Game for Seduction
Page 1
Chapter One
Dominic DiMarco is seriously hot," the makeup artist said, fanning herself. Melissa McKnight kept her eyes trained on her BlackBerry, even though she was dying for another mouthwatering look at Dominic's hard, tanned chest. As the representative for the McKnight Sports Agency, which her father owned, she wasn't there to ogle one of its clients. Assisting pro-football players during photo shoots and charity events was her job. Just because Dominic was totally drool-worthy didn't mean she could lose her head over him in public.
Only in private.
The middle-aged woman raised her voice. "You're nuts for doing email while that man has his shirt off. When are you going to get the chance to be this close to a chest that beautiful again?"
Melissa stopped typing and looked up with a polite smile. "Everyone at the McKnight Agency is very proud of what Dominic has achieved."
She'd spent a decade concealing her lust for him. That morning she'd woken up from a lovely dream in which Dominic had been doing wonderful things to her with his mouth, his amazingly strong hands, and the thick bulge between his legs, which she tried not to stare at every Sunday when he suited up for a game. She was pretty sure she failed every time.
"I couldn't care less about football," the makeup artist said, her voice too loud for Melissa's comfort. "But that man has got amazing abs. And I'll bet you can bounce a quarter off his ass."
The photographer called for some quick touch-ups to Dominic's hair, and the chatty makeup artist ran over to dust some powder on his torso. Melissa— and every other woman in the room—knew Dominic didn't really need powder to cut the shine on his perfect skin: It was simply the woman's excuse to touch him.
A photo of Dominic wearing nothing but well-worn jeans and a smile was enough to melt even the coldest woman's heart . . . and empty her pock-etbook. As one of the offensive stars of the San Francisco Outlaws, Dominic was a highlight-reel favorite every Sunday when Americans were glued to their flat-screen TVs. His powerful sex appeal was the rea son Melissa had been able to negotiate a $2 million endorsement fee with Levi-Strauss & Co.
Growing up in the football business, Melissa had seen plenty of impressive physiques. Great abs, tight butts, and broad shoulders were a given. But on Dominic, the standard ten had been turned up to eleven. His six-pack abs looked like they'd been painted on by a makeup artist; every time he moved, deep hollows crisscrossed his hard stomach. His wide shoulders and muscular back were a work of art, and the way the sinews and tendons of his triceps and biceps played and gave as he moved made her breath come a little too fast.
Watching him from across the room, the years fell away and she was seventeen all over again.
Every Christmas, Melissa's father invited his top clients and their wives and girlfriends over to their house. Melissa usually hid in her bedroom and read until everyone had gone home, but this year Dominic DiMarco was a new McKnight Agency client, and she couldn't resist spying on him in the living room through the pass-through counter in the kitchen.
She'd nursed a wicked crush on Dominic ever since she'd been lucky enough to tag along with her father to a University of Miami game, where Dominic had been a record-breaking wide receiver. Chills had run up and down her spine as he ran out onto the field, even though it had been a warm, sunny day. Cheerleaders kicked as high as they could and the college girls cheered wildly in their skimpiest tank tops, desperate to capture his attention. Dominic gave the crowd one devastatingly handsome grin, then focused wholly and completely on the game.
Melissa fell irrevocably in love.
Her adolescent hormones rose up, begging to be released. She'd never reacted like this to anyone: not the cutest boy in school, not the latest pop star. She'd never felt so much admiration for the way a football player handled the ball, with confidence but no unnecessary flash. She'd never gotten tingly all over just because a guy's black hair curled at the base of his neck.
The day Dominic signed on with her father's agency was her best—and worst—day rolled into one. Seeing him on a regular basis at agency events helped her gather lots of erotic data for her evergrowing fantasies about him. If only she didn't always make such a fool of herself around him! Her brain sputtered helplessly; her mouth said stupid things; she walked into tables and spilled drinks.
That Christmas, Dominic DiMarco was laughing with her father in front of the fire, a big-breasted blonde on his arm. The beautiful girl was tall and thin and perfectly dressed—everything Melissa expected one of Dominic's girlfriends to be.
