Player's Ultimatum (14 page)

Sometime during her mad dash, he’d pushed back the draperies and moved to sit at the foot of the bed. His hair stil charmingly disheveled and unlike her he hadn’t done anything about his current state of undress.

If Yvonne had been born a bul , Paolo would have been a red cape. Anger, unlike any she’d ever experienced before, slammed into her. Yvonne stomped over to the bed to slap the satisfied smirk from his face, but he grabbed her hand midair and brought it to his lips.

“Do you know how incredibly sexy you look when you’re furious?” He asked as if she just didn’t attempt to knock the taste out of his mouth. To add fuel to the fire, his leg swung out and he swatted the hem of her crinoline skirt. Yvonne slapped his foot away.

I have better things to do than sit around here playing with you.” Yvonne turned to leave.

His beautiful, almond-shaped eyes narrowed. So words could get a reaction out of him and not the palm of her hand?
Weird.

He let her hand go and sat back on his elbows.

“Don’t you want to hear my terms?”

Yvonne turned around slowly. “Terms?”

“You’ve been a naughty girl, Yvonne Floyd. I liked it. I want to keep seeing you.” Yvonne couldn’t believe her ears. “Are you c-crazy?” she sputtered, “I’m engaged!”

“Weren’t you engaged when you caused these?” He lifted his hand and ran his fingers over his ribs, drawing Yvonne’s gaze to a set of fresh claw marks.

Embarrassed by her fervor, she looked away. “We both liked our time together, so why not continue seeing each other.” Yvonne kept her head averted. Seeing the proof of their union had made the inside of her legs al hot and sticky. “And if I don’t want to continue seeing you?”

“I’ll tel Robbie.”

Yvonne stiffened. Robbie knew she had a crush on his teammate, but he’d also warned her away from any distractions that would wreck his chances of signing a new contract with the club. Stil , she decided to cal his bluff. “Robbie wil never believe you.”

“How about the press? There were several photographers at last night’s party. I’m sure someone saw us leave together.” What rabbit hole had she fallen down? With his fame and fortune, and preternatural good looks, Paolo Saito could have any woman in the world.
Why her?

Essential y a tomboy al her life, she had a curvy athletic figure, other than that she’d never be considered a beauty queen. She was so out of his league. She might be his intellectual equivalent, but in looks she knew she was lackluster compared to the supermodels and socialites he’d been with.

“So what do you say?”

“Do I get to say when and where?” Yvonne couldn’t believe she was entertaining the possibility!

“No, but I wil give you a lit le leeway, since you live with your fiancé.” Yvonne looked out one of the bedroom windows. In the distance, the Adriatic Sea shimmered like liquid gold. Instead of enjoying the dawn of a new day, she wished it was already over. Life was already closing in on her.

* * * * *

For the rest of the week, with no word from Paolo, Yvonne walked on egg shel s. Robbie bought her story of fal ing asleep in
Villa Reale’s
library and didn’t press her further about her not returning to their room. And upon their return to Rome, they’d fallen into their usual roles. Robbie attended soccer practice and competed in two matches, while she cheered him on safely from the stands.

Of course, Paulo had simply lulled her into a false sense of security. One afternoon while she and Robbie lounged on the couch reading the Sunday papers, her cel phone rang.

“I want to see you. Can you be ready within the hour?” No hel o or how was your week. Stil , Yvonne’s heartbeat quickened.

His voice was purely masculine and oozed sex. She got up from the couch and walked into the kitchen.

“Robbie and I were about to eat lunch,” she lied. Robbie got up late on non-game days so he’d just eaten breakfast and she hadn’t made her mind up on which leftover she was going to reheat yet.

“Fix him a sandwich. I’l have a car meet you at the bot om of the steps leading to Santa Maria in Aracoeli in an hour. Don’t be late.”

After he hung up, Yvonne stared at her cel phone for several seconds. Her fingers itched to redial his number. But she didn’t.

Instead, she went back into the living room. She rubbed her suddenly sweaty palms against her jeans. She was so nervous she just knew she was going to blow her cover.

“Hey…um…Robbie, you know that great lit le boutique I’ve been meaning to check out down in the business district?

They’re having a huge sale today.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Robbie asked not looking up from the sports section.

