Love/Forty Read online

  “Max!”

  “Well, looks to me like that will require someone with championship determination like his to break down your wall of distrust. Lord knows, no one else has.”

  “I thought I was here to evaluate Lynda’s prospects, not for you to assess mine,” she said, shaking her head.

  “You’re right. After this match, we’re going to have lunch with Lynda, her parents and coach.”

  “That will help give me an idea of how dedicated they all are to this venture, because without their full cooperation you don’t have a chance, or worse, you don’t want to get involved if you’d end up having to deal with backstage parents.”

  At that moment, the loud speaker came on signaling that the first match was about to begin. “If we reach an agreement and I become Lynda’s agent, I plan on coming back out later this year to the Cancer Treatment Centers of America Tennis Championship—I think McEnroe and Courier are playing, among others. The senior champions help raise a lot of money. Maybe you could join me.”

  “Sounds like fun. Want to play mixed-doubles?”

  “Maybe. Then I might be able to convince you to join my agency and move back to Florida, since I’d have to expand my staff. I’d even let you have Dante as your client, and I’ll take on Lynda.”

  “Max! You sound like Mom and Dad, envisioning me with every single, famous, handsome, rich man on earth.”

  “We’re looking out for your welfare.”

  With her head down, ignoring her brother, Mercedes shook her head and busied herself reading Lynda’s bio, then glanced up after she had familiarized herself with what she needed. Discreetly peeking over the rim of her sunglasses, she saw Dante heading toward their box, taking the steps two at a time.

  Mercedes’ heartbeat quickened, and she grabbed an elastic band out of a pocket inside her purse in a feigned attempt to appear as if she hadn’t seen him approaching and proceeded to fasten her hair off her neck to keep as cool as possible not only in the hot sun but under his heated gaze.

  ****

  In his line of thinking, this was too convenient, Dante concluded, bent on meeting the tall redhead seated next to Max McFadden. He was pleased she had not entirely escaped him when she sat with the man he hoped would become his new agent. All he had to do was pretend he only dropped by their box to set up another business meeting to discuss making final plans with Max and signing a contract before he left town. Max would have to introduce the woman, then he’d know if she happened to be Max’s girlfriend or not. He fervently hoped not.

  This woman had immediately caught his attention. A leg man himself, he thought her unbelievably surefooted as she paid more attention to the contents of her purse than the stadium steps she climbed in those sexy stiletto sandals that showed off her pretty feet and long, shapely, tan legs. He rued they weren’t exposed to full advantage in a pair of white shorts, but instead teased a man’s imagination as they swished the knee-length skirt of her ladylike safari dress with pockets in all the right places.

  He was convinced fate had brought her to an abrupt halt in front of him. When she moved her head back, flipped her thick, auburn hair over her shoulder, and unveiled her face, he was more than hooked as her emerald eyes locked with his.

  The fire in those gold-flecked eyes displayed her annoyance at being blocked and stared down. He was paralyzed. Instead of her oohing and aahing all over him like most women, married or otherwise, she eluded him and made a beeline for Max, who gave her a big hug, but curiously no kiss on her inviting lips.

  Dante didn’t know what to make of their greeting. If she’d been in his arms, his enthusiastic greeting, unlike Max’s, would most certainly have included a kiss. And no brotherly-like peck on the cheek, either. Crowd or no crowd. The more he thought about their welcome, the more emboldened he became. But, of course, if Max introduced her as his date or girlfriend, he’d walk away. He’d be disappointed, but he wouldn’t pursue a relationship.

  As soon as he reached their box, Max looked up and stood.

  ****

  “Dante. I planned to come down to get you as soon as there was a break,” he whispered. “I wanted you to join us.”

  Mercedes stood with an alacrity that caused her brother to do a double-take. “I’ll move over, and he can sit next to you.”

  “Dante, I’d like you to meet my lovely globe-trotting sister, Mercedes, whom I wish would settle down, come to work for me, and move back to Florida.”

