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“The guys down at the Puck & Shoot. The hockey players are regulars.” Sera paused and pulled a face. “Jordan Serenghetti stops in from time to time.”
Judging from Sera’s expression, Marisa concluded her cousin didn’t much care for the youngest Serenghetti brother.
“Are you doing more than moonlighting as a waitress there?” Marisa asked with mock severity.
Serafina shrugged. “If you hung out in bars, you wouldn’t need the tip.” Then she flashed a mischievous grin. “Use it in good health.”
Of course Cole Serenghetti would go to a boxing gym. The place was most likely the diametric opposite of the fancy fitness center where Sal played squash. She’d given up her own membership—with guilty relief—when Sal had unsubscribed from their relationship.
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “What do I wear to a boxing gym...?”
“My guess is, the less, the better.” Serafina curved her lips. “Everyone will be sweaty and hot, hot, hot...”
One week later...
Cole saw his chance in Jordan’s sudden loss of focus and hit him hard, following up with a one-two punch that sent his brother staggering.
Then he paused and wiped his brow while he let Jordan regain his balance, because their purpose was to get some exercise and not to go for a knockout. “I don’t want to ruin your pretty face. I’ll save that thrill for the guys on the ice.”
Jordan grimaced. “Thanks. One of us hasn’t had his nose broken yet, and—” he focused over Cole’s shoulder “—I need to talk pretty right now.”
“What the hell?”
Jordan indicated the doorway with his chin.
When Cole turned around, he cursed.
Marisa was here, and from all the signs, she didn’t have any more sense about a boxing gym than she did about showing up at a construction site in heels. She was drawing plenty of attention from the male clientele—and some were going back for a second look. But her gaze settled nowhere as she made her way toward the ring that he and Jordan were using. She looked pure and unaware of her sexuality in a floaty polka-dot dress that skimmed her curves. The heels and bouncy hair were back, too.
She was the perfect picture of an innocent little schoolteacher—except Cole knew better. Still, for all outward appearances, the tableau was Bambi surrounded by wolves.
“Now that,” Jordan said from behind him, “is a welcome Wednesday night surprise.”
Cole scowled. Not for him, it wasn’t. He moved toward the ropes, pulling at the lacing of one glove with the other. A staff member for the gym came up to the side of the ring to help him.
“Where are you going?” Jordan called.
“Take a breather!”
“I saw her first,” his brother joked, coming up alongside him.
From when they’d hit puberty, the Serenghetti brothers had one rule: whoever saw a woman first got to make a move.
Cole leveled his brother with a withering look as the gym assistant pulled off his gloves. “That is Marisa Danieli.”
Jordan’s eyes widened, and then a slow grin spread across his face. “Wow, she’s changed.”
“Not as much as you think. Hands off.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who needs a warning. Who yanked off his gloves?” Jordan looked over Cole’s shoulder and then raised his eyebrows.
Cole turned. Marisa had pulled the ropes apart and was stepping into the ring, one shapely leg after the other.
“This should be good,” Jordan murmured.
“Shut up.”
Cole pulled off his padded helmet. The front of his sleeveless shirt was damp with perspiration, and his sweatpants hung low on his hips. It was a far cry from the way he looked in meetings these days—where he often wore a jacket and tie.
He handed off his helmet before turning toward the woman who’d crept into his thoughts too often during the past week. Sweeping aside any need for pleasantries, he demanded, “How did you find me?”
Marisa hesitated, looking as if her bravado was leaving her now that she was facing her opponent in the ring. “A tip at the Puck & Shoot.”
Cole figured he shouldn’t be surprised she was a patron of the New England Razors’ hangout. She could scout for her next victim at a sports bar, and it would be easy pickings.
Marisa took a deep breath, and Cole watched her chest rise and fall.
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Let’s start again. And how are you, too, Cole?”
“Is that how you start the day in school? Correcting your students’ manners?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted.
Jordan stepped forward. “Don’t mind Cole. Mom sent us to Miss Daisy’s School for Manners, but only one of us graduated.” Jordan flashed the mega-kilowatt grin that had earned him an underwear advertising campaign. “I’m Jordan Serenghetti, Cole’s brother. I’d shake your hand but as you can see—” he held up his gloves, his smile turning rueful “—I’ve been pounding Cole to a pulp.”
Marisa blinked, her gaze moving from Jordan to Cole. “He doesn’t look the worse for wear.”
Cole’s muscles tightened and bunched, and then he frowned. He should be used to compliments... Besides, he knew she had an ulterior motive—she still needed him for her fund-raiser.
“We stay away from faces,” Jordan added, “but his nose has been broken and mine hasn’t.”
“Yes,” she said, “I see...”
Cole knew what he looked like. Not bad, but not model-handsome like Jordan. He and his brother shared the same dark hair and tall build, but Jordan’s eyes were green while his were hazel. And he’d always been more rough-hewn—not that it mattered at the moment.
Jordan flashed another smile at Marisa. “You may remember me from Cole’s high school days.”
Cole forced himself to remember the expensive orthodontia as the urge hit to rearrange his brother’s teeth. He noticed how Jordan didn’t reference the high school fiasco in which Marisa had had a starring role.
