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She’d been anything but a slow learner the one time they’d had sex. She’d been the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted.
He cursed silently. He had to stop thinking about her. Even though right now, the sunlight from a nearby window caught in her hair, creating a halo effect, and illuminated the fascinating flecks in her eyes. But what really drew him was the bow of her mouth. Soft, pink and unadorned—just waiting to be kissed, even now, fifteen years later.
She frowned. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m stalked by schoolteachers all the time.”
She flushed.
“If you came to get my attention, you’ve got it.” He jerked his head toward the way they had come. “Along with that of most of the guys in there.”
“It’s not my problem if they have a fetish for overworked and underpaid educators.”
He almost burst out laughing. “Your job of recruiting me makes you overworked and underpaid?”
She pursed her lips.
“Your sports agent fiancé didn’t give you any pointers about recruiting athletes?” The dig rolled off his tongue, and then he cocked his head. “Funny, you don’t strike me as Sal Piazza’s type.”
“I’m not.” She smiled tightly, looking as if she’d be dangerous with a hockey stick right now. “He left me for Vicki.”
“He cheated on you?”
“He denied it had gone as far as...sex. But he said he’d met someone else...and he was attracted to her.” Marisa looked as if she couldn’t believe what she was telling him.
“So Sal Piazza broke up with you to get Vicki in bed.” Cole smiled humorlessly. “I should warn the guy that Vicki prefers anything to a bed.”
“Don’t be crude.”
Hell if he could puzzle out Sal. Vicki and Marisa couldn’t even be compared. One was a zero-calorie diet cola—you could guzzle twenty and they wouldn’t fill you up—and the other a decadent dessert that could kill you.
He was also still wrapping his head around the fact that Sal and Marisa had been engaged. Sal was a sports nut, center-court wannabe. And in high school at least, Marisa couldn’t have cared less about sports—her hookup with the captain of the hockey team aside.
On the other hand, from the few times Cole had run into Sal at some sports-related event or another, he’d struck Cole as an affable, conventional kind of guy. Medium build, average looks—bland and colorless. No surprise if Marisa had thought of him as safe and reliable. Not that the relationship with Sal had worked out the way she’d expected.
“When did the breakup happen?” he asked.
“In January.”
Cole and Vicki had last seen each other in November.
“Worried that Vicki might have cheated on you with a mere sports agent?” Marisa asked archly.
“No.” His involvement with Vicki had been so casual it had barely qualified as a relationship. Still, he couldn’t resist getting another reaction out of Marisa. “Even ex-hockey players rank above sports agents in the pecking order.”
She got a spark in her eyes. “So, according to you, I’ve been on a downward trajectory since high school?”
“Only you can speak to that, sweet pea.”
He felt some satisfaction at provoking her. She’d been working hard to maintain a crumbling wall of polite and professional civility between them.
“Your hubris leaves me breathless.”
He smiled mirthlessly. “That’s the effect that I often have on women, but it’s because of my huge—”
“Stop!”
“—reputation. What did you think I was going to say?”
“You’re impossible.”
“So you give up?” He glanced around them. “Good match. We both got in some nice jabs. I accept your concession.”
“The way you accepted my apology?”
He jerked his head toward the interior of the gym. “Is that what it was?”
She nodded. “Take it or leave it.”
“And if I leave it?”
She twitched her lips, her eyes flashing. “Time to go for Plan B. Fortunately, Jordan’s already given me one. Now all I need to do is convince the school that he’d be a good substitute.”
She started to turn away, and Cole reached out and caught hold of her upper arm.
“Stay away from Jordan,” he said. “You’ve already messed up one Serenghetti. Don’t go for another.”
He’d gotten first dibs on Marisa more than a decade ago. And given their history, first dibs held even now, whether Jordan knew the details or not.
“I’m flattered you think so highly of my evil powers, but Jordan is a big boy who can take care of himself.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“Neither am I. I’m running out of time to find a headliner for the Pershing fund-raiser.”
