Haven’t read The Story of Us yet? Meet the leading star of the soccer (football) team that Adam McGregor owns—Marco Valenti.

Maggie Lane, a sports columnist and diehard football fan, is not exactly enthused when her editor-in-chief sends her to Rome, Italy, to write a feature story on Italian soccer star Marco Valenti. The last thing she wants to do is spend three weeks covering soccer right before the American football season begins. But Maggie’s job becomes a lot more appealing after meeting a sexy Italian man on her first night there.

One hot kiss and she is done for . . . but once Maggie discovers her mysterious Italian is Marco Valenti, she’s not sure if she’ll be able to write her story objectively, or if she’ll even have to. Marco stuns the world when he announces his retirement, and without an explanation as to why, rumors fly and the tension mounts. Despite Maggie’s protests, she is forced to stay, but with each passing day, she becomes enchanted with the beautiful city, as well as finds herself breaking her cardinal rule—never fall for a player.

As Maggie learns the truth about Marco, she has to make a decision: protect him or keep her job. Will Marco be able to trust her with his secrets? Can she trust him with her heart?

Chapter One

“Drink this. It’ll help.”

My hands clenched the arms of my seat, and my knuckles whitened as the change in altitude created a crackling, high-pitched noise in my ears. The alcohol in Will’s tumbler sloshed; a few drops of the brownish gold liquid spilled onto his mocha skin.

“Turbulence. No big deal, Mags.” Will’s free hand was covering mine, and I captured a lungful of air. With it came a whiff of Mexican winter oranges and Spanish marjoram. Will’s cologne.

I exhaled as my eyes steadied on his.

“I hate flying overseas.” I took the glass. “All that water beneath us. Freaks me out.” I held the tumbler in both hands and brought it to my lips. “Ugh!” My face puckered as my shoulders jerked. “How can you drink this stuff?” I pressed the glass back into Will’s hand and took another deep breath as my chest warmed from the burning liquid.

He released a throaty laugh, and his hazel eyes flashed to mine. “Like this.” He swallowed a mouthful and raised his glass in the air. “You better drink something, though. I don’t want you panicking every time we hit an air pocket.”

I re-gripped the side arms of my seat and quickly whipped my head around. The flight attendant was serving the guy behind us—yeesh, what a square. Who wears a suit on an overseas trip?

The pretty flight attendant’s eyes shifted to me. “Could I have a vodka and cranberry—” Another bump. Shit. I swallowed, attempting to free my heart from my throat. “Please,” I croaked.

“Sure.” She patted her hand over mine and moved her attention to Will. “Anything else for you, sir?” The beauty pushed fiery auburn locks behind her ear and focused a pair of sharp, forest green eyes on Will. A smile danced across her face the second his lips twitched.

“I’m good. But thank you,” he responded, his Jamaican accent like honey, adding a delicious sweetness to his words.

Miss Auburn stood erect, batting her lashes as though caught up in his spell, before turning on her heel and sashaying into the galley with purposeful, gently undulating hips.

Will’s eyes remained superglued to the woman’s curvy backside until she disappeared. “You can’t help yourself, huh? Making the women swoon.” I fanned my face, grateful that he’d distracted me from thoughts of the plane. Well, for a moment. How could I forget that I was trapped on the flying, metal, death-cage?

It would be heaps of metal bobbing in the Atlantic Ocean. My body would drift down into the depths of the deep blue water.

Okay, so maybe I’m a bit dramatic. But come on, it’s not normal to be in the sky. Gravity is there for a reason.

Will’s teeth flashed my direction. “What can I say?” He placed a hand on his chest and angled his head. “I’m irresistible.”

What were we talking about? Oh. Yes, Will the charmer. Focus on him and not on crashing.

“Relax.” He set his drink down and grabbed a magazine from his travel bag: Men’s Health and Sports. Of course.

My attention shifted to the all-American good ol’ boy and NFL quarterback who graced the cover of the magazine for which Will and I both worked. It was the July issue. Jeremy Jensen. He’d been one of my favorite stories.

I half-growled and jabbed my finger at the cover of the magazine. “I shouldn’t be on this plane. I should be in Jersey, at the Giants’ training camp. Even Tampa would be a step up. Anywhere but on this plane.”

“Maybe you need a change.” Will sighed. “You’ve been writing articles about football since you got out of school. Probably before.” He looked me over and scoffed. “You should do something different. Time to shake things up a bit.” Licking his thumb, he peeled back a page of the magazine. He peered at me out of the corner of his eye. “Besides, we’re going to Rome. To watch real football.”

