They called him Mario, and his face and body had been public property for decades. At last he had agreed to be interviewed and the feminist press had sent their finest to do a hatchet job on him.
She stood outside the door of his modest home with her lip curled. What fun it would be, she thought, to destroy him.
The door opened and the man himself stood there. Nobody warned her about his magnetism or the depth of his dark, dark eyes.
They sent her to spear him with her intellect, but instead he snared her with his…