“Not Jordan.”
She pulled out of his grasp. “We’ll see. Goodbye, Cole.”
Broodingly, Cole watched her exit the gym.
Their meeting hadn’t ended the way she’d wanted, but it wasn’t the way he’d envisioned it, either.
Damn it.
He had to keep her away from Jordan, and his script didn’t include admitting, I slept with her.
Three (#ulink_b258167a-8552-5ed0-8958-6718b79ae508)
Cole had to wait a week to corner his brother because Jordan had three away games. But he figured their parents’ house was as good a location as any for a showdown. As he exited his Range Rover, he looked up at the storm clouds. Yup. The weather fit his mood.
When he didn’t spot Jordan’s car on his parents’ circular drive, he quelled his impatience. His brother would be here soon enough. Jordan had replied to his text and agreed they would both stop by the house this evening to check on how their parents were doing. So Cole would soon have blessed relief from the irritation that had been dogging him for the past week. Marisa and his brother—over his cold dead body.
Cole made his way to the front doors. The Serenghetti house was a Mediterranean villa with a red-tile roof and white walls. In warmer months, a lush garden was his mother’s pride and joy, keeping both her and a landscaper busy. As Serg’s construction business had grown, Cole’s parents had traded up to bigger homes. The move to the Mediterranean villa had been completed when Cole was in middle school. Serg had built a house big enough to accommodate the Serenghetti brood as well as the occasional visiting relatives.
Cole’s jaw tightened. If Jordan had been contacted by Marisa, then his brother needed to be warned off. His brother had to understand that Marisa couldn’t be trusted. She may have changed since high school, but Cole wasn’t taking any chances. On the other hand, if Marisa had been bluffing about asking Jordan to be her second choice, so much the better. Either way, Cole was going to make damn sure there wasn’t anything going on.
Memories had snuck up on him ever since Marisa had traipsed back into his life. Yeah, he’d taken a lot for granted when he’d been at Pershing—his status as top jock, his popularity with girls and the financial security that allowed him a ride at a private school. Still, there’d been pressure. Pressure to perform. Pressure to outperform himself—on and off the ice. He’d set himself up for a fall by trying to outdo his biggest game, his latest prank, his most recent sexual experience...
Back in high school, Marisa had been outside his inner circle but had seemingly been able to look in without judging. At least that was what he’d thought. And then she’d betrayed him.
Sure, he hadn’t liked it one bit when Jordan had turned his charm on Marisa at the boxing gym. But it was because he hated to see his brother make the same mistake he’d made. It had nothing to do with being territorial about a teenage fling. He didn’t do jealousy. Marisa was an attractive woman, but he was old enough to know the pitfalls of acting on pure lust.
As a professional hockey player, he’d always had easy access to women. But after a while it had started to lose meaning. When Jordan had joined the NHL, he’d given his younger brother the talk about the temptations facing professional athletes from money and fame. Of course, Jordan was a seasoned pro these days—but Marisa presented a brand of secret and stealthy allure.
He should know.
Cole tensed as he recalled how ready Jordan had been to succumb to temptation last week. Because his brother had been on the road for away games since then, with any luck he’d been too busy for Marisa to reach him.
Cole opened the unlocked front door and let himself in. The sounds of “We Open in Venice” hit him, and he wondered if his mother was again playing all the songs from Cole Porter’s Kiss Me, Kate. She loved the musical so much, she had named her firstborn after its legendary composer.
Cole thought his life didn’t need a soundtrack—least of all, that of the musical based on Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. Still, was it a coincidence—or the universe sending him a message? He had about as much chance of taming Marisa as of returning to his professional hockey career right now. Not that he was going to try. He was only going to make sure that he and any other Serenghetti were outside Marisa’s ambit.
He made his way to the back of the house, where he found his mother in the oversize kitchen. As usual, the house smelled of flowers, mouthwatering food aromas...and familial obligation.
