Читать книгу Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts - Barbara McMahon - Страница 8

“SO, WHAT takes you to Italy?” Angelo asked once their flight was airborne. “A movie role?”

“A vacation, actually. I want some time alone without the media following my every move.”

“So you picked a small town like Rome for that,” he replied deadpan.

“Rome isn’t my final destination.” She lowered her voice. “I’m heading a little farther south to an isolated little village that I’d never heard of before. It’s tucked up on a hillside, very remote and the people are very discreet when it comes to celebrities, or so I’ve been told.”

No way, Angelo thought. What would be the odds? He had to know. “You’re not talking about Monta Correnti, by any chance?”

“You know it?” Then her face paled. “You’re…you’re not going…”

“Yep.” Angelo’s laughter rang out loud enough to draw the attention of the passengers around them.

Distraction. In the airport’s VIP lounge he’d told Atlanta it was the name of their game as well as its object. Apparently they were going into extra innings.

A couple hours into their flight, Angelo could no longer ignore the angry throbbing of his shoulder. Atlanta was reading a magazine, or more likely pretending to since she hadn’t turned the page in twenty minutes. He was no speed-reader, but even he could have finished the article on eyeliner dos and don’ts in that amount of time.

He twisted the cap off the mineral water he’d ordered when the flight attendant last came around, and as discreetly as possible popped a couple of the potent painkillers the team doctor had prescribed, washing them down with a gulp of the beverage.

“That bad, huh?” She closed the magazine and laid it on her lap.

“Just stiff,” he lied. “I’ll be all right.” He had to be.

After the pills kicked in, he didn’t wake until shortly before the aircraft was making its final descent into the larger of Rome’s two airports. He was hungry, having slept through the dinner that was served during the flight, the medicine was wearing off and his overall mood wasn’t much improved.

Through the thick glass of the plane’s window, Angelo caught his first glimpse of Italy in thirty-five years. Even with the floral scent of Atlanta’s perfume teasing his senses, he could no longer ignore his real reason for coming.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“Like a baby.”

“You moaned a few times. I thought maybe you were in pain.”

“Erotic dreams,” he corrected on a wink.

“My mistake.” But she rolled her eyes.

“Sir, your seat needs to be in the upright position,” a flight attendant stopped by to remind him.

He shifted and a moan escaped before he could muffle it.

“Apparently you have those dreams even when you’re awake,” Atlanta said dryly.

“Want me to share the particulars with you?”

“That’s all right.”

“Sure? I wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but I’ll pass.”

“How long are you going to be staying in Monta—?”

“Shh!” she admonished and glanced around as if she expected to find the other first-class passengers shamelessly eavesdropping. That was a virtual impossibility over the loud hum of the jet engines. Still, he obliged her by lowering his voice.

“So, how long?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Just curious how much time I’ll have to wear you down. Eventually, even though you claim not to drink, I predict you and I will share a bottle of wine and some more fascinating conversation.”

She chuckled. “What do you call this?”

“You’re avoiding answering my question.”

“Fine. I’ll be there for three glorious weeks with an option to stay four.” She sighed, as eager to arrive as he was to have the trip behind him.

“I’ll be there two weeks tops. Might as well be a life sentence,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. You never said what made you decide to make Monta—” he caught himself before he finished the village’s name “—MC your final destination. It’s a speck on the map, you know.”

If she heard the derision in his tone, she didn’t comment on it. “That’s why it’s ideal.”

“Ah, that’s right. Hiding out.”

A line formed between her brows. “That makes me sound like a coward.”

“Sorry. I didn’t—”

“No.” She waved off the rest of his apology. “I guess I am hiding out. I just needed a place to go to recharge my batteries.” Her expression turned rueful. “Someplace where I wouldn’t have to deal with booing fans or the paparazzi at every turn. My stylist suggested the village. She visited it a few years ago. She was seeing a rather famous actor at the time and according to her they could go anywhere in town without worrying about drawing a crowd, much less paparazzi.”

