Читать книгу Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts - Barbara McMahon - Страница 12

ANGELO felt nervous as he ushered Atlanta to the car. He didn’t like it. When it came to women, he didn’t get nervous. It was the same with baseball. He was a natural. So why did he feel so out of sorts right now?

It wasn’t Atlanta’s fame that had his palms sweating. He’d been with well-known women before, including a couple of supermodels and a wealthy socialite who was a fixture on Page Six of the New York Post.

Some guys, he supposed, would confuse the woman with the breathy characters she portrayed on the big screen. Before he’d had an actual conversation with her, Angelo might have, too. But it hadn’t taken long to determine that, while Atlanta shared their vulnerability and some of their spunk, she wasn’t some celluloid creation concocted to appeal to the masses. Especially the male masses. She was flesh and blood. Real. Her current set of troubles would not be neatly resolved during the span of a full-length feature film. And, if his guess was right, she had a past to contend with, too, some ugly secrets that refused to stay under the rug no matter how many times she swept them there.

The two of them had that in common.

He thought about the note from his father. Atlanta was privy to far more of his past than any other woman in his life had ever been. Maybe that was why he felt nervous. Hell, maybe that was part of her overall draw. It was rare to find someone with as much baggage as he had. It was rare to have someone call him on his. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single woman who ever had. They’d accepted him as the fun-loving playboy he portrayed. Atlanta had spotted the troubled man behind the façade. It was that man she spoke to.

When they reached his car, he waited until they were both settled and the engine was humming before asking, “Where to?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“We’ll drive around the village. When you see something you like, tell me to stop.”

She turned to face him. “You don’t mind?”

“What’s to mind?”

“A lot of men—” Zeke was implied “—like to decide the destination or at the very least know what it will be before shifting the car into drive.”

“Then a lot of men don’t know what they’re missing,” he said casually before stepping on the accelerator.

They wound up on the far side of the village at a small eatery that was really more roadside diner than restaurant. It had a small dining room, but they sat outside, enjoying the view of the neighboring shops as evening settled in.

“You’re sure this is okay?” she asked not for the first time even before their beverages arrived.

“Why wouldn’t it be? I’m hungry. They serve food.”

“It has nothing to do with what I mentioned earlier? You know, about Zeke.”

“And his tendency to call all of the shots?”

She nodded.

“Maybe a little,” he agreed.

Her lips pursed. “So, you’re humoring me.”

“I don’t see it that way.” Control was important to her right now. She needed to have it. She needed to exercise it. Besides, he was curious to find out what she would do with it. And if it helped him take his mind off his father, all the better. “As I said, I have no reason to object.”

Mollified, she nodded. “Okay.”

“For the record, when I find a reason to draw a line in the sand, I do and I’m not likely to cross it afterward.”

“Stubborn?”

“So I’ve been told.” Most recently by Alex.

“But you’re not completely intractable.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re in Italy to meet your father,” she reminded him.

“Only because my brother asked me to.”

“Is that the only reason?”

He said nothing.

The waiter dropped off their drinks, sparkling water for both of them. When they were alone again, she said, “I briefly considered picking your family restaurant for dinner this evening.”

He sipped his water. “Why didn’t you?”

“Given your reaction to your father’s note, I didn’t want to push you into doing something you might not be ready for,” she admitted.

Her concern touched him, though a part of him was eager to shake it off. “I wouldn’t have cared. He’s nothing to me.”

“Angelo—”

“Less than nothing.” The strident words scraped his throat, making him wonder who he was trying to convince.

“It’s okay to be angry,” she said quietly.

“Gee, thanks for your permission.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. I do. Sorry.” He exhaled sharply.

“So, when do you plan to see your father?”

He thought about the party Isabella had told him about. He tried not to think about the invitation his sister had told him he was welcome to extend to a guest. He mentioned neither to Atlanta. Rather, he said casually, “I’m in no rush. I’ve still got a couple of weeks to kill.”

“What about the restaurant? Have you seen it?”

“I ate lunch there today after you and I…parted company,” he finished diplomatically.

“By yourself?”

“With Isabella. I owed her an apology.”

“Isabella, hmm? You work fast. I wouldn’t have guessed you’d have had an opportunity to offend any of the local women already.”

“Isabella is my sister.”

He liked the way the announcement caused heat to suffuse her face.

“Sister,” she repeated on a slow nod.