“Real?” I slapped his hard chest. “Soccer’s boring.” I groaned. “They just kick the ball back and forth down a field. Sometimes the game ends with absolutely no one scoring—and they’re actually okay with that.” My voice began to rise. “It’s ridiculous. I don’t understand the world’s obsession with soccer.”

“Football.”

“Ugh.” I leaned back in my leather seat and popped the leg rest in some lame attempt to get comfortable. Like that would happen . . . “I’m pretty sure Travis assigned me to this project as some form of punishment.”

“Punishment for what?”

“He forced me to go on a date with his wife’s younger brother, and it didn’t go well.”

“He forced you? Huh. I find it hard to imagine you being forced to do anything.” He cocked a dark brow.

“Um, where am I right now? I’m on a plane going to Italy, against my will.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “When the editor in chief says jump—” I followed Will’s sudden grin, and my eyes fell upon the flight attendant. “Thank you.” I took the drink from her and took an eager sip. A vast improvement.

Will nodded at Miss Auburn, and her cheeks turned crimson. I waved my pinky at her retreating backside.

“What happened on the date, anyway?” His eyes landed on mine.

I grimaced. “First of all, he didn’t tell me his sister’s brother is Jeff Cruise.”

“What?” His eyes widened. “The Jeff Cruise?”

My lips pursed together as I nodded.

“How’d he manage to keep that a secret from us? The guy has one of the best batting averages in the country. He won the World Series two years in a row.” His lips parted to expose his pearly whites. “Don’t tell me that you weren’t interested in him because he plays baseball? I mean . . . I don’t swing that way, but the guy’s good-looking. Right?” He smoothed a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “Well, I mean—it takes one to know one.”

“I don’t date players. Football, baseball—it doesn’t matter.”

“And why is that?” He closed the magazine and slipped it back into his bag.

I unbuckled and attempted to get comfortable in my seat. “I’m only twenty-six, and I work at a men’s magazine. I’m a woman in a man’s world—yes, things are slowly changing, but still, I feel like I need to work twice as hard to be accepted in this industry. To be taken seriously.” I pulled my long blonde hair up off my back and tied it into a ponytail. “Dating a player could tank my career.”

“Mags, you don’t need to prove yourself—everyone in football knows your name. You’re an amazing sports writer.” He touched my shoulder. “You’re allowed to have a life, too.”

A life? “Work is my life, Will. You know that.” I cringed.

“At some point, baby girl, you need to slow down and enjoy a sunset or two.” His smirk was infectious, and I returned it before taking another sip of my drink. “Like I said, maybe this trip to Rome will do you some good. We just have to follow this Valenti guy around for a couple weeks. Get a good story, take a few photos . . . and once his first game kicks off, we can leave. You’ll be back in time for the start of the football season.”

I dragged both hands down my face and moaned. “Why did Travis pick me for this article! It makes no sense. He wouldn’t even listen to me. Craig and Kevin are the soccer experts.” I sucked in a breath and tried to calm my nerves as the plane shook a little from turbulence.

“I remember—I could hear them shouting about it from all the way down the hall.”

“I haven’t even looked into the file Travis gave me on Valenti.” I held my palms up. “See, this is why I shouldn’t be writing the story.” I pressed my forefinger to my thumb making an O shape. “Zero interest. Zilch. Or whatever the Italian word is for zero.” The little bit of Italian I knew was escaping me at the moment.

“You haven’t done your research? Maggie, that’s a first.”

“We’ll be meeting him and his agent after the press conference tomorrow. I don’t even know what he looks like. Hopefully he’s not a jerk.”

Will laughed. “You’re kidding, right? They’re all jerks.”

* * *

It was one a.m., and I couldn’t sleep. I’d made the mistake of falling asleep on the flight over, even though I never slept on planes, and now I was trapped awake.

After pacing my room for a few minutes, I found myself wandering around the elegant hotel lobby, studying the burnished copper on the ceiling, threaded with silver leaves and flowers.

The hotel was grand in its architecture. Columns. Replica statues and a massive fountain adorned the center of the room.

I caught sight of the bar at the other side of the lobby. Since the doors were still open, I decided to poke inside.

The bar was empty, offering me silence. I supposed it was a Monday. And late, too. I stood in front of a window near the door, which offered a view of a massive park.

“Would you like a drink?”