Frowning, Angelo said, “It’s nothing like LA or New York, that’s for sure.”

“So, this isn’t your first visit?”

He shook his head.

“What’s it like?”

“It’s been a while, years in fact.”

Vague images of quaint, red-tile-roofed houses tucked into the side of a hill rose from his memory, accompanied by the scents of fresh basil, roasted red peppers and plum tomatoes. Angelo couldn’t be sure if they were real or the result of wishful thinking. As it was, nothing of his childhood in Boston evoked anything worth recalling.

“I looked it up on Google,” Atlanta was saying. “There’s not a lot of information, but I did find some photographs. It’s very picturesque and old-fashioned, like a snapshot out of the past.”

His past.

Her gaze shifted to his shoulder. Her expression held understanding. “Are you interested in dropping out of sight for a while, too?”

“Not exactly.” He took a deep breath before admitting, “My father lives there.”

Atlanta blinked, not quite able to hide her surprise.

“Yes, I have one of those,” he replied dryly.

“From the scowl on your face I gather the two of you aren’t close.”

“I haven’t seen him in thirty-five years.” And Angelo had no desire to see Luca now.

“Ouch. Sorry.”

He laughed outright as a cover for the pain he couldn’t admit to feeling. “It’s no big deal. I didn’t need him and I haven’t missed him. Hell, I barely remember him.”

“So, why are you going? If you don’t mind me asking,” she added.

He shrugged. The pain the gesture caused made him wince. “My brother booked my flight and my accommodations. Alex thinks that making peace with our father is important.”

“But you don’t share his opinion,” she guessed.

Angelo caught himself before he could shrug again. “It’s ancient history. What’s to be gained?”

“I’m the wrong person to ask,” Atlanta admitted. “I haven’t seen my mother in years. My choice.”

“You’re smart. The only reason my brother is all for a reunion now is that he’s met a woman and they’re getting married. He’s in love.”

“From your tone I’d take it you’re not a big fan of the emotion.”

“I’ve got nothing against love. I’m happy for my brother.”

How could Angelo not be? Allie, the woman Alex was marrying, was pretty, kind and intelligent. She had a daughter whom his brother obviously adored. Together they were a ready-made family. If that thought made him feel unbearably alone at times, it was his own problem. He’d get over it.

“Have you ever been in love yourself?” Atlanta asked.

“You’re a regular Oprah. So many questions,” he teased, stretching out his stiff legs. He hoped whatever accommodations Alex had arranged came with a jetted tub. He could do with a nice long soak.

“Sorry.” She ruined the apology by adding, “Well?”

“No. I like women in general too much to commit to any one in particular.” He sent Atlanta a wolfish smile that caused her to roll her sky-blue eyes.

“Gee, that’s romantic,” she said dryly.

“No, that’s realistic. I could say something cliché like I haven’t met the right woman, but I don’t think the right woman exists.”

“Your brother apparently disagrees.”

Angelo held up a finger. “Let me clarify. I don’t believe the right woman exists for me.” It was a long-held belief, one that predated puberty. Commitment? His parents had gone that route and look how it had turned out. They hadn’t been able to keep the promises they made to one another, let alone to the children they’d brought into the world. He grinned wickedly to banish the old bitterness, hiding behind the cockiness that was as much his trademark as Atlanta’s bombshell looks were hers. “But if she did exist, she’d be blonde, about your height and have ridiculously long legs.”

Atlanta crossed her arms and sent him a pointed look. “Do lines like that actually work for you?”

“Apparently not,” he replied with feigned disappointment.

She shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I know. A judge told me that very thing before sending me off to juvie when I was a kid.” He said it lightly, though nothing about the incident could be considered fun or funny. Before she could comment he said, “I won’t bother to ask if you’ve ever been in love. You lived with that Zeke guy for—what?—a decade?”

“Something like that,” she murmured. Her gaze strayed to the window.

“But no ring?” he prodded.

“Not the kind you’re talking about.”

Curious, he asked, “What other kind is there?”

