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 excu