“Cole,” Camilla said, pronouncing the e at the end of his name like a short vowel. “A lovely surprise, caro.”
Although his mother had learned English at a young age, she still had an accent and sprinkled her English with Italian. She’d met and married Serg when he’d been vacationing in Tuscany, and she’d been a twenty-one-year-old hotel front-desk employee. Before Serg had checked out in order to visit extended family in the hockey-mad region north of Venice, the two had struck up a romance.
“Hi, Mom.” Cole snagged a fried zucchini from a bowl on the marble-topped kitchen island. “Where’s Dad?”
“Resting.” She waved a hand. “You know all these visitors make him tired. Today the home-care worker, the nurse and the physical therapy came.”
“You mean the physical therapist?”
“I say that, no?”
Cole let it slide. His mother had a late-blossoming career as the host of a local cooking show. Viewers who wrote in liked her accent, and television executives believed it added the spice of authenticity to her show. For Cole, it was just another colorful aspect of his lovable but quirky family.
“You beat me to the food. Did you taste the gnocchi yet?”
Cole turned to see Jordan saunter into the kitchen. Cole figured his brother must have driven up as soon as he’d entered the house. “How do you know she prepared gnocchi?”
Jordan shrugged. “I texted Mom earlier. She’s perfecting a recipe for next week’s show, and we’re the guinea pigs. Gnocchi with prosciutto, escarole and tomato.”
Camilla brightened. “I tell you? The name of the show is goin’ to change to Flavors of Italy with Camilla Serenghetti.”
“That’s great!” Jordan leaned in to give his mother a quick peck on the cheek.
Cole nodded. “Congratulations, Mom. You’ll be challenging Lidia Bastianich in no time.”
Camilla beamed. “My name in the titolo. Good, no?”
“Excellent,” Cole said.
Camilla frowned. “But I need to schedule more guests.”
“Isn’t that the job of the program booker at the station?”
“It’s my show.”
Jordan made a warding-off gesture with his hands. “Remember when you had me on last year, Mom? I made you burn the onions that you were sautéing. And Cole here wasn’t much better when he was a guest.”
From Cole’s perspective, he and Jordan had been worth something in the sex appeal department, but his mother’s show would never have mass crossover appeal to the beer-and-chips sports crowd.
Before he could offer to sacrifice himself again on the altar of his mother’s show-business career, Camilla started toward the fridge and said, “I need somebody new.”
“I’ll put in a word with the Razors,” Jordan offered. “Marc Bellitti likes to cook. And maybe a member of the team can suggest someone with better skills in the kitchen than on the ice.”
Cole turned to his brother. “Speaking of ice, great game for you last night. You would have scored another goal if Peltier hadn’t body-checked you at the last second.”
Jordan grumbled. “He’s been a pain in the rear all season.” Then keeping an eye on their mother, as if to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard, he added, “Guy needs to get laid.”
At the mention of sex, Cole locked his jaw. “Has Marisa Danieli contacted you?”
Jordan cast him an assessing look. “Why do you ask?”
“She still needs a guinea pig for her fund-raiser. As I understand it, you’re eager guinea pig material.”
Jordan’s lips quirked. “Being the test subject isn’t half bad sometimes. Anyway, she wanted you.”
“I told her no.”
“Admirable fortitude. The guys in the locker room would be impressed.”
“I’m asking you to tell her no.”
“It hasn’t come up.”
Cole relaxed his shoulders. “She hasn’t tried to reach you?”
“Nope. And quit focusing on the decoy. I’m a bad one. There’s something else you’ll find a lot more interesting.”
Camilla set a big bowl of gnocchi on the counter and announced, “I’m goin’ to check on your father and be right back.”
“Take your time, Mom.” Cole knew his mother was worried about his father’s rough road to recovery. It had been several months since the stroke, and Serg still had not made a complete recovery—if he ever would.
When their mother left, Cole turned to Jordan and wasted no time in getting to the point. “What is it?”