“Jordan Serenghetti... I know you from the sports news,” Marisa said, sidestepping the whole sticky issue of high school.
Cole had had enough.
“You don’t take no for an answer,” Cole interrupted, and had the pleasure of seeing Marisa flush.
She turned her big doe eyes on him. “I’m hoping you’ll reconsider, if you’ll just listen to what I have to say.”
“If he won’t listen, I will,” Jordan joked. “In fact, why don’t we make an evening of it? Everything goes down better with a little champagne—unless you prefer wine?”
Cole gave his brother a hard stare, but Jordan kept his gaze on Marisa.
“The Pershing School needs a headliner for its Pershing Shines Bright benefit,” Marisa said to Jordan.
“I’ll do it,” Jordan said.
“You didn’t graduate from the Pershing School.”
“A minor detail. I was a student for a while.”
Marisa took a step and swayed, her heels failing to find firm ground in the ring. Cole reached out to steady her, but she grasped one of the ropes for support, and he let his arm fall back to his side.
Careful. Touching Marisa was a bad idea, as he’d been reminded only last week.
“Cole’s the better choice because he graduated from Pershing,” Marisa said, looking into his eyes. “I know you have some loyalty to your school. You had a few good hockey seasons there.”
“And thanks to you, no championship.”
She looked abashed and then recovered. “That has to do with me, not Pershing, and anyway, there’s a new school principal.”
“But you’re the messenger.”
“A very pretty one,” Jordan volunteered.
Cole froze his brother with a look. He and Marisa had known each other in a carnal sense, which should make her off-limits to Jordan. But he wasn’t about to let his brother in on those intimate details—which meant he was in a bind about issuing a warning. Jordan was a player who liked women, making Marisa a perfect target for the charm that he never seemed to turn off.
Jordan shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe it wasn’t Marisa’s fault.”
None of them needed him to elaborate.
“It was me at the principal’s office,” she admitted.
“But you’re sorry...?” Jordan prompted, throwing her a lifeline.
“I regret my role, yes,” she said, looking pained.
Cole lowered his shoulders. He’d gotten the closest thing to an apology.
Still, Marisa had another motive for showing up today. And while he may have gotten over high school and his suspension a long time ago, forgiving and forgetting her treachery was still a long time coming...
Jordan shot him a speaking glance. “And Cole apologizes for being Cole.”
Cole scowled. “Like hell.”
They hadn’t even touched on intimate levels of betrayal that Jordan knew nothing about.
Jordan gestured with his glove. “Okay, I typically leave the mediation talks to the NHL honchos, but let’s give this one more try. Cole regrets messing up with his last prank.”
“Right,” Cole said tightly but then couldn’t resist taking a shot at his brother to dislodge the satisfied look on his face. “Jordan, talk show host is not in your future.”
His brother produced a wounded look. “Not even sportscaster?”
“Since we’re all coming clean,” Cole continued pleasantly, looking at Marisa, “why don’t you tell me what’s in this for you?”
She blinked. “I told you. I want to help the Pershing School get a new gym.”
“No, how does this all help you personally?”
Marisa bit her lip. “Well... I hope I’ll be considered for assistant principal someday.”
“Now we’re getting warmer,” he said with satisfaction, cocking his head because this was the Marisa he expected—full of guile and hidden motives. “Funny, I had you pegged for the type who’d be walking up the aisle in a white dress by now and then juggling babies and teaching.”
Marisa paled, and Cole’s hand curled. She looked as if he’d scored a dead hit.
“I was engaged until a few months ago,” she said in a low voice.
“Oh yeah? Anyone I know?” Had Marisa entrapped someone else from high school? Unlikely.
“Maybe. He’s a sports agent named Sal Piazza.”
Beside them, his brother whistled before Cole could react.
“You might know him,” Marisa continued, “because he’s now dating your last girlfriend. Or at least you were photographed in the stands at a hockey game with her. Vicki Salazar.”
Damn.
“Hey, can this be called entangled by proxy?” Jordan interjected, his brow furrowing. “Or how about engaged by one degree of separation? Is that an oxymoron?”
Cole felt a muscle in his face working. His brother didn’t know the half of it. “Put a lid on it, Jordan.”
Cole looked around. They were attracting an audience. The speculative ones were wondering whether this was a lovers’ spat and Marisa was his girlfriend—and whether they could intercept her as she made her way out of the gym. “This is ridiculous. The ring isn’t the place for this conversation. We’re a damn spectacle.”
Marisa looked startled.
He fastened his hand on her arm against his better judgment. “Come on.” He lifted the rope. “After you.”
Marisa cast a glance at Jordan.
“He isn’t coming,” Cole said shortly.
Marisa stepped between the ropes and Cole followed, taking the wooden steps down to the gym floor.
Ignoring curious looks, he steered Marisa toward the back entrance—the one leading to the parking lot. When they reached the rear door, he turned to face her and said, “So you’re engaged to Sal Piazza.”
“I was.” She lifted her chin. “Not anymore.”
“Still can’t resist the sports guys?”
“I’m a slow learner.”