It sounded as if she said, “Through the nose,” but he couldn’t be sure.

“I find it hard to believe he didn’t propose. If I were the sort of guy interested in lifelong commitments, I’d have been on bended knee after our first date.”

Atlanta made a tsking noise. “Obviously you’re not up on your tabloid reports. Zeke proposed dozens of times during the course of our relationship. Actually, begged is how I believe he put it. He wanted to marry me. He wanted to have a family with me. Heartless witch that I am, I repeatedly turned him down. I didn’t want a husband and I didn’t want babies. My figure is my fortune, you know. I’m nothing without a twenty-four-inch waist and flawless abs.”

He’d seen pictures of the abs in question. Still, he said, “You sell yourself short.”

She glanced over sharply, studied him for a moment. It might have been a trick of the light, but her eyes looked bright. “It doesn’t really matter now.”

The captain came on the public address system announcing the local time and temperature and the usual end-of-the-flight banter. Afterward, Angelo asked, “Should I apologize for prying?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Even without her usual crimson gloss, her lips were full and inviting. “Are you sorry?”

Since she was striving to remain upbeat, he decided to oblige her. “No. I’m too curious to be sorry. You’re quite an enigma.”

“Me?” She laughed. “Everybody knows everything there is to know about me.”

Did they? People thought they knew him, too. Since his injury, Angelo had begun to wonder if he knew himself.

Alex had assured Angelo that a driver would be waiting to take him to Monta Correnti. A rental car would be at his disposal in the village, but his brother figured Angelo would appreciate having someone else navigate the roads after a long flight. Alex had thought of everything, perhaps so that Angelo wouldn’t have any excuses for backing out.

Atlanta had someone meeting her as well. Even so, they stayed together after deplaning.

“Want me to help you with your bags?” she asked.

“That’s supposed to be my line.”

She tilted her head to one side. “I’m not the one with a bum shoulder.”

“It’s fine,” he protested through gritted teeth.

Her brows rose but she said nothing else as they waited to spot their bags on the conveyor belt. One by one, Atlanta’s four pieces of matching designer luggage came around before Angelo’s large suitcase. She snatched them off before he could offer.

“I thought you said you were going to be in Italy for less than a month?” he drawled as a bushy-haired porter hurried over with a cart. “From the amount of luggage, it looks like you’re planning to move here.”

“I like clothes and shoes.”

“That’s obvious. You could outfit the population of a small country.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I’m incredibly selfish when it comes to my shoes. I don’t share.”

“How many pairs did you bring?”

“Twelve, not counting the ones I’m wearing.” She looked inordinately pleased when she announced, “Almost all of them have heels less than one inch.”

“No stilettos?”

“Not a one.”

“Damn.” He spied his bag and moved closer to the conveyor to snatch it. She was at his side in an instant, helping him heft the bulky suitcase off.

“I’ve got it,” he grumbled.

“Of course you do, big he-man that you are. You don’t need anybody.”

Angelo laughed, even if in truth he didn’t want to need anybody. He’d learned a long time ago to rely on himself. The only people he trusted to help him out when needed were his twin and, of course, his teammates.

Assuming they were together, the bushy-haired porter added Angelo’s bag to the cart stacked with Atlanta’s.

“We’re going to owe him a really big tip when it’s all said and done,” Angelo muttered as the man started off toward Customs.

“It’s not like we can’t afford it.”

No indeed. She was one of the few women he’d ever met who actually made as much money as he did, perhaps more, since he didn’t know what her cut had been on her past few movies.

Still, he had enough pride that he said, “I’ll get this one since you picked up the tab in the lounge.”

“Grazie mille,” she said, batting her lashes at him for effect.

After they cleared Customs, she dropped the sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose. Before landing, she’d pulled her hair back into a simple ponytail. Along with the navy dress and flat-heeled shoes, she hardly screamed high-maintenance Hollywood. But such raw beauty rarely went unnoticed. As low-key as she was trying to be, as soon as they passed into the main terminal she attracted a lot of attention and some of it was exactly the kind she wanted to avoid.