“Half, I guess is the more accurate description. Luca remarried after Alex and I were out of the picture. He had a second family.” Bitterness welled. “He decided to keep this one around.”

“And you didn’t know about them,” she guessed.

“Not until recently.” He sipped more of his water. “Nor did they apparently know about Alex and me. It came as a bit of a surprise to us all, you might say.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head and his tone was rueful when he said, “That was my line today. As you’ve noticed, I’m not handling this situation very well, which is why I owed Isabella an apology. All she did was to hold out an olive branch.” He shifted in his seat. “My beef isn’t with her. It’s with Luca.”

“Yet you’re in no hurry to see him, confront him.”

Her simple statement cut right to the heart of it. He didn’t like what that said about him. Thankfully, she changed the subject a moment later.

“Oh, my God! I nearly forgot. Something’s come up. Something…embarrassing.”

That got his attention. “Embarrassing for me?”

“For both of us, I’m afraid. It seems that the paparazzi you saved me from at the airport the other day got their money shot. My arrival in Rome made headlines in a couple of the rags back home.”

“Sorry, Atlanta. I’d hoped to shield you from that. I take it since I was in some of those shots I was mentioned.”

“Yes and some, um, assumptions were made regarding our relationship.”

“They assumed we’re getting away together for some R&R—Romance and Recreation,” he guessed.

“According to one of the stories, I’ve seduced you.”

“Really.” His eyebrows rose along with the corners of his mouth. “You seduced me, hmm? There’s a thought that’s going to keep me awake into the wee hours of the morning.”

“This is serious, Angelo.”

He sobered a bit. “From your perspective, I know that it is. For that reason alone, if I could get my hands on those photographers, they’d be sorry they ever bought their first camera.”

Atlanta was no fan of violence, but his words warmed her. When was the last time, outside of a movie set, that a man had defended her honor, let alone offered to beat up someone for her? Back to the matter at hand, she chided herself when she realized she was staring at him, a sappy smile threatening to break out.

“Aren’t you the least bit upset? You’re being likened to a boy toy, and Zeke is claiming that you’re merely another one of my many conquests.”

“When you put it like that, okay, I’m a little upset. I’m no boy, Atlanta.” No, indeed, he was all man. “As for the conquest remark, well, that rubs the wrong way, too.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “But there’s an upside to this for me.”

“There is?”

He smiled again. “Unlike the other recent tabloids reports about me, at least this time no one is questioning my physical ability.”

She laughed because she didn’t have an off-the-cuff remark handy. Not to mention that the mental image of Angelo “performing” to his physical best left her a little tongue-tied.

The sandwiches they ordered came on thickly sliced ciabatta. The cold cuts and cheese were tasty, the bread good, but none of it could hold a candle to the stuff Angelo had sampled at Rosa earlier in the day, a fact that made him feel strangely proud and definitely uneasy.

The thing that helped banish both was watching Atlanta eat. She pulled off one of the two slices of provolone and half of the salami, setting them aside with the top slice of bread. No doubt she was tallying up carb and protein grams as she went. Afterward, she went after what remained of the sandwich with dainty nibbles that barely put a dent in the hefty ciabatta. It was the damned cannoli all over again. Angelo stifled the urge to comment. Instead he went after his own sandwich with a gusto that far inflated his actual enjoyment of it.

When he glanced up, Atlanta was watching him. He took another bite and added a few sound effects as he chewed. “Mmm-mmm.”

Her gaze narrowed and she set her open-faced sandwich on her plate where she piled the rest of the ingredients back on, including the second slice of ciabatta. She lifted the finished product with a flourish, her expression as steely and no-nonsense as a gunslinger’s. Then she brought the sandwich to her mouth. No dainty nip for her this time. She opened wide and came away with enough to keep her chewing for the next couple minutes. He watched her the entire time, that same odd mixture of pride and unease making his skin prickle.

She wasn’t able to finish the sandwich. No surprise there since the portion had been generous. Still, she’d eaten more than half of it before calling it quits and even then had gone back to loot some of the good stuff from inside.

“I really enjoyed that,” she admitted, settling back in her chair on a sigh that, to Angelo’s way of thinking, seemed way too close to those issued during post-coital bliss.

“I enjoyed watching you.”

“So how does it rate?”

Lost as he was in carnal thoughts, the question had his mouth dropping open. “Rate?” he repeated inanely.

“You know, compared to Rosa.”

“Oh. Right. Food. And Rosa.” The words marched out his mouth in staccato procession.

