was filled with excitement and she practically bounced up and down on her chair. “Why don’t you come on Eye on Chicago and do an exclusive sit-down interview with Ms. Kelly this month?”
No, no, no! Angela wanted to scream out in protest, but shot evil daggers at Demetri instead. He was bad news, someone she had to stay far, far away from. He was a rich, cocksure athlete who thought he could push her around, and she had absolutely no desire to have him on her show. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not ever.
“No, thank you. I’m not interested.”
“What if we gave you the questions beforehand? You and your team could even add a few of your own. We never do that, but I’m willing to make an exception for you, Mr. Morretti.”
“No way!” Angela hollered, the words bursting out of her mouth. “He shouldn’t get preferential treatment just because he’s a—”
Salem’s eyes thinned. In an instant, Angela’s jaw locked and her tongue seized up.
“I don’t trust reporters.” Demetri cast a glance at the back of the room. “Not even the ones who look sweet and innocent. They’re the worst kind.”
Angela ignored the dig. Sticks and stones, Morretti. Sticks and stones. There was nothing the surly baseball player could say to hurt her. Life was good. Great. For the first time ever, her show was on top of the ratings, and next weekend she was covering the grand opening of Dolce Vita.
The posh three-story lounge was the first of its kind in Chicago, and Angela had been looking forward to the event for weeks. Because of her busy schedule, Angela hadn’t hung out with her girlfriends in weeks. And since they would be in attendance at the star-studded launch, she was excited about catching up with them and eating some award-winning Italian food.
“If you’ll both excuse me,” Angela said, gripping the door handle. “I really have to go.”
Salem shook her head, and Angela dropped the door handle as if it were a roasted stone. Her boss spoke to Demetri in a soft, soothing voice, but her eyes were glued to Angela. “I want to hear your side of the story, and I bet America does, too.”
“I know I don’t,” Angela grumbled. Her colleagues would probably jump at the chance to interview Demetri Morretti but the thought of interviewing him, under the bright studio lights, made Angela feel queasy. The camera captured everything—every pause, every nervous glance, every awkward movement—and she feared her nerves would get the best of her and she’d drown on live TV. Add to that the fact that she had to worry about keeping Demetri and his ego in check. Angela didn’t like him, didn’t trust him and had a feeling he was up to no good. He’d embarrassed her once in front of her crew, and there was no doubt in her mind he’d do it again. What if he outsmarts me on my show? she thought, swallowing hard. What if he makes me look like a fool on national television?
“This would be your opportunity to finally set the record straight,” Salem continued. “And imagine what the press could do for you, your team and your charity foundation. It’s a win-win situation for everyone involved, and...”
Angela tuned her boss out. Catching sight of her reflection in the wall mirror, she straightened her shoulders and cleaned the scowl off her face. There was nothing she could do about the hatred in her heart, though. Angela was fuming, her pulse pounding violently in her ears.
Her gaze bounced around the room and landed on Demetri. It was easy to see why fans disliked him. Charming one minute, acerbic the next. Former coaches, rivals and the media criticized him for his conduct on and off the field, and after having the misfortune of meeting Demetri for herself, Angela believed the criticism was due. She only wished he wasn’t so good-looking. He gave her chills—the ones that started in her toes and shot straight to her core—and it was impossible to ignore his raw masculine energy. Everything about him was a turn-on.
“I’ll give it some thought.” Demetri took his sunglasses out of his back pocket and slid them on. “My publicist will be in touch.”
“That sounds great, Mr. Morretti. I look forward to hearing from her.”
“Thanks for your time, Mrs. Velasquez. Have a nice day.” Demetri nodded, then turned and strode out of the small, cramped office.
“Angela, I know you’re upset because I ordered you into my office, but I had no choice,” Salem said, her facial features touched with concern. “You were losing control.”
“Of course I was! Demetri Morretti is a complete jerk!” Gesturing to the door, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed, she raged, “Who the hell does he think he is?”
Salem picked up the latest copy of People magazine off her desk and held it in the air. “The sexiest man alive, that’s who!”
“I wonder who he had to bribe to get on the cover.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, Demetri’s a jerk, and in my opinion there’s nothing sexy about him.”
Salem snatched her phone off the cradle and started dialing.
“Who are you calling?” Angela asked, frowning.
“My optometrist.” She was wearing a straight face, but her tone was rich with humor. “I’m booking you an emergency appointment.”
“Why? My eyes are fine.”
“No, they’re not.” A smirk lit her glossy, pink lips. “There’s definitely something wrong with your vision and your hormones because Demetri Morretti is the finest man on the planet!”
Chapter 3
The moment Demetri entered MVP Sports Bar & Grill and smelled fresh garlic wafting out of the open kitchen, his mouth began to water. Located a half block from Skyline Field, the sports bar was insanely popular among young and college-aged sports fans. Every time Demetri stopped inside the restaurant bar, the staff gave him a hero’s welcome.
“Demetri, my man, so good to see you!” The manager, a portly man with a double chin, grabbed his hand and gave it a hearty squeeze. “How are you doing?”
“Good, Mr. De Rossi. How’s the family?”
“My sons are growing up fast and getting in all sorts of trouble.” Chuckling, he bent down and pointed at his receding hairline. “The kids are the reason I’m losing my hair, and the little I have left is turning gray!”
Demetri laughed heartily. The fellow reminded him of his dad, right down to his wrinkle-free pants, buffed leather shoes and thick Italian accent. Shooting the breeze with the jovial bar manager always put Demetri in a good mood. And after the tongue-lashing he’d received from Angela Kelly at the station, he needed something to laugh about.
“I just put your calzone in the stove,” he said, patting Demetri on the shoulder and steering him toward the dining room. “I’ll bring it out as soon as it’s ready.”
“Thanks, sir. I appreciate it.”
Spotting his staff sitting in one of the cushy, padded booths, Demetri acknowledged them with a nod of his head. Nichola Caruso, his savvy, no-nonsense publicist and personal assistant, waved, but his manager and agent were too busy on their cell
