Damaged Goods Read online

  DAMAGED GOODS

  Sports Wives Four

  Destiny Blaine

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Erotic Romance

  DAMAGED GOODS

  Copyright © 2010 by Destiny Blaine

  E-book ISBN: 1-60601-730-6

  First E-book Publication: February 2010

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2010 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Damaged Goods directly from the BookStrand.com website, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing a copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

  This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment. Please respect Destiny Blaine’s right to earn a living from her work. It's fair and simple. If Ms. Blaine can provide for her family with her writing, she can create more books for your reading pleasure.

  Sincerely,

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  For J.R.

  You provided inspiration for more stories than you’ll ever know and you will always have my gratitude.

  DAMAGED GOODS

  Sports Wives Four

  DESTINY BLAINE

  Copyright © 2010

  “I always liked winners because the winners I know often find celebrating essential right after a victory. I enjoy the benefits found in their private parties…” Suzy Illiani

  Prologue

  I’m damn good at some things. I believe everyone has a purpose in life, and mine is generally found on my back. Thing is, I’m tired of trying to figure out how I landed there, who stripped me last, and where I spent the night.

  I’ve always lived in the moment, and I’ll be damned if I haven’t had some delicious moments. Lately, I just don’t remember all of them, and for some reason my lack of a good memory is starting to take its toll.

  Divorced three years and still trying to forget Mark-whatshisname of the Professional Football Confederacy, I fed the tabloids with enough insight into my marriage and quickly became an overnight diva. Members of the press soon discovered, along with everyone else, my husband left me for my best friend, Cassie Teller, who in turn quickly added him to her hunk collection over at the Teller compound.

  After the news broke, and with a little help from yours truly, I became an interesting topic for talk show hosts and gossip columnists. Every wife affiliated with the PFC had my name on their lips at least once. I guess some of them worried I’d move on to one of their husbands.

  Cassie, of course, walked away from the whole ordeal without a scratch. Yes, she’s one of a kind, a woman who not only has her cake and eats it, too, but also sticks her fingers in another woman’s icing. Not that Mark was all sugar and whipped cream, but he served a purpose.

  Thanks to alimony and a good attorney, he still pays for the short time we spent together. His generosity allows for the luxury of scouting for another husband. Best of all, since I have a lavish lifestyle to uphold, I travel on his plastic and in the same PFC circles I refuse to leave.

  My name is Suzy Illiani. Sports reporters have labeled me a scorned wife, dumped lover, and my personal favorite¾football groupie.

  What can I say? I get around, and when I do, I make sure everyone knows where I’ve been.

  Chapter One

  I don’t look for trouble. I really don’t. But when I’m feeling a little frisky, I’ll be darned if I can’t find plenty of it. Apparently, I must belong in the center of one giant mess.

  My right hand was wrapped around a cold object. If memory served correctly, it was probably a glass—a tall one that contained a drop or two of the last martini I tried to drink right before I went to sleep.

  I was at the Hilton in Knoxville, Tennessee. It’s the only thing I remembered other than who screwed me last, and that’s easy. For the first time in a long time, I have a regular fuck buddy. He’s mighty fine at getting the job done right, but he’s not a keeper, not in the truest sense of the term.

  Swallowing back the taste of cigarettes and booze, I finally opened one eye. Sure enough, just as suspected, I had a thin white sheet over my bought-and-paid-for boobs, and a glass tumbler in hand, a tall one with a splash of liquor still left in the bottom.

  One thing about it, I can pass out like a pro. I’ve had a lot of practice.

  A key was placed in the door, and I heard the soft click-click of the electronic lock. Shit! I had forgotten all about our early flight. I took a deep breath and held it for good reason. All hell was about to break loose.

  “Suzy, damn it! What are yous still doing in bed?” Frankie McCloskey still talked like he lived in the Bronx.

  Born and raised in Philadelphia, Frankie spent a great deal of time in New York as well as Ireland, where his parents returned around the time I hooked up with the rookie quarterback. Frankie was set to take Corby Teller’s position with the Dallas Rascals. Only Corby didn’t step down and Oakland offered Frankie a position he couldn’t refuse, or at least that’s what his agent told him.

  I took a deep breath and with great exaggerated reluctance, I said, “I’ve reached a decision, Frankie.”

  “Yous can tell me all about it on the plane. We board in one hour.”