Atlanta laughed, enjoying him as much as she’d just enjoyed her sandwich. “I’m not even going to ask what you thought I wanted you to rate.”

“Wise move, though I’ll be happy to tell you.”

He was back to flirting. She decided to play along. “Fine. Tell.”

His brows rose. Clearly, he hadn’t expected her to call him on it. Would he back down?

The answer was clear as soon as he said, “We danced about it earlier today.”

“Ah, attraction.”

“Let’s call it what it really is. Sex.”

At the coffee shop she’d gotten all riled for reasons that had nothing to do with the man sitting before her. Did he think she would again? Was he testing her?

“So we were,” she said nonchalantly.

He smiled, as if pleased by the way she was rallying. Then he asked point-blank, “How long has it been for you?”

“How long has…?” She sputtered out a mild oath before regaining her composure. She was offended, she reminded herself, even as heat curled through her. “Some questions are too rude to warrant an answer. Or are you one of those men who love to kiss and tell?”

Her reprimand left him undeterred. “I’m discreet. I see no reason to brag.” Then he got back to her sex life. “I’m guessing it’s been a while.”

She was not going to have this conversation. But she heard herself ask, “What makes you so sure?”

“Even though you ended things with Zeke about six months ago, if things weren’t going well, the two of you probably weren’t sleeping together for a while before then. So, it’s been months, perhaps more than a year.”

“What about all of the lovers I’ve supposedly had?”

“I’m not buying it.”

She swallowed, pathetically pleased and grateful. She was back to irritated when he said, “I’m not Zeke.”

“I wasn’t mistaking you for him.”

His eyes narrowed. “But I’m betting you’ve done some comparing.”

She flushed guiltily and was grateful they were seated outside under the uneven glow of hanging lanterns.

“For the record,” he was saying, “I’m younger, fitter and a whole lot more accommodating.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

He wasn’t put off by her bored attitude. He leaned over the table, lowered his voice. “I like you. I’m attracted to you. I can’t promise you that whatever happens between us will last beyond Italy. I never make any kind of promises. And you may be okay with that since you aren’t looking for strings. But, given our individual circumstances, a few fireworks might be a welcome diversion for both of us.”

Angelo was turning her inside out with his words, but she felt no shame, nor was she visited by any bitter memories. Even her current troubles blended into the background, until the only thing left was temptation and something akin to yearning. She recalled Sara’s suggestion of a vacation fling. A post-Zeke fling.

“And you can guarantee those?” she asked as sparks showered her skin.

“With a little encouragement and participation, of course.” He reached over to stroke the side of her face. “Lovemaking is all about give and take. It’s not just about having control, but giving it to the other person. Both parties end up satisfied that way.”

His words had heat suffusing her face as well as regions of a body that had been languishing in permafrost for far longer than he assumed. Give and take. In her experience only one of those two verbs had ever come into play, unless she was in front of a camera with a director calling the shots.

Her voice wasn’t quite steady when she asked, “Are you finished with your analysis, Dr. Freud?”

“For now. The rest can wait for another time.”

Because she found herself surprisingly eager for future tutelage, Atlanta decided to change the subject. “As fascinating as I find our conversation, I’m afraid jet lag is catching up with me.”

“Does that mean you want me to take you home?”

She nodded. Then, tipping her head to one side, she asked, “Mad?”

“Disappointed, but it’s just as well. I don’t think either of us is ready for what our raging hormones have in store.”

Not ready in the least, she knew. But that didn’t stop her from dreaming about it when, later that evening, she fell asleep in her bed all alone.

From his prone position on the mattress, Angelo stared up at the bedroom ceiling. As his gaze idly traced the shadows thrown from the bedside lamp, he recounted the evening.

That wasn’t something he did normally, even when the evening in question ended on a far more satisfactory note. Yet he didn’t feel frustrated exactly, sexually or otherwise. Like a damned moth, he just felt drawn and more curious than ever about the woman most of the world thought they knew.

He flipped to his side, recalling the way Atlanta had looked when he’d left her on her doorstep. He’d waited, and, yes, he’d hoped that she would invite him inside. Whether for a nightcap or something more, he hadn’t cared. he’d only known that he hadn’t wanted the evening to end. But she hadn’t invited him in. Instead, she’d smiled and bade him goodnight.

With a handshake!

