A grin broke out across his face. “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, it was terrible. The worst I’ve ever had.”

  “Then I’ll have to redeem myself.”

  A warm sensation fell over Angela when Demetri crushed her lips with his mouth. Angela had no control over what happened next. At least that was what she told herself as their hands stroked and caressed and fondled each other.

  Lust consumed her. Fully. His kiss was magic, and his touch shot a thousand bolts of electricity up her spine. Overwhelmed with desire, and the adrenaline coursing through her veins, Angela boldly kissed him back. But she didn’t st
op there. She pushed a hand under his shirt and stroked the length of his chest. His pecs were firm, his biceps were smooth to the touch, and his rock-hard abs were as perfect as she had imagined.

  Caressing his powerful upper body turned Angela on. They stood there, in the middle of the aisle, pawing each other. Her body trembled, hard and fast, as his lips, tongue and hands aroused her.

  Angela closed her eyes, savoring the moment. She couldn’t believe it. She was standing in the food-bank storage room, kissing Demetri Morretti. It was their second kiss in two days, but this one was more passionate, more urgent and so damn erotic her panties were drenched with desire. When Demetri slid his tongue into her mouth and teased her own, she released a loud, savage moan.

  “Demetri, where are you? It’s showtime!”

  Angela jumped back. Her heart was beating in double time, and her thoughts were a scattered mess. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for the owner of the shrill, high-pitched voice. Demetri’s publicist pranced up the aisle with a cameraman and fashionably dressed entourage in tow. They were holding gigantic shopping bags and frantically snapping pictures with their cell phones.

  Resting a hand on her chest, Angela took a moment to compose herself. Her heart was beating so fast, so out of control, she feared she was having a heart attack.

  “Smile,” Nichola shouted, clapping her hands. “This is being broadcasted live!”

  Then a thin, blond man pointed a camera at them, and for the second time in twenty-four hours, Angela was sure she was going to die of embarrassment.

  Chapter 11

  “Get that camera out of her face.” Demetri slid into the cameraman’s line of vision and covered the camera lens with his hands. “Shut it off now.”

  “Sorry, Mr. Morretti. I didn’t mean any harm. I was just doing my job.”

  The guy lowered the camera to his side, and Angela sighed in relief. Glancing down at her clothes, she ensured nothing was unbuttoned or unzipped and adjusted her ivory blouse.

  “Demetri, relax.” Nichola dumped her shopping bags on the nearest table and rushed over, all smiles and giggles. “This is Jay, your new personal videographer.”