Melissa cringed as she caught sight of her reflection in a serving tray on the kitchen counter. She had a drawer full of expensive makeup she'd never had the guts to use . . . until today. Instead of pulling her unruly curls into a tight ponytail, she'd brushed her hair until it formed a halo around her head like a lion's mane. She wasn't sure if her new hairstyle was better than the ponytail, but at least it was more grown-up. As for clothes, since she attended a private school that required a uniform, she didn't have much to choose from. She'd finally decided on a pair of snug black pants her mother had bought her last year and a tight red sweater she'd borrowed from her much skinnier best friend Alice.
Watching the beautiful men and women chat, Melissa's hands grew damp and her stomach started to hurt. There was no way she could go out there; she could never compete with the supermodels enjoying her family's hospitality.
She turned to leave just as her father caught sight of her. "Melissa, come out and say hello to everyone."
Licking her suddenly dry lips nervously, praying she wouldn't make a fool of herself in front of Dominic, Melissa slowly pushed through the kitchen door and walked into the living room.
"What's that on your face?" her father exclaimed in a loud, slightly drunk voice. "And what the hell are you wearing?"
Twenty pairs of eyes turned her way, the Christmas CD playing in the background actually began to skip, and all conversation stopped.
Dying of embarrassment, Melissa barely noticed her mother moving to her side in support. Her father's blunt remarks had often hurt her feelings, but never this badly. She wanted to run out of the room, but her feet felt as heavy as bags of cement.
Desperately hoping no one else had heard her father's comments, she forced a smile. "Hi, guys," she said with a dumb little wave. She avoided Dominic's gaze. "Merry Christmas."
Two dozen gorgeous, talented men and women smiled back at her with varying degrees of pity in their eyes. It was the most awful, embarrassing moment of her life.
Her father turned to open a bottle of Cristal, and she was about to make a break for her bedroom when he peered at her again. "And what on earth did you do to your hair? It looks like you have a big orange basketball on your head."
Dominic DiMarco is seriously hot," the makeup artist said, fanning herself. Melissa McKnight kept her eyes trained on her BlackBerry, even though she was dying for another mouthwatering look at Dominic's hard, tanned chest. As the representative for the McKnight Sports Agency, which her father owned, she wasn't there to ogle one of its clients. Assisting pro-football players during photo shoots and charity events was her job. Just because Dominic was totally drool-worthy didn't mean she could lose her head over him in public.
Only in private.
The middle-aged woman raised her voice. "You're nuts for doing email while that man has his shirt off. When are you going to get the chance to be this close to a chest that beautiful again?"
Melissa stopped typing and looked up with a polite smile. "Everyone at the McKnight Agency is very proud of what Dominic has achieved."
She'd spent a decade concealing her lust for him. That morning she'd woken up from a lovely dream in which Dominic had been doing wonderful things to her with his mouth, his amazingly strong hands, and the thick bulge between his legs, which she tried not to stare at every Sunday when he suited up for a game. She was pretty sure she failed every time.
"I couldn't care less about football," the makeup artist said, her voice too loud for Melissa's comfort. "But that man has got amazing abs. And I'll bet you can bounce a quarter off his ass."
The photographer called for some quick touch-ups to Dominic's hair, and the chatty makeup artist ran over to dust some powder on his torso. Melissa— and every other woman in the room—knew Dominic didn't really need powder to cut the shine on his perfect skin: It was simply the woman's excuse to touch him.
A photo of Dominic wearing nothing but well-worn jeans and a smile was enough to melt even the coldest woman's heart . . . and empty her pock-etbook. As one of the offensive stars of the San Francisco Outlaws, Dominic was a highlight-reel favorite every Sunday when Americans were glued to their flat-screen TVs. His powerful sex appeal was the rea son Melissa had been able to negotiate a $2 million endorsement fee with Levi-Strauss & Co.