I spun around to face the bartender. He was well built and probably in his late forties, with thick dark hair that was peppered with gray. His lips rocked up into a smile as his brown eyes met mine. “How’d you know—?”

“You’re American, yes?” He rubbed the counter in front of him with a wet rag. “Your light eyes and blonde hair give you away.”

My lips quirked as I closed the gap between the window and the sleek, black bar top. “I live in New York.” Well, I did. But to me, home would always be Alabama—a state where football was the religion on Sunday.

“Let me make you something special.” The word “you” sounded more like “you-uh.” And the “h” went mysteriously missing from “something.” I had to admit, English sounded pretty damn cool from a native Italian tongue.

I wanted to say yes to the bartender’s offer as much as I knew I should say no. I’d already had a few drinks on the plane, which is how I’d managed to sleep. But what the hell—when in Rome . . .

That was the saying, right? Who’d coined that phrase?

I tried to shrug off the inconvenience of my brain’s constant demand for answers.

“Sure. Go ahead and surprise me.” I sat down and pressed against the back of the seat, shutting my eyes for a brief moment.

I listened to the sound of ice clanking and heard a deep cough.

“Scusi, is this seat taken?”

Was that a joke? Clearly the place was empty—and why had this man also assumed I spoke English? God, I’d love it if I knew enough Italian to respond with some quick remark about not judging a book by its cover.

The smell of dark woods, warm spices, and a hint of amber floated my eyes toward him. “Su-su-sure.”

The most beautiful man I’d ever seen took a seat next to me, his light, steely gray eyes capturing my own. Now, he was the definition of tall, dark, and handsome. In faded jeans and a black T-shirt. And with an accent . . .

An unfamiliar spark of heat shot down deep into my belly.

The bartender was back, his eyes shining as he extended his arm and shook the stranger’s hand. He started speaking in Italian, and I stared at the two with my lips parted.

Mr. Tall D. Handsome responded with the most beautiful and sinfully seductive sentence I’d ever heard. Of course, I had no idea what he said, but it sounded hot. Really, really hot.

What was wrong with me? I never turned into a puddle of girly hormones around a man. Of course, watching a game-winning touchdown in the fourth quarter, I could become a sappy mess. But losing my cool over a guy?

That was so not me.

“Signorina?”

Oh God, he was speaking Italian. To me.

“Yes?” My eyes opened wide, and my fingers curled around the tall glass, which contained some red and yellow, fruity smelling substance.

“How are you doing tonight?” A sexy grin spread across his face. “Well, it’s morning, I suppose.”

I looked up at the bartender, who was busy making the stranger a drink, and forced my gaze back to the sexy Italian next to me.

He pushed a semi-long strand of dark hair off his face and angled his head toward me. “Are you okay?” His accent washed over me, creating tingling chills throughout my body.

“Um. Yes.” I shook myself free of my daze. “Jet lag. I just got here from New York and can’t sleep.”

He nodded and smiled at me again, showing me his straight, white teeth. “Grazie.” He took the tumbler from the bartender and brought the drink to his lips. His eyes remained on mine as he swallowed the dark liquor. “What brings you to Roma?”

I didn’t feel like hashing out the details of my job. He was probably a soccer—that is, football—fan, he might react the way a lot of Americans acted whenever I told them I interviewed professional athletes: certifiably insane. People would ask a barrage of questions, followed by the inevitable: Can you arrange for me to meet him?

Sure, because I keep famous quarterback phone numbers on speed dial, and they are at my beck and call.

In all fairness, I do have a few numbers . . . but never once have I actually called one for anything other than business purposes.

“I’m here for work.” Simple answer. And the truth. “You?” I looked away from him and took a few large swigs of my drink, attempting to calm my sudden nerves.

I wasn’t quite sure where the owner’s manual to my brain was, but I desperately wanted it, because the mode needed to be turned back to confident professional, and quick.

His forehead creased, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. “Work, too.”

I wondered what kind of work he was in. The hotel was having several corporate meetings this week, along with the press conference.

“Where are you from?”

“I live outside Roma on the coast.”

Every time he spoke, it was like lightning striking the tiny nerves in my body. I gulped and tore my eyes away from his lips as they touched the rim of his glass.

“First time here?”

Oh God, he was continuing the conversation. And I wasn’t sure if I was capable of formulating any more sentences. I took another quick sip of my drink, wishing I had a straw to suck the thing dry. “No, I have family in Naples. They took me to Rome and a few other places when I visited five years ago.”