  Those beautiful blue eyes already trained on her quickened with open interest. Mercedes managed a smile but she would have words with Max later for introducing her as though he hoped to arrange a marriage for his spinster sister.

  “Mercedes, my pleasure. I thought you looked familiar when I saw you earlier, except Max doesn’t have auburn hair. But there is a definite resemblance.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Dante.” If Mr. Suave thought he had her cornered again, he had another think coming. She picked up her purse and moved down the row in order for Dante to have the seat next to Max, and then she placed her tote bag on the chair between Dante and herself, ignoring Max’s observant glance that ping-ponged between them.

  Getting settled, Max offered, “We’re fraternal twins.”

  Before Dante sat, he lifted Mercedes’ hand to his lips and lightly bestowed a continental kiss, shuttering his eyes for a second.

  She found the warm brush of his lips against her skin disconcerting, yet gallant in a lovely way. She extracted her hand because she didn’t quite know what to make of him. By the look on Dante’s face, she was pretty sure Max wasn’t the only one that could read her mind.

  “She’s undeniably prettier,” he told Max.

  “You don’t have to remind me,” her brother replied, smiling. “For most of my life all my male friends ever wanted was for me to fix them up with or introduce them to Mercedes. Sometimes I thought she was the only reason they befriended me. Now my clients not only want a date with her,” he continued, “but they want to meet her for the press coverage she might provide.”

  Dante’s brow rose. “You’re M. McFadden, the sportswriter?”

  “One and the same,” Max answered for her, his brotherly pride shining through like a neon sign.

  “I didn’t give the journalist much thought, but like most people, found the articles interesting and entertaining, and simply assumed M. McFadden was a man.”

  “The majority of readers do and that works out well for me, allowing me to keep my identity secret. Well, with the exception of some of Max’s friends.”

  “Actually I even thought of asking you if you were related to M. McFadden, Max. Now I know.” He turned back to Mercedes.

  Mercedes noted that he seemed to like that idea very much. Knowing that Dante had a home in Florida, she wondered how hard it would be to keep her distance, if Max took him on as a client. Max always included his clients in family holiday celebrations.

  “Do you travel with your brother often?”

  “No,” Max offered. “She’s here as my scout, evaluating Lynda Smith.”

  “A-a-ah. I won’t disturb you then, until the match is completed.”

  Little did he know, he already had. Then she wondered what he actually meant about disturbing her? She found his European flair, slight accent, and the deep, rich sound of his voice, made trying to ignore him difficult. And, she was taken aback that he seemed impressed she was a sportswriter. After all, she wasn’t a famous female sportscaster or television personality like Hanna Storm.

  She turned her attention to the tennis court, but couldn’t help stealing glances behind her sunglasses at Dante from time to time.

  They watched the rest of the match and Lynda won both sets, six-three and six-one, in one hour and ten minutes. They applauded, and the crowds stood and hurried out for refreshments before the next match arrived on court.

  Max leaned over and asked, “Can you give me a quick evaluation, Mercedes, before I meet with the Smiths?”

  “Yes. Her first s
erve return is about sixty-five percent, maybe more. She held her serve, and I only counted one double fault. She has something even many of the top-fifty women players haven’t mastered; she puts a great spin on the ball. For someone her age, she has a lot of confidence and plays an intelligent game, adjusting her play as needed. I’m impressed.”

  “Dante?”

  “I agree. I believe she has a lot of potential.”

  Mercedes got to her feet first, tucking her notebook in her purse, as Dante and Max rose in unison. What she didn’t need was Max trying to fix her up with Dante and she planned to scoot to the ladies room before he could. But as it turned out, her brother was still quicker than she.

  “I’m going to meet with Lynda and her parents in the players’ lounge and will come back before we leave for lunch, Mercedes.” Max turned his attention to Dante and asked, “Would you mind keeping Mercedes entertained until I return? I have some business to discuss with the Smiths, and want to make arrangements to meet for lunch, but I’d like you to join my sister and me for dinner this evening, if you’re available.”