Growing up in the football business, Melissa had seen plenty of impressive physiques. Great abs, tight butts, and broad shoulders were a given. But on Dominic, the standard ten had been turned up to eleven. His six-pack abs looked like they'd been painted on by a makeup artist; every time he moved, deep hollows crisscrossed his hard stomach. His wide shoulders and muscular back were a work of art, and the way the sinews and tendons of his triceps and biceps played and gave as he moved made her breath come a little too fast.
Watching him from across the room, the years fell away and she was seventeen all over again.
Every Christmas, Melissa's father invited his top clients and their wives and girlfriends over to their house. Melissa usually hid in her bedroom and read until everyone had gone home, but this year Dominic DiMarco was a new McKnight Agency client, and she couldn't resist spying on him in the living room through the pass-through counter in the kitchen.
She'd nursed a wicked crush on Dominic ever since she'd been lucky enough to tag along with her father to a University of Miami game, where Dominic had been a record-breaking wide receiver. Chills had run up and down her spine as he ran out onto the field, even though it had been a warm, sunny day. Cheerleaders kicked as high as they could and the college girls cheered wildly in their skimpiest tank tops, desperate to capture his attention. Dominic gave the crowd one devastatingly handsome grin, then focused wholly and completely on the game.
Melissa fell irrevocably in love.
Her adolescent hormones rose up, begging to be released. She'd never reacted like this to anyone: not the cutest boy in school, not the latest pop star. She'd never felt so much admiration for the way a football player handled the ball, with confidence but no unnecessary flash. She'd never gotten tingly all over just because a guy's black hair curled at the base of his neck.
The day Dominic signed on with her father's agency was her best—and worst—day rolled into one. Seeing him on a regular basis at agency events helped her gather lots of erotic data for her evergrowing fantasies about him. If only she didn't always make such a fool of herself around him! Her brain sputtered helplessly; her mouth said stupid things; she walked into tables and spilled drinks.
That Christmas, Dominic DiMarco was laughing with her father in front of the fire, a big-breasted blonde on his arm. The beautiful girl was tall and thin and perfectly dressed—everything Melissa expected one of Dominic's girlfriends to be.
Melissa cringed as she caught sight of her reflection in a serving tray on the kitchen counter. She had a drawer full of expensive makeup she'd never had the guts to use . . . until today. Instead of pulling her unruly curls into a tight ponytail, she'd brushed her hair until it formed a halo around her head like a lion's mane. She wasn't sure if her new hairstyle was better than the ponytail, but at least it was more grown-up. As for clothes, since she attended a private school that required a uniform, she didn't have much to choose from. She'd finally decided on a pair of snug black pants her mother had bought her last year and a tight red sweater she'd borrowed from her much skinnier best friend Alice.
Watching the beautiful men and women chat, Melissa's hands grew damp and her stomach started to hurt. There was no way she could go out there; she could never compete with the supermodels enjoying her family's hospitality.
She turned to leave just as her father caught sight of her. "Melissa, come out and say hello to everyone."
Licking her suddenly dry lips nervously, praying she wouldn't make a fool of herself in front of Dominic, Melissa slowly pushed through the kitchen door and walked into the living room.
"What's that on your face?" her father exclaimed in a loud, slightly drunk voice. "And what the hell are you wearing?"
Twenty pairs of eyes turned her way, the Christmas CD playing in the background actually began to skip, and all conversation stopped.
Dying of embarrassment, Melissa barely noticed her mother moving to her side in support. Her father's blunt remarks had often hurt her feelings, but never this badly. She wanted to run out of the room, but her feet felt as heavy as bags of cement.
Desperately hoping no one else had heard her father's comments, she forced a smile. "Hi, guys," she said with a dumb little wave. She avoided Dominic's gaze. "Merry Christmas."
Two dozen gorgeous, talented men and women smiled back at her with varying degrees of pity in their eyes. It was the most awful, embarrassing moment of her life.
Her father turned to open a bottle of Cristal, and she was about to make a break for her bedroom when he peered at her again. "And what on earth did you do to your hair? It looks like you have a big orange basketball on your head."