“Your family is Italiano?”

I forced myself to look back at him, although I regretted it the second my eyes landed on his face. His gray eyes were bright against his bronzed skin, teasing my libido, bruising my insides with sudden need. How long had it been since I’d been with a guy? Too long, apparently. “You say that like you don’t believe me.” I flashed him a smile and toyed with the ends of my ponytail, wishing I looked less tired than I felt.

“You do not look Italiano.”

It-tal-e-an-o. So. Freaking. Sexy.

His eyes were on my hand as I pulled at my hair. “Oh.” I shifted in my seat to better face him, although I wasn’t sure if that was the brightest idea. “Blondes can’t be Italian?” I joked.

“I have never seen one like you,” he said in a low voice, and my insides practically split open. I touched the bar top in front of me, attempting to remain grounded—or at least upright—before I looked like a fool.

Was it too late?

He was smirking at me, and I had to wonder what was going on inside that head of his. He took another drink and placed his elbow on the counter before setting down his glass. He was still waiting for me to talk, huh? “My dad’s brother was in the military. He was stationed in Italy, and he met and fell in love with a beautiful Italian woman here,” I managed in one long, tortuous breath.

“Smart man.”

“I think so. My aunt’s pretty amazing. And don’t get me started on her cooking.” I shook my head, and my cheeks warmed. “Can all Italians cook like that?”

His lips drew together in a straight line, and he stared at me. Even though I didn’t know him, I sensed a sadness lurked beneath the surface. He lifted his glass and finished off his drink. “Most can, I believe,” he answered as he motioned to the bartender for another round.

A painful silence filled the room for a few minutes. We didn’t even look at each other. I slid money onto the counter, prepared to leave, but the sexy stranger’s hand covered mine, and I stared down. My heart thundered in my chest, banging loud in my ears.

He quickly removed his hand from mine. “I ordered you another drink. And that one,” he said, nodding at my almost empty glass, “is on me as well.”

“That’s not necessary, but thank you.”

“Please. It would be—how do you say—offensive, to turn my offer down.”

Really? Well, I certainly didn’t want to offend him. “Thank you.” I nodded at the bartender as he replaced my glass with a full one, then I put the small wad of euros back into my purse.

My alluring stranger raised his drink in the air, and I followed suit. He clinked my glass, his eyes holding mine, and said, “Salute.” I remembered that one from my aunt.

“Salute,” I returned.

“Would you care to join me?” He tipped his head toward the army of empty tables.

“Jeez. I don’t know. Are there any to choose from?” A smile skirted my lips, and I pushed to my feet. He slipped his arm behind me and picked up my drink. My eyes fixated on his tall, muscular body as he moved before me. He was a little over six feet and, God, he was in shape. He had the physique of someone who took care of his body. Really good care . . .

I rubbed my neck and sat down on the black leather seat. “Beautiful view,” I murmured, looking out the window, finding his reflection.

“Amazing,” he responded, his eyes landing on mine, which had me swallowing hard.

“So, um, what’s your name?” My hands fell to my lap, and I rubbed them against my jeaned thighs, trying to get a grip.

Was I contemplating the first one-night stand of my life? But I was in Rome, right? If it couldn’t happen here . . .

“My friends call me Marc. You?”

“Maggie.”

“Mm. Beautiful name.”

Oh God. The fluttering in my chest. The rapid beating of wings that was my heart. I eyed my drink. It had to be the alcohol making me feel like this.

“How long are you in Roma?”

“Three weeks.”

A slow breath escaped his lips, and he arched his shoulders as he leaned against the back of his seat. His hands rested casually on the table in front of him, and my eyes wandered to the veins in his forearms and up to his biceps again.

I mentally pinched myself, trying to reel my hormones back into control. I was here on business. I couldn’t spend the whole time running around with some hot Italian I didn’t even know.

Of course, maybe he had no desire to jet around town with me. He was a ten plus, and although I had confidence, his looks were just—wow. Not that looks were my top priority in a man—there were so many more important qualities a man needed to attract my attention. I just couldn’t think of them right now.

“So, Marc, what do you do?” I hadn’t planned on getting into the work topic, but what else do people discuss?

He waved a hand in the air. “Nothing special.”

That’s it? That was all I’d get.

“You?” His lips spread into a deep smile, which exposed dimples.

That was the final blow . . . I was lost.

My fingers danced across my collarbone as I decided what I wanted to say. Since he hadn’t given me much, I vaguely answered, “I’m a writer.”