“No!” She exclaimed, pul ing Robbie’s attention from the newspaper. “You rest up. I’l be back in a couple of hours.” Yvonne knew he was probably exhausted from yesterday’s match as should be Paulo Saito. But no, he wanted to spend the day fucking her.

“Who was on the phone?”

Yvonne’s heart sped up. “Phone?”

“Yeah it allows two people to talk to one another over long distances. When it rang, you got up from the couch and went into the kitchen. You’re not cheating on me are you?”

“No! no…no…that was just Keitha.” Proud of her quick thinking, Yvonne patted herself on the back. “You know how much she loves to gossip, I didn’t want to disturb you while you were reading.” Robbie stared at her for a moment, and then went back to reading the paper. “Gossip hungh?”

“Yeah, she mentioned something about Nicky Merchant losing her recording contract.

“Old news,” Robbie snorted. “Wel don’t let me hold you up.”

Guilt ridden, Yvonne hesitated. “Do you want me to bring you back something?”

“How about bringing me a hot guy, six foot two or so, with dark hair and ful kissable lips.” Yvonne gulped. He’d described Paolo to the letter. “I’l do my best.”

“Have fun.”

Yvonne thanked him, but as she climbed the stairs, she knew her afternoon would be anything but fun.

*****

An hour later, showered, plucked and shaved Yvonne leaned against one of the concrete balusters at the bottom of the one hundred and thirty-four marble steps leading to Santa Maria in Aracoeli. Located on a main thoroughfare, she had to park her car one block over and walk over to the medieval church.

Every step of the way, Yvonne berated herself for being such a sucker. She’d practical y handed Paolo Saito the ammunition he needed to hold her hostage until the end of the season. Too busy cursing the day he’d been born, she didn’t notice the black Bentley pul ing up to the curb or the swarthy dark-skinned man dressed in a smart black suit that jumped out from behind the wheel.

“
Scusi, Signorina
Floyd. I’m Big Sal, Paolo Saito’s personal assistant. He sent me to pick you up and drive you to his estate located just outside the city. Are you ready?”

Yvonne straightened to her ful height, a diminutive five-foot three on a good day. And the guy dwarfed her by almost two feet.

His unusual height wasn’t the catalyst for the questions swirling around in her head. Not only did Big Sal have the body of a former professional NFL footbal player, he also had an accent which placed him in one of New York City’s five boroughs.

“Go ahead and ask?”

Yvonne blinked. “Ask what?”

Grinning broadly, Big Sal hustled her over to the curb. “You were wondering how a big black dude like me from the Bronx ended up in Rome as the personal assistant to one of soccer’s biggest stars.”

“Um sort of,” Yvonne waited for him to open the back passenger door and then climbed in. Big Sal placed his beefy arms on the door frame and smiled down at her.

“Paolo and I had the same trainer while I played for the Italian Football League. A few years back, I busted my knee and bye-bye professional sports career, which wasn’t stel ar to begin with. Instead of going home to no prospects in the States, I accepted Paolo’s job. Here I am.”

Yeah, here he was chauffeuring Paolo’s FWB. How hard the mighty fal !

Abandoning their conversation, Sal wound them through endless narrow streets and congested piazzas filled with tourists. If Yvonne wasn’t so nervous, she would have enjoyed the sights. From Santa Maria in Aracoeli in the Capitoline Hil s, they drove past Piazza del Campidoglio designed by Michelangelo, over the river Tiber, around The Vatican City and its twenty-foot stone wal s.

They merged onto Via Aurelia and passed over
Il Raccordo,
one of Rome’s busiest highways. After driving for several miles, Big Sal took a sharp right turn, entering a side street flanked by tal , mixed-use buildings on either side. The further he drove, the road widened and buildings gave way to tal pine trees and open fields.

About twenty kilometers outside the city center, they turned into a private road guarded by a large security gate. Due to a thick cropping of cypress trees, Yvonne couldn’t see much beyond the entrance. And after so much build up, she eagerly looked forward to seeing Paolo’s estate. So much so, she mental y hurried Big Sal along while he punched in the gate’s security code.

“How long has Paolo lived here?” Yvonne asked.

“About four years. Paolo’s a very private person. He hardly, if ever, has guests over, just his very good friends and a few business associates. You’re the first female friend he’s ever invited.” Yvonne remained silent. He didn’t need to know her visit wasn’t a social cal , but a business arrangement.

