The Sexy Devil. Kate Hoffmann
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murmured. “Chapter Five. Max Morgan.”
Ceci’s hands froze on her keyboard and she slowly turned to face Angela. “You know Max Morgan? The baseball player?” She sighed in frustration. “How many times have we talked about him? About his chapter in the book. And you never told me you knew him.”
“I don’t, exactly.” Angela shrugged. “I’ve spoken to him … once. No, twice if you count the one word he said to me when we first met. I know almost everything there is to know about him. But we don’t know each other. He’s not even aware I exist.”
“But you had a moment!” Ceci cried. “Maybe you were destined for each other.”
“Love is not about magic moments and fairy-tale endings,” Angela said. “It’s about two people willing to work hard to make a relationship succeed. Two people sharing common interests and goals. And there are few truly decent men around willing to invest the time and effort to make a relationship work.”
“You sound just like your mother,” Ceci said. “So what are you going to do? Are you going to interview him?” She frowned. “Wait a second. Is that why you didn’t go to that big charity event? The one he was hosting last month?”
“It wouldn’t have been a good place to conduct an interview. I have to get him alone and talking, without any distractions.” She swallowed hard. “And I’m not sure I want to catch him. I have several other candidates for that chapter.”
In truth, Angela had thought an interview would be the perfect opportunity to prove to herself that her feelings for Max Morgan were gone for good. She was adult now and she’d put all her teenage fantasies about love behind her. He wasn’t her Prince Charming. Max Morgan was just another serial seducer, bent on bolstering his ego with an endless supply of willing women. It wouldn’t take more than a few minutes in his presence to recognize that he was not the man of her dreams.
“I think the reason you made him the subject of Chapter Five is because you want to see him again,” Ceci said. “You had a moment and you can’t forget it. And don’t bother lying to me. I’m your best friend. Whenever you lie, your face turns red.”
Angela clapped her hands over her cheeks and shook her head. “I’ll interview him. But my luck with interviews has been pretty bad lately. I can’t help it if no one wants to talk to me.”
“What if I could set you up with Max Morgan?” Ceci said.
“How would you do that?”
“Will hangs out at the Tenth Inning every Monday night with his fantasy league buddies. Max Morgan owns the Tenth Inning. And Will says that Max has been in occasionally these last few weeks. He’s back in Chicago for the summer, recuperating after some sort of surgery he had during the off-season.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Occasionally, I do listen to Will’s rambling. He even met Max last week. Got a photo of him on his phone. I’m sure if you went in there, you could talk to him.”
Angela felt her stomach flutter and she drew a sharp breath, pushing the surge of excitement aside. Ceci was right. She shouldn’t be afraid to interview Max. She could certainly maintain a professional demeanor, even taking into account her former feelings about him.
“If I’m going to interview him, we have to develop a better strategy. He can’t know he’s being interviewed. I have to find a way to meet him and then get whatever I need from casual conversation.” Angela stood. “He can’t know that this is for a book.”
“Conversation,” Ceci said. “That’s exactly what people do in a bar.”
“I know. But I’ve never been very good at that. I don’t flirt, I have a tendency to babble when I’m nervous, and I absolutely cannot hold my liquor.”
“That’s the least of your problems,” Ceci said. “First, we have to go shopping and buy you the sexiest outfit on the planet. You’re going to have to attract him first. From what I see on his profile, he doesn’t have any shortage of women wanting to sleep with him. What do you think—legs, belly or cleavage? Pick one.”
“For what?”
“It’s my mother’s rule. She always used to tell me that if your outfit only showed one of the three, it was sexy. Two of the three makes the outfit sleazy. And showing all three makes it slutty. The rule of three has served me well. So, legs, belly or boobs?”
“What do you think?” Angela asked, staring down at her rather unremarkable body.
“Legs,” Ceci said. “You have great legs. Let him fantasize about the boobs and the belly.” Ceci grabbed her purse, then pulled Angela along toward the door. “What color?”
“Does your mom have a rule for that as well?”
“No. I do. Black is boring, red is desperate. An unusual color, like chartreuse or tangerine, says you’re a strong, independent woman who doesn’t care what other people say about her weird color choices. And men think that women who wear weird colors are kinky in bed.”
“You have proof of this?” Angela asked.
“Yes.” She pointed to her own mustard-colored top. “I was wearing pumpkin-orange when I met Will. He said he knew exactly what I was like in the bedroom.”
“I’m not going to sleep with Max Morgan,” Angela said.
“Of course not. But in order to get close to him, you’re going to have to make him believe you just might.”
They stepped out of the office onto the noisy bustle of Ashland Avenue. It was barely noon and the heat was already stifling. “There’s this really nice boutique that just opened on North,” Ceci said. “Let’s start there. You’ll need a nice pair of Do-me shoes, too. The dress will be demure but the shoes will say ‘take my body now'.”
“You are not my fairy godmother and I’m not Cinderella.”
Ceci slipped her arm through Angela’s. “Honey, we all want to be Cinderella. Every single girl I know is waiting for that guy to come calling with a glass slipper.”
THE BAR WAS CROWDED for a Tuesday night. Max Morgan leaned over and motioned to Dave, his manager and big brother. “Is this a typical Tuesday night? This is the busiest I’ve seen it in ages. What’s going on?”
“It’s Ladies’ Night. Women drink for half-price on Tuesdays. And when you’re here, a lot of women show up, hoping they’ll get lucky,” Dave said, grinning. “Hey, you’re better than a promotional giveaway. The women want to date you, the men want to talk baseball with you. Just sit yourself down at the end of the bar and be your usual charming self. Or better yet, hang out by the door and take a few pictures.”
Max glanced over his shoulder. This wasn’t exactly how he wanted to be viewed, as some kind of marketing tool. God, since his baseball career had taken off, he’d become a giant marketing machine—selling athletic shoes and luxury cars and expensive watches. He couldn’t buy a pair of socks without having to think about the impact it would have on his endorsements. And every move he made in his personal life affected his ability to make money.
He hadn’t really minded the notoriety that much … until the press showed it could also be nasty. Suddenly his day-to-day life had turned into fodder for media commentators. At first, he didn’t care what was said about him because most of it had just been made up anyway. But when he’d learned his nieces and nephews were hearing about it at school, Max had decided to take a break from the spotlight.
A shoulder surgery he’d been putting off became the perfect chance to get out of the limelight, to give the media an opportunity to focus on someone else. And though he still had a few photographers waiting to catch him at a bad moment, his time in Chicago had given him a chance to really contemplate his future—after baseball.
Here, he could leave the temptations of New York and L.A. behind, the women,