He slid his drink off to the side and leaned forward, pressing his elbows to the table. He laced his fingers together, and it took all my strength not to focus on what his hands would feel like on my body.

“What do you write?”

Okay, so maybe a little lie would be okay. I didn’t want to talk about the one thing I always talked about. Yes, I lived and breathed football, but tonight—or it was technically the morning—I just wanted to be a woman. And not an “oh how interesting, most women don’t know so much about football” kind of woman. There was more to me than my love of the game.

“Novels.” I straightened in my seat and wet my lips.

“Ah. What kind? Anything I would know?”

“Um. Romance.” Jeez. I had no idea why I chose that genre. I don’t even read romance books. Then again, my brain seemed to be wired to one channel, and I couldn’t change it.

“Ohhh.” Marc lifted his hands from the table and reached for his drink.

Did he feel the need to cool off as much as I did? It certainly was a first for me—this loss of words, the struggle for sentences.

What was this man doing to me?

Jet lag. Alcohol. I tried to rationalize my desire.

I watched the subtle movements of his muscular chest as it rose and fell.

“Maybe you could write about an Italian man falling for an American.” His deep voice sang in my ears, and I shuddered at his words.

“I don’t know. Sounds a bit cliché.” I laughed.

“Oh? This has been done before?” He perked a brow and propped his arm up on the back of the chair, his bicep front and center.

I waved a dismissive hand. “I’m sure. I’m not much of a roman—” I stopped myself, realizing I was about to screw up my lie.

I knew nothing of romance books or movies. Why hadn’t I said I wrote sports fiction? Idiot. “I should probably get some rest. I have to be somewhere tomorrow.” We’d just sat down, but I didn’t think I could continue sitting across from him any longer without an oxygen tank and a few quick lessons on how to flirt.

“Are you, uh, here for research or a book signing?”

“Um. Something like that.” I stood up, and he rose as well.

“Let me walk you to your room.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a few euros on the table. More than enough to cover our drinks. I liked that, especially since tipping in Europe was not as commonplace as it was in the States.

“Thank you for the drinks.”

He nodded at me, then exchanged a few words with the bartender before I followed him out of the bar.

He lowered his head, studying the tiled floor as we walked through the nearly empty lobby. Was he nervous? He hadn’t seemed shy before.

Then we were alone in the elevator. “What floor?”

“Ten.”

“My lucky number.” He pressed the button and stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets as the golden doors closed.

I rubbed my hands up and down the long, white sleeves of my scoop-neck shirt, trying to fight back the nerves that strangled my insides. I bit my lip and looked up at him from the corners of my eyes.

His gaze was liquid titanium as he looked back at me.

The sound of the doors chiming open set me back on my heels.

He held his hand out, motioning for me to exit. I pressed my lips into a half smile and nodded before passing him by.

I walked down the flowery carpet and to my room, hoping to slow my pulse, hoping that, when I talked next, my words wouldn’t shake. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Marc.” My voice only wavered a hair.

His eyes narrowed on me, and his fingers brushed across my shoulder.

“Goodnight, Signorina.” He leaned forward, and I unfastened at the seams. I pressed up on my toes, and my lips found his.

Then I realized that I didn’t feel any response from him. His lips remained stiff, unmoving. I pulled back and covered my mouth with my hand. He’d probably been planning on kissing me on each cheek—the Italian tradition. Embarrassment ripped me apart in a nanosecond. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

His breathing was more rapid now as his chest heaved up and down. His eyes darkened as his hand went up to my cheek, then to the back of my head. He pulled me against him and his lips crashed onto mine.

Heat snaked through me this time. It was hot. Sexy. And brutally delicious. Better than I could have ever expected.

His tongue slipped inside my mouth, and he pulled me closer to him, his hard chest pressing against mine, my nipples straining in my bra, desperate to be freed.

“Merda,” he said once our lips parted.

He was still holding my head with his one hand, and I forced my eyes open and looked up at him. There was pain, or maybe sadness, there. The same look that I remembered from earlier.

I took a small step back and bumped into the door. “Goodnight.” I thought the kiss had been pretty damn good, myself, but I also remembered the translation for “merda.”

Shit.

His hand fell heavy at his side, and I turned away from him, pressing my hand to the door. Bracing myself, I could feel his breath at my ear.

“Sweet dreams, Maggie. Ciao.”

I didn’t turn to watch him leave, but as I dug into my purse for my key, I could hear the elevator doors ding.