school,” Cole elaborated and then watched his brother’s frown disappear.
He and his brothers had graduated from different high schools, but Jordan knew of Marisa. After her pivotal role in Cole’s suspension during senior year, she had for a time become infamous among the Serenghetti brothers and their crowd.
“Luscious Lola Danieli?” Jordan asked, the side of his mouth turning up.
Cole had never liked the nickname—and that was even before he’d started thinking of Marisa Lola Danieli as the high school Lolita who had led him down the path to destruction. She’d earned the tongue-in-cheek nickname in high school because she’d dressed and acted the opposite of sexy.
He hadn’t told anyone about his intimate past with Marisa. His brothers would have had a field day with the story of The Geek and The Jock. As far as anyone knew, she was just the girl who’d scored off him—ratting out his prank to the principal like a hockey player slapping the puck into the goal for the game-winning shot.
For years the moment the principal had let slip that Marisa was the person who’d blabbed about him had been seared into his memory. He’d never pulled another prank again.
Still, he wasn’t merely dwelling on what had happened when they’d been about to graduate. The fact that his hockey career had ended in the past year made it bad timing for Marisa to show up and remind him of how close she’d come to derailing it before it had begun. And as he’d told Jordan, he’d accepted his new role as CEO, but it wasn’t without its frustrations. He was still on a big learning curve trying to drive Serenghetti Construction forward.
His brother’s punch caught him full on the shoulder, sending him staggering. He brought his mind back to what was happening in the ring.
“Come on. Show me what you’ve got,” Jordan jeered, warming up. “I haven’t run into Marisa since you two graduated from Pershing.”
“Until today, I could say the same thing,” Cole replied.
“So, what? She’s come back for round two now that you’re on your feet again?”
“Hilarious.”
“I was always the funny brother.”
“Your sense of fraternal loyalty warms my heart,” he mocked.
Jordan held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, nearly coming to a stop. “Hey, I’m not defending what she did. It sucked big-time for you to miss the final game and for Pershing to lose the hockey championship. Everyone avoided her wherever she went in town. But people can change.”
Cole hit his brother with his left. “She wants me to headline a fund-raiser so Pershing can build a new gym.”
Jordan grunted and then gave a low whistle. “Or maybe not. She’s still got guts.”
Marisa had changed, but Cole wasn’t going to elaborate for his brother. These days there’d be nothing tongue-in-cheek about the nickname Luscious Lola, and that was the damn problem.
Before he’d recognized her, his senses had gone on high alert, and his libido had gleefully raced to catch up. The woman was sex in heels. It should be criminal for a schoolteacher to look like her.
The eyeglasses that she used to wear in high school were gone, and her hair was longer and loose—the ends curling in fat, bouncy curls against her shoulders. She was no longer hiding her figure under shapeless sweatshirts, and she’d filled out in all the right places. Everything was fuller, curvier and more womanly. He should know—once he’d run his hands over those breasts and thighs.
Before she’d announced who she was, he’d been thinking the gods of TGIF were smiling down at him at the end of a long workweek. Then he’d gotten a reprieve until she’d literally fallen into his arms—a one-two punch.
In those seconds staring down into her face, he’d been swamped by conflicting emotions: surprise, anger, concern and yeah, lust. More or less par for the course for him where Marisa was concerned. He could still feel the imprint of her soft curves. She sent signals that bypassed the thinking part of his brain and went straight to the place that wanted to mate.
Jordan caught him square on the chest this time. “Come on, come on. You’re dazed. Woman on your mind?”
Cole lifted his lips in a humorless smile. “She suggested that participating in the fund-raiser for Pershing might be good PR for Serenghetti Construction.”
Jordan paused before dancing back a step. “Marisa is a smart cookie. Can’t fault her there.”
Cole grumbled. Marisa’s suggestion made some sense though he’d rather have his front teeth knocked out than admit it. He’d never liked publicity and couldn’t have cared less about his image during his professional hockey days, to the everlasting despair of his agent. And since taking over the reins at Serenghetti Construction, he’d been focused on mastering the ropes to keep the business operating smoothly. Community relations had taken a backseat.
Marisa had a brain, all right—in contrast to many of the women who’d chased after him in his pro days. She’d literally been a book-hugger in high school. The jocks in the locker room hadn’t even been able to rate her because it had been hard to do reconnaissance.
He’d eventually had the chance to discover the answer—she’d been a C-cup bra. But the knowledge had ultimately come at a steep price.
These days he’d bet the house that she had an A-plus body. She was primed to set men on their path to crashing and burning, just like old times.
Except this time, her next victim wouldn’t be him.
Squash racquet back of hall closet. I’ll pick it up.
Marisa hit the button to turn off her cell phone. The message from Sal had come while she was out. She’d been so shaken by talking to Cole for the first time in fifteen years that she hadn’t realized she had a text until after she’d gotten back to her apartment.
Annoyance rose up in her. As far as text messages went, it wasn’t rude. But it hadn’t come from just anybody. It had come from her former fiancé, who’d broken things off three months ago.
During their brief engagement, she’d been sliding into the role of the good little wife, picking up Sal’s dry cleaning and making runs to the supermarket for him. From Sal’s perspective, asking her to retrieve his squash racquet from her hall closet was unquestionably fair game. No doubt Sal had an appointment to meet a client at the gym, because even sports agents had to establish their athleticism—though Sal played squash only once in a blue moon when an invitation was issued.
She contemplated heaving the racquet out the window and onto the lawn, and then asking Sal to come find it.
Before she could overrule her scruples, she heard someone turn the lock in the front door. She frowned, nonplussed. Hadn’t she asked Sal to return his key...?
She yanked the door open, and her cousin Serafina stumbled inside.
Marisa relaxed. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Of