Left with little choice, he’d taken her hand, pumped it delicately and released it so quickly it might as well have been a poisonous snake. Patience, he’d reminded himself. He was pretty certain she was a woman who’d had some bad breaks when it came to physical intimacy. Just when he’d convinced himself of that and had turned toward his car, she’d grabbed his arm and spun him back around.

The kiss that had followed hadn’t been chaste. It had been downright greedy. He’d felt teeth nip at his lower lip and fingernails bite into the flesh of his arms. It hadn’t ended slowly or on a sigh. No, she’d broken it off cleanly, her breathing labored afterward.

He’d considered a pithy comeback. Hell, he’d considered hauling her back into his arms and having a second go at it. Only her expression had stopped him. It had been neither smug nor frightened. Rather, she’d looked uncertain, confused.

For him, sex had never been complicated, partly because he was smart enough to know women often viewed the act differently. They tried to inject emotions into the mix, which could cause problems if a guy let things progress too far. Mindful of his parents and the disaster they had made of not only their marriage but of their children’s lives, he’d been careful not to let that happen.

So, why was he feeling every bit as confused and uncertain as Atlanta had looked? He turned out the lamp and gave his pillow a couple of punches. It was going to be a long night.

Angelo had no firm plans for the following day, which was just as well. He woke in pain not long after the sun rose.

“Damned shoulder,” he muttered, although it wasn’t his only source of discomfort. “Damned woman.”

He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and scraped the hand of his good arm over his jaw, eyeing the pills on the nightstand as he did so. In the end, he decided to do what he had for the past year of his career: play through the pain.

By mid-afternoon, with nothing more to occupy his time than Italian television programs and a couple of old Sports Illustrated magazines he’d brought with him, he was surly and sick of his own company, so he got in the car and headed out for a drive. He didn’t plan his destination, at least not consciously, but he wound up at Atlanta’s villa. This time, however, when he knocked at the door it was a dark-haired woman who answered. Given the wicker basket of linens on the floor at her feet, he figured she was there to do the cleaning.

“Hi…I mean, ciao. I was looking for Atlanta Jackson. I take it she’s not here.”

“No.” But the woman’s expression brightened. Her tone held a little awe when she said, “You are Angelo Casali.”

Finally, someone recognized him. He grinned in return. “Yes, I am.”

“It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks.”

Her obvious excitement. The wide-eyed adoration. He lapped both up. He was just about to ask her if she wanted his autograph when she added, “I know your family well. I attended school with Isabella. I had a crush on Valentino.”

Angelo’s smile faltered. She knew his family, but apparently she’d never heard of his multimillion-dollar baseball career, which was fading as fast as the season. How ironic that the New York Angel’s only claim to fame here was as Luca Casali’s son.

The young woman was saying, “I met Alessandro while he was in Monta Correnti. He was at Rosa one evening when my husband and I dined there.” She tipped her head to one side and studied Angelo. “You both have the look of your father. You have his eyes.”

Angelo backed up a step. He cared for neither the comparison she was making nor the connection it defined. “I have to be going.”

“Do you wish to leave a message for Miss Jackson?”

“No. I’ll…” He shook his head and said a second time, “No.”

The woman was still standing in the open doorway staring after him when he climbed into the car. He revved its engine to life, shifted into gear and hit the gas. The tires spat gravel and gave a little squeal as he sped away. He didn’t care. He had to get out of there. Just as Atlanta had the day before at the coffee shop, Angelo found himself running from the past.

It was the present that caused him to slow down before he hit the first bend in the road, which was a good thing considering the sharp turns up ahead. Another fifty feet and the road became as curvy as the woman walking along the side of it.

Atlanta.

She was more strolling than walking, given the leisurely pace of her long-legged stride. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. Fresh air and the Italian countryside agreed with her. She held a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand. Her signature blonde hair was partly obscured beneath a cap that, upon closer inspection, he realized was emblazoned with the logo of a rival ball club. Even so, the sight of her made him smile. Some of his tension ebbed away, only to be replaced with a different sort of restlessness when she spotted him and waved. He pulled the car over and got out, leaning against the hood while he waited for her to reach him.

When she did he asked, “Getting in a little exercise?”

“That wasn’t my primary objective, but yes.”

He was glad to hear she didn’t feel the need to walk off last night’s carbohydrate indulgence. The woman who just the day before had been racked with guilt over a couple of cannoli was making progress.

“Are you heading back?” he asked.