  After my divorce, goodbyes came easy, and even though Frankie was a good lay, there were a few things he had that I didn’t want, and Oakland topped the list. Unable to secure more zeros in his contract, the three million dollar salary difference between what he should’ve grabbed in Dallas and what he actually signed for in Oakland failed to impress.

  Trying to sit without my head wobbling off my shoulders, I said, “I’ve
decided this is the end of the road for us.”

  Frankie stared back at me in complete disbelief. Glancing at the glass I finally slid onto the nightstand, he said, “What? Come on Suzy, don’t fuck around. We don’t have time this morning.”

  Fucking around sounded pretty good after I saw the true signs of disappointment settling in his eyes, but I had to stand tough, forget about how well he used his nine-inch cock and focus on my goals, where I wanted to go in life. Clearly, I didn’t want to step onto a plane and head to Oakland when my heart still felt a lingering attachment to Dallas.

  “This is about Mark, isn’t it?”

  Obviously. Everything always circled back to Mark. “No, it’s not about him.”

  “Then what is it?”

  Money. Mark. Oakland. Mark.

  Frankie sat on the edge of the bed. “I thought we were okay. Me and yous, Suzy, we were going places.”

  Sadly, poor Frankie deserved this kind of treatment for thinking in the first place. The only place we ever headed was the only place I ever enjoyed him—bed.

  “Look, Frankie,” I said, reaching for my martini glass. Might as well sip the last of what I didn’t drink the night before. “I like you, kid, I really do.” I paused for a moment. The kid-bit may have been too much. He was, after all, in his mid-twenties, and I had yet to slip over the hill. “It’s not going to work,” I firmly added.

  Frankie looked lost. He scratched the side of his head and ran his fingers through his curly black hair. “You’re back to the age thing, aren’t you?”

  Actually, I liked the age thing. In fact, I reached a decision then and there. The next boy toy I took to my bed needed to be around the ripe old age of twenty-one. Sure did limit options, though, and I quickly ran through the reliable old memory bank trying to think of any young rookies who might fit the bill.

  “So there’s a little age difference,” Frankie continued. “Biology says we’re just perfect. I’m a firm believer in science.”

  What a joke. Frankie probably didn’t pass science, and I had my doubts of whether or not he could even spell biology. “Since you brought it up, Frankie, I am, too. Which brings up another excellent point. A woman approaching her forties would be more suited for a young man in his prime, conceivably someone around twenty or twenty-one.”

  Frankie looked pissed. “Hell, Suzy, why not just strip an eighteen-year-old straight out of his graduation gown?”

  I’d thought about it several times.

  Frankie paced. “So you aren’t going with me to Oakland?”

  “No.”

  He swallowed hard right before his face went completely pale. “Suzy, what am I going to do? I…I…”

  That’s when it hit me. Frankie was a big lug on the outside but stood nearly seven feet tall, full of insecurities. After his parents returned to their home in Ireland, he was left all alone. The one exception—me—planned to leave him in Tennessee. I could’ve at least escorted him to California.

  No, I really didn’t owe him anything. We indulged in our brief time together, enjoyed a few laughs, but nothing substantial. The fling was over, finished, done.

  “I’m not going to Oakland,” I stated flatly once again.

  Hell, a man had to grow up sometime.

  * * * *

  Frankie called me every day for nearly a week. I had to hand it to him. He worked the media like a pro and, of course, I advised him when I could. He must’ve called every tabloid he could think of or hired a publicist to do the job for him. Our break-up became front page news within forty-eight hours of waving goodbye.

  The headlines graced newspaper entertainment and sports sections with bold letters announcing the split. Suzy Illiani and Frankie McCloskey Call It Quits and Notorious PFC Groupie Is Single Again. Then there were those captions revolving around speculation. Suzy Illiani is looking for love again, and the PFC Wives want her banned from the Dallas Rascals Stadium Luxury Suites. The more scandalous the header, the more I enjoyed the articles.

  The PFC wives could lock down their husbands for all I cared. One man had my attention, and only one sexy player would soon have my body, too. And I knew where to find him.

  Marco Giovanni, the young gun headed for the great state of Texas, secured major coverage on every sports show in the country. I was halfway back to the Lone Star State by the time I thought of a great plan to persuade the object of my manipulation. The poor thing wouldn’t know what hit him.

