Seduced by the Playboy

“Cheap, cheap, cheap,” he chirped, shielding his mouth with the back of his hand. “You signed a blockbuster deal a few months back, but you live like a struggling college student!”

“I’m not cheap. I just don’t believe in wasting money.” Demetri stepped out onto the track. “I have no intention of blowing through my earnings and being broke in ten years.”

“Is that why you force your personal shopper to clip coupons and comparison shop?”

“No,” he argued with a laugh. “My mom ordered her to!”

Chuckling, the men jogged the length of track at a smooth, fluid pace.

“Word on the street is that Angela only dates rich guys,” T.J. explained, his tone matter-of-fact. “You know, men who can wine her, dine her and pay her expenses.”

Demetri frowned. He found it hard to believe that Angela Kelly was a kept woman. She didn’t strike him as the kind of girl who’d expect a man to support her, but what did he know about women? If he knew more about the species, he wouldn’t keep getting played. All of his ex-girlfriends were more interested in his celebrity status than having a real, meaningful relationship with him. And at thirty-two, that was exactly what Demetri was looking for. He knew he was a great catch and he wanted to catch a great woman. Someone who would be there when his career ended and the endorsement deals dried up. His teammates told him he was lucky to be single, but Demetri didn’t agree. He envied the guys who got off the team bus and had their wives and children waiting for them. One-night stands left him feeling empty inside, and contrary to what his older brothers, Nicco and Rafael, told him, a warm, curvy body didn’t make everything better.

“You dumped the last girl who demanded you buy her a mansion in Bel Air, and that Hawaiian chick for stealing your underwear and selling them on eBay, so there’s no way you and Angela Kelly would ever work out.”

“Good, because I’m not interested in her,” he tossed back.

“But if you were, you could do her, right?”

Demetri wet his lips with his tongue. The thought of sexing Angela, on his custom-made bed, with soft jazz music playing in the background and scented candles flickering around the room, made a slow, lazy smile break out across his mouth. “No comment.”

T.J. raised his eyebrows. “Oh, so you think she’d be putty in your hands?”

An explicit image of Angela—naked and rocking her shapely hips against his erection—flashed in Demetri’s mind, derailing his thoughts. He couldn’t shake the picture from his mind, and when they jogged past the cardio room, and Demetri saw Angela performing squat thrusts, his erection came to life. “I never said that, T.J.”

“It was implied.”

“Angela Kelly is just like every other girl. Willing to do whatever it takes to bed a baller so she can enjoy his status and his checkbook.”

“Care to make a friendly wager?” T.J. stuck his hands into his track pants, took out a few hundred-dollar bills and waved them under Demetri’s nose. “A thousand bucks says you don’t get past first base with that sexy TV newscaster.”

“Knock it off, man. We’re not in grade school, and betting about women is juvenile.”

“Scared you’re going to lose, huh? You should be. Angela Kelly is a hard nut to crack.”

Demetri believed him. The newscaster was a fiery, passionate woman with a sharp tongue, and there was nothing soft or genteel about her. His eyes trailed her around the cardio room, and when she hopped off the treadmill and toweled off, Demetri knew it was time to make his move. “Be right back,” he said, spinning around and jogging backward. “See you in five.”

“Where are you going?”

Demetri wore a crooked smile. “To settle a score.”

* * *

“I—I—I think I’m dying.” Gasping for air, Angela fanned a hand in front of her face and slumped against the wall like a sack of potatoes. “Everything hurts, even my butt, and I didn’t sit down once during our session!”

“That’s because plyometric workouts engage all of the major muscle groups in the body.” Her personal trainer, a stocky man with thick dreadlocks, patted her on the shoulder. “You did awesome today, Angela. Way to go pushing yourself through that last rep of weights.”

“Great—tell that to the E.R. doctor when he wheels me into the operating room.”

“I’ll see you on Thursday.”

“If I don’t die between now and then.” Too tired to wave, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose. It was the first time all week she hadn’t thought about her run-in with Demetri Morretti or her problems with her brother, Rodney. But now that her treacherous hour-long training session was over, all her troubling thoughts came rushing back. Demetri had posted a scathing message about her on his blog, and all morning she’d been fielding calls from the media. Angela wanted to report the news, not be the news, and it annoyed her that she’d become a hot topic.

Her legs felt like rubber, but she staggered over to the water fountain, one aching step at a time. Placing her bottle underneath the spout, she pressed the lever and leaned against the wall. Angela stared out onto the track. Her gaze wandered aimlessly around the gym before landing on a fit, muscled specimen in a sleeveless Chicago Royals T-shirt and knee-length shorts.

For the second time in minutes, Angela let out a deep-seated groan. Her eyes ate up every inch of the stranger’s towering frame. The square jaw, the rack of his shoulders, his bulging biceps. Since high school, she’d had a weakness for strong, athletic guys, and Mr. Man was definitely her type. All lean and rugged, he looked like the kind of guy who could fix the leaky faucet in her kitchen and rock her world in the bedroom.

Angela felt ice-cold water flow down her hands and snapped out of her thoughts. Releasing the lever, she tucked her water bottle under her arm and dabbed her wristband over her damp cheeks. She glanced over her shoulder, to ensure no one had witnessed her reaction, and there, standing a few feet away, was Demetri Morretti. Damn. He was the same guy she’d been drooling over on the track seconds earlier.

Angela sucked in a breath. Her pulse soared, and her heartbeat drummed so loud in her ears, she couldn’t think. Physically active and fit her entire life, she’d never had any problems with her heart, but every time Demetri Morretti was around, it throbbed, skipped and beat out of control. Like right now.

“Good morning,” he said, tipping his baseball cap at her. “Can we talk?”

His voice was husky and matched his gruff disposition. He looked angry, and pained, as if someone had just beaten him in an arm wrestle.

“I think you said enough the other day at the TV station, don’t you?”

“I’m sorry I barged into your studio.”

“You should be.”

“You’re right, and I shouldn’t have stepped to you like that, either. It won’t happen again.”

His gaze probed her eyes, one terrifying second at a time. Admitting he’d made a mistake couldn’t have been easy, and Angela found herself moved by the sincerity of his tone. But not enough to forgive him for what he’d written about her on his blog yesterday.

“I was hoping we could start over.”

“Let’s not and say we did,” Angela quipped.

“I knew you were going to make this hard for me.”

She puzzled over Demetri’s words but decided not to question him. Angela had zero interest in patching things up with the conceited baseball star but knew better than to argue with him in public again. There was no telling who was watching. Or secretly taping them. And the last thing Angela wanted was another video of her screaming at Demetri Morretti to mysteriously surface online. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“If anyone should be holding a grudge, it should be me,” he said, pointing an index finger at his chest. “Because of you, I’m the most hated athlete in America.”