  “I’d be delighted to keep her company and also meet you for dinner.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “The Hyatt at Gainey Ranch.”

  “Perfect. Why don’t we meet you in the lobby, say six-thirty, and we can either eat there or go to one of the restaurants nearby. I’ll do a little research and make reservations.”

  “Wonderful, I look forward to getting together.”

  Without another remark, Max left her alone with Mr. Suave.

  Dante turned and she found herself facing him nearly eye-to-eye, after she stole a glance at his perfectly shaped mouth.

  With a debonair tilt of his head, his dark-lashed gaze searched the lenses of her sunglasses as if he hoped he could see her eyes in order to read her better. “I’ll be happy to stay with you and fight off any of those unscrupulous suitors Max mentioned until he comes to reclaim you, if you’d like.”

  Charming and dangerous about summed up his portfolio, in her opinion. But on the other hand, perhaps this would give her an opportunity to ask for an interview, on her terms. She smiled like the Cheshire cat. “Thank you, that’s very chivalrous.”

  “Would you care to sit?” He gestured toward the row of chairs. “The next match is about to begin, as soon as the players warm up for a few minutes.”

  “Actually, I’d prefer to walk a little. I flew out here this morning from the east coast and have been sitting most of the day.”

  “Perhaps you’d rather go over to the private terrace for club members and guests?” His gaze swept over her features, and he added, “The chairs there are more comfortable, and the umbrella tables will offer a respite from the sun.”

  He cocked a thick dark brow, letting his glance lazily trail the length of her, right down to her feet before he said, “Or maybe not in those shoes.”

  Mercedes laughed. “Actually, I’m used to high heels. I go on a lot of interviews and meetings in executive offices, and usually dress for business. But, deep in my tote bag is a pair of flip-flops to replace these python sandals, in case of an emergency. And, yes,” she said, grabbing her things, “the terrace sounds perfect.”

  Dante reached for her hand and held on firmly as if this was the most natural thing in the world for them to do and led her up the stairs, as though they were more than acquaintances. She suppressed a grin as the saying, familiarity breeds, entered her mind.

  Mercedes found his attentive European ways rather bold and presumptive. She held back, a tad resistant; yet, she had to admit she liked having someone else take the lead for a change.

  He was a man she found to be more than gallant, as his subtle masculine cologne wafted around her when he shouldered a path through the crowd. His warm and possessive touch, more than the climb, had her pulse inexplicably beating as though she’d finished a marathon.

  Her sometimes-lonesome existence and now being with her brother, made her more vulnerable to Dante than she ordinarily would be. Living alone and far away from her family had started to get old. The companionless evenings often seemed interminable and even a publishing deadline didn’t prevent her from feeling isolated. But she had recently purchased her first home and hoped the decorating project would help give her a sense of becoming a permanent part of New York City.

  Dante’s hand, warm and possessive, held on and engulfed a deep-seated yearning in her heart to belong. Both liking him and wanting to resist him at the same time didn’t make much sense, but then she’d learned the hard way that self-preservation was a complicated thing. And Dante Edwards confused her.

  “I need to text Max and tell him where to meet me.” She removed her hand from his and dug into her bag again. She left Max a message and continued walking with Dante. As they wended their way through the crowd, she heard oohs, ahs, and whispers as the audience recognized him. Their progress slowed the moment they left the stadium, as people approached him to ask for autographs.

  Most of the local members of the club were in awe once they realized he was there, even though they had no idea why he had come to Surprise. That didn’t seem to matter. Getting the chance to greet him and be fortunate enough to receive an autograph seemed to be more than sufficient.

  While they waited for him to sign his name, if they could tear their gaze off him, they often stared at her, but she didn’t feel compelled to offer a clarification for her presence nor apparently did Dante.