She glanced at her wristwatch. “Not quite yet. My landlady, Franca, is there. She insists on changing the sheets every day, though I’ve told her I’m not that picky. I left because I didn’t want to be underfoot.”

“Interested in some company?”

She fussed with the ponytail that spilled out the back of the hat. “I wouldn’t mind it.”

Initially, Atlanta had gone for a walk to clear her head. The day was perfect for it, so sunny and warm. But how was a woman supposed to keep her head clear when the man responsible for clouding it up was now asking to join her?

She could tell him no. She’d turned Angelo down more than once, and for things more consequential than a stroll down a country road. Despite the bruises he claimed his ego had endured, it hadn’t stopped him from coming back or from being a friend, even if it was clear he had more than friendship on his mind.

Still, the friendship was an unexpected gift. She’d never had a male friend before. For that matter, with the exception of Sara, Atlanta had precious few female ones. Hollywood wasn’t the sort of town where one could cultivate deep bonds of any sort easily. Too many people had an agenda or an angle to work. Very little was ever as it seemed on the surface, a fact Atlanta knew all too well.

“I want to thank you,” she said.

His brows shot up. “For what?”

“For being a friend.”

He stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “That’s just what a guy wants to hear.”

“Sorry, it’s just that I don’t have many friends and I really need one right now.”

“I know.” His tone was serious when he said, “Same goes for me.”

“Oh.” She smiled, pleased.

“Just to be clear, though. I still want to sleep with you.”

She stopped walking and faced him. “Why do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Hide behind macho come-on lines.”

She expected him to deny it. Instead, he replied, “For the same reason that you fall back on your plastic Hollywood smile.”

She sobered.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “I can tell the difference between a real Atlanta Jackson smile and the ones you manufacture for the masses.”

“Touché.” She plucked at the petals of one of the flowers in her bouquet.

“How about we make a deal?”

“I’m listening.”

“How about if we’re real with one another?”

“Flaws and all?” she wanted to know.

“Why not? What’s to lose? The way I see it, everyone thinks they’ve got us figured out based on all of the media hype. We both know they’re wrong.”

“So, you’re not an arrogant athlete with more testosterone than intelligence?”

“No more than you are a self-absorbed starlet who uses and discards men by the dozen.” At her startled expression, he said, “That was the quote I read on an Internet site the other day.”

Her eyelids flickered. “God, we’re a pair.”

“Only if you believe the tabloids,” he said. “So, deal?”

“Deal.”

They started walking again. A few minutes later, Angelo bent to pick a flower similar to the ones in her bouquet. He handed it to her.

“Thanks.”

“They’re pretty.”

“I thought so. I’m going to look them up online later, find out what they are.”

“Is that how you’re filling your time these days, trolling the Internet?”

“Yes, and, before you say anything, I’m loving it. I haven’t had a real vacation, and by real I mean a do-nothing sort of vacation, in years. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had one,” she said wryly.

All of her downtime away from a movie set was spent promoting a project, a product or herself. That was Zeke’s idea. Two birds with one stone and all that. Even the supposedly romantic getaways the pair of them had taken over the years had included jaunts to public places where the paparazzi were sure to spot them. Indeed, Atlanta sometimes wondered if Zeke wasn’t responsible for some of the anonymous tips to the tabloids that had divulged their locations and left her ducking for cover.

“Neither have I, and for good reason,” Angelo was saying. “Two days with little to do and I’m going stir crazy.”

“How can you be bored here?” She spread her arms wide.

“I’m not bored, I just feel…trapped.”

She turned, not sure she’d heard him correctly. His frown told her that she had.

“I know about feeling trapped,” she said quietly.

He was still frowning, but something in his expression had changed, softened in a way she couldn’t quite define. “I think you do.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“A friend to a friend?”

“That’s right.”

Though the way he was looking at her suggested more than friendly feelings.

“Then, yes.” His gaze grew intense as he studied her. Would he bare his soul and divulge some of his secrets? Would he kiss her? He did neither. Instead, he snatched the ball cap off her head. “You can set a match to this. God! The team manages to win one stinking World Series and suddenly everyone becomes a fan.”

She knew it was his intent to lighten the situation, so she allowed her laughter to ring out in the late afternoon. Another time, perhaps she wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.

“Which team should I root for?”

“The best one out there.”

“Yours?”

“The Rogues.” Afterward, his expression darkened again, leaving her to wonder if it was mere clarification he sought with his answer or outright distance.