  While sitting in Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, I opened my flip-phone and dialed Sports and Entertainment Gossip. With their number on speed dial, special occasions and mere ideas ready for activation never went unnoticed. In fact, my planned mischief often found a helping hand.

  “Sandy Cramer, please,” I said, tapping my long nails on the armrest while trying to avoid the kid seated right next to me. He had a snotty nose, and his mother left him there, apparently under the impression I’d mother the child in her absence while she ran to the restroom.

  Sandy answered the phone in record time. I handed the kid a tissue and strolled away from the waiting crowd at the airline’s gate.

  “Sandy? Suzy.” The two of us had been on a first name basis for some time.

  I listened as she babbled apologies and how devastated she’d been when she learned of my recent breakup with Frankie. Then, she went in for the kill. “What do you have for me?”

  Lowering my voice, I looked around to make sure no one stood close enough to listen. “Have you heard about the rookie Dallas may move into Corby Teller’s spot next year?”

  She released a loud whistle and then said, “What about him?”

  “What do you know about him?” I asked, pumping.

  “Outside of the fact that he was the number one draft pick this year?”

  “Yes,” I said, leading. “Outside of sports in general, what else do you have?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, sounding disappointed. “The guy is clean all the way around. He played for a high school in Kansas and could’ve gotten a full ride to any one of several major universities. Graduated with honors, loved by everyone, hometown hero of sorts and, oh, he’s definitely not your type, Suzy.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Excitedly, she asked, “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “Who, me?” I teased. “Now, you know me better than to beat around the bush, Sandy.”

  “We’re talking Marco Giovanni here, right?” Sandy clarified.

  “None other.”

  “You and Marco?”

  “Do I have to spell everything out for you?”

  Sandy lowered her voice. “How long?”

  “Long enough to know why some of his ex-girlfriends call him The Italian Stallion.”

  “Get out! Are you serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “So you and Frankie broke up because of the—wait a second—you split because of Marco Giovanni, The Italian Stallion?”

  I smiled and checked out my recently manicured nails. That’s right, Sandy. Jot down those notes. I gave her a little time. “Do you have the correct spelling of his name?”

  “Yes,” she snapped.

  “Now, Sandy,” I began, walking toward the crowd when I saw one of the pilots stroll across the waiting area and head for the gate. “Keep this under wraps for another forty-eight hours. I’ll let you have an even better scoop when I get back to Dallas. They’re boarding my plane now so we’ll talk again soon.”

  “I don’t know how you do it, Suzy.”

  “How often I do it is more or less the trick, my friend.”

  She snickered. “Well, I have to hand it to you. Based on what I’ve heard and the interviews I’ve watched on television, this Marco guy looks and sounds like a dream.”

  Yes, with the nickname I gave him and the man waiting to emerge behind the boy the world still saw him as, Marco Giovanni was every woman’s dream. And a very wet one I planned to enjoy.

  Chapter Two

  Two
days later, I bounced down my front stairs knowing full well who pounded on the door. Members of the press started their field day bright and early. They knew precisely where to find the kind of explicit information guaranteed to sell their papers. Before reaching the foyer, the phone rang. Snatching the cordless in passing, I heard a raving lunatic on the other end.

  “This has the earmarks of one of your stunts, Suzy!”

  “Well, hello, Mark,” I said flippantly. “How’s the family? How are Steve and Corby? Fucking the hell out of that slut wife you all share, I presume? What did they do, kick you out of bed and tell you to go home to your ex?” I decided to take another few digs. “How are the kids? Did you ever tell me which one of you fathered those babies?”

  “Suzy,” he slowly began, as if he fought to find some element of control. “Speaking of kids, that’s why I’m calling. Marco Giovanni. I want you to leave him alone.”

  “Marco Giovanni?” I played dumb. “Who is he? The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “The hell it doesn’t,” Mark snapped. “What did you do, Suzy? Find out which one of the rookies on our team stood to make the most money in the coming years?”

  Something like that. “No, Mark, believe me. I don’t sit around all day trying to figure out what I can do to get under your skin.”

  I didn’t have to think on anything. Ideas materialized without any strenuous effort.

  “He’s a kid, Suzy.”

  “Then what is that kid doing on your team?”

  “So you do know him!”

  “I’ve heard his name. Why don’t you back up and tell me why you really called. Do you have blue balls or something?”