  Overwhelmed by the close scrutiny, she wondered if the girlfriends of famous athletes, who had more of a right to be at their side than she did Dante’s, ever felt like the hanger-on she did right now—a one-night-stand groupie. She was anything but, and closed her eyes as a light unpleasant shiver ran through her body.

  After thanking everyone, he led her away with a hand at the small of her back, for protection or possession she didn’t care, until they finally reached the terrace. He held a chair for her, and she gratefully sat at the table. “This is much more comfortable.”

  “A glass of wine?” he suggested.

  “Too early,” she managed to answer with all the careless aplomb she could muster. “Iced tea with lemon, please, lots of ice,” she told him. She needed something cold to lower her temperature.

  Mercedes watched as he walked up to the bar and within seconds young players dressed in tennis garb surrounded him again, seeking autographs. Word had spread throughout the club that he was on the campus. He completed the task all the while smiling and chatting with the kids, giving a young boy a pat on the head. She admired his ease. He caught her looking at him and gave her a sexy wink.

  “Sorry for the short delay,” he said when he returned. Placing the drinks on the table, he leaned in toward her and for a moment she thought he was going to try and kiss her, right there in front of the crowd, but instead he whispered in her ear, “I only write Dante—one big D with a swirl on the end. Saves time.”

  After he was seated, she took a long, cool drink; grateful things were back on a more even keel. “Very clever,” she whispered back conspiratorially. “Like a doctor’s signature that no one can read. And one name, like Sting or Santana.”

  He flashed a wide grin showing perfect white teeth and those famous eyes twinkled again as they assessed her.

  “I suppose you’re used to that kind of admiration everywhere you go.” She tipped her head toward the gaggle of young admirers.

  “The admiration? Yes. The intrusion? No. I try to stay out of the limelight, except when I’m at a tournament; it’s expected then. The fans spend big money to attend, and their support helps pay our salaries.”

  “And when you’re not at a tournament,” Mercedes inquired, “are those tabloid and magazine stories about you distorted?” Maybe getting an interview with him might be harder than she thought.

  He tipped his head from side to side. “Mm-m-m, mostly. But enough about me. What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Do you pl
ay tennis? I know your brother used to compete in college.”

  “Yes, but I only play for fun or at charity tournaments. I was a junior champion at one time.”

  “Honest? I apologize. Your name didn’t ring a bell.”

  “No need to apologize. That occurred ten years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  Mercedes turned her right hand over and exposed her scar. “I fell forward, landing all my weight on my wrist with the racquet still in my hand, the joint snapped backward and…well”—she shrugged—“my life was turned topsy-turvy. I still play tennis for pure enjoyment, but I couldn’t bring myself to compete again after the accident. I had pins in my wrist and hand for nearly a year. After all the physical therapy, I no longer had the strength or the will to do what would have been required of me to make a comeback.”

  She watched sincerity and concern deepen the blue of his eyes as he reassessed her. Only another athlete steeped in the discipline of his sport at tournament level could really understand all the hurt, disappointment, upheaval, and broken dreams that accident meant to her present and her future.

  She paused, remembering, and then steeled herself from looking back—that wouldn’t change anything. She pressed her lips together, tossed back a wisp of hair the warm breeze had worked loose, and lifted her chin, determined to put her best face forward, as she smiled at him.

  Dante ran his thumb gently over her scar, and then touched her wrist to his lips with a light kiss. “I’m very sorry.”

  Stirred to her very soul, she lifted her eyes from her scar to his mouth before meeting his eyes. She hadn’t expected such an open and deep reaction from someone she recently met, someone who was more like a stranger than even an acquaintance.

  “You smell good,” he whispered.

  Not certain how to respond to that remark, she attempted to recover from her reaction to his sensual gesture and without thinking, said, “So do you.”

  The moment those words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back, hide her embarrassment, and bury the awkward moment that hung in the air like a blank cartoon dialog balloon.