A couple of photographers began shouting her name. Even prefaced with the courtesy title of Signorina the intrusion was rude, especially since it was followed by a succession of near-blinding flashes. Atlanta held up her handbag as a shield. Just that quickly, the witty and surprisingly candid woman with whom he’d spent the past several hours was swallowed up by a monster of her own making.

Fame. Sometimes it grew fangs and bit you.

Angelo waited for the photographers to holler out his name, too. It was their lucky day. The parasites had a pair of American celebrities in their viewfinders. He patted his pockets in search of his Oakleys. He was as used to dealing with them as Atlanta was. On any given day, half a dozen of their ilk stood guard outside his Manhattan apartment building, their digital cameras trained on the exits in the hope of snapping a money shot or two for the tabloids.

“I’m going to duck into the ladies’ room for a minute,” Atlanta whispered. “You go on ahead to your car. Tell the porter to wait there with my bags.”

“Divide and conquer?” he asked.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“See you in MC.”

She didn’t answer. They’d reached the ladies’ room and she hustled inside.

Angelo turned. He’d found his sunglasses but needn’t have bothered. With Atlanta gone, the paparazzi lowered their cameras. It came as a huge blow to realize that he hadn’t been recognized. Baseball was a largely American game, he reminded himself. Neither it nor its players resonated much outside the United States, and apparently that was true in Italy.

He should have been relieved. It was a pain to be hounded by the paparazzi. Even so, he felt sucker-punched. Was this what his life would be like post-career? Would no one recognize him? Would no one care that for four consecutive seasons he’d led the league in runs batted in or that he was half a dozen homers from passing the current record? Would he return to the obscurity from which he’d come, a mere postscript in write-ups about the game that had literally saved his life?

The porter nudged him and said something in Italian. It was Angelo’s native tongue, but he remembered none of it even if he found the accent and cadence oddly comforting.

“Sorry. I only speak English,” he replied.

“Taxi?” the man said helpfully and pointed to an overhead sign designating the way to ground transportation.

“Ah, no. Someone is meeting me.”

Several of those waiting to welcome passengers were holding signs with names written on them. One was printed with Angelo’s. “My driver.”

“Signorina?” The porter glanced back to the rest-room door.

She had her own transportation. She’d told Angelo to go. Yet Angelo told the porter, “We’ll wait for her here.”

He knew the moment she was out in the open. The paparazzi descended on her like a pack of wolves on prey. Long legs and irritation made her pace fast, but eventually, she had nowhere left to run.

“I told you to leave,” she snapped, turning this way and that in an effort to avoid the cameras.

Angelo stood perfectly still. “I’m bad at following directions. It’s a guy thing.”

“This will make a fine headline.”

“They don’t know who I am.”

“They will back home. You’ll be labeled as my latest conquest.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t look so smug,” she cried. “That’s not a good thing.”

“From your point of view,” he replied, hoping to see her smile.

Her expression remained grim.

“You need to get out of here,” he told her.

“I would, but apparently my driver is late.” Her laughter verged on hysteria.

“It’s Italy,” Angelo said. “I’ve been told they run on their own time here.”

More camera flashes popped. Atlanta backed up, trying to put as much distance between herself and Angelo in the photographers’ frames as possible.

“Come with me. We’re heading to the same place.”

He extended a hand. She declined both it and his offer with a shake of her head. “No, no. That’s kind, but I have my own transportation. Or I will. Soon.”

The photographers snapped off a couple more shots. In addition to paparazzi they were drawing a crowd of onlookers, some of whom had pulled out their camera phones. Within a matter of hours this was going to be all over the Internet.

“Do you really want to wait around?” he asked.

“I…” She issued a heartfelt sigh. “God, no.”

Along with the porter and driver, they made a mad dash for the exit. At the curb, Angelo peeled off some bills, trying to remember the exchange rate of dollars to euros. At the porter’s broad grin, he figured the tip was as generous as intended.

He grinned, too, but for an entirely different reason.