Considering the size of the grounds and what she knew of Paulo’s ego, Yvonne ful y expected some monstrous atrocity or cold mausoleum. Instead the two story vil a, set on a sunny hil side, reminded her of a quaint farm house, with its warm terra cot a tinted wal s and sun baked clay tiles. It felt like a home for an extended Italian family than an estate for one of Italy’s top footbal players.

Sal pulled the car into a circular driveway and jumped out. Before she pulled the latch, he hurried around and opened the door for her. “Paolo has prepared an early supper for both of you on the veranda,” he said, walking her up a short flight of stairs to a pair of double doors. They barely cleared the first step when one of the heavy oak doors swung open.

“Hey Gabe, my man,” Big Sal smiled at an older gentleman standing just inside the front door. At ired in a pair of creased khakis and a navy blue sweater, he reminded Yvonne of Mr. Rogers.

“Ms. Floyd this is Gabe Riggiero. He’s Paolo’s butler. He’ll take care of you here on out.” Yvonne turned to Gabe and shook the man’s outstretched hand. Soft to the touch like tissue paper, washing dishes couldn’t be on his list of duties.

“
Bienvenuto, Signorina
Floyd. Dinner wil be served on the veranda. The views are beautiful out there.” Yvonne fol owed Gabe up a winding staircase. Unlike many of the Italian homes she’d visited over the past couple of months, Paulo’s home wasn’t heavy and unwieldy. It was light and bright with tons of windows, coconut-milk colored wal s and glossy wood floors.

On the second floor landing, Gabe led her down an open mezzanine and then a short hal way ending at a set of French doors.

Either side of the hal was punctuated with double doors. The first pair was closed, but the second stood ajar and Brazilian
Bossa Nova
floated into the hal way.

Her hands started to sweat and her breathing hitched. Was this Paolo’s room? Like flies to buttermilk, Yvonne peaked through one of the open doors. Decorated with dark woods, clean lines and leather, the bedroom screamed, “Alpha Male!” Yvonne’s eyes strayed to the large four poster bed and she gulped. Hand carved, most likely antique, she couldn’t quite appreciate the piece’s beauty. It reminded her of their arrangement.

“
Signorina
Floyd, through here
por favore
.”

Yvonne spun around. Even though he’d caught her with her hands in the cookie jar, Gabe’s smile hadn’t slipped. Thank goodness for smal favors! Feeling pervy, she ducked her head.

Was she real y ready for this? Yvonne wiped her hands down the sides of her thighs. No, but there was just too much at stake to turn back now. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped through the French doors and her attention was immediately drawn to the estate’s back lawn.

A flourishing expanse, the lawn was a lush, intimate oasis that combined secluded sitting areas, meandering walkways, covered with creeping vines, a ful garden with fragrant roses, a sparkling swimming pool and even a smal orange grove.

“You final y made it.” At the sound of Paolo’s voice, a spark raced down Yvonne’s spine and her arms got al goose bumpily.

What was wrong with her? She should be pissed at him for blackmailing her, not responding like a freakin’ school girl. Of course, her body hadn’t received the memo. When she turned around Yvonne realized she was in deeper trouble than she thought she’d be.

Dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans and a black t-shirt, Paolo stood next to a table set for two. This was the first time she’d seen him dressed so casually and with bare feet no less. As if tailor-made for him, his clothing molded his body to perfection.

Or was his body just perfect?
Relying on memory and the rapid-fire beating of her heart, Yvonne went with the latter.

Yep. She was in deep, deep trouble.

“Are you hungry?”

Famished.
“No, I took your advice and fixed sandwiches for Robbie and myself earlier.” Yvonne knew she was being cat y, but considering the unfavorable circumstances who could blame her?

Paolo smiled, but it didn’t quite penetrate his inky, jet black eyes, which seemed to size her up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

“I wasn’t hungry either…at least for food,” he said, walking toward her, reminding her of a giant jungle cat.

Yvonne’s eyes widened and she licked her lips. Nothing, absolutely nothing compared to Paolo Saito’s beauty.

“S-shouldn’t we at least talk this out?”

Paolo shook his head. “You’ve already agreed to my terms, Yvonne.”

A shiver ran down her spine. On his lips, her name seemed to take on a whole new meaning and another tremor rocked through her. Somewhat unsteady, Yvonne grabbed for the railing behind her.