America's Star-Crossed Sweethearts

by Jackie Braun

  A G-string and pasties.

  Angelo had too much testosterone not to hone in on those words and be turned on by the erotic image they evoked. Somehow, however, he managed to say in a remarkably normal tone, “It takes more than a hot body and pretty face to become a mainstay in Hollywood. Lots of actresses with only that to recommend them have come and gone, while you’ve remained a box-office draw. You’re selling yourself short again.”

  He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. Neither did she agree. Instead, she tore open a white packet of sugar and added it to her beverage. Another act of defiance, he was sure.

  “So what does all of this have to do with a couple of cannoli and caffeine laced with whole milk and now some sugar?” he asked.

  “Zeke was strict about what I could eat.” She exhaled and shook her head. “And about what I could drink, wear…you name it.”

  “Controlling?”

  “He claimed that he was only looking out for my best interests.”

  Of course he did.

  “Controlling,” Angelo said again, this time not as a question but as a statement.

  “He was right about a lot of things, though. He got me my first big break. I didn’t want the part of Daisy Maddox.” It was the role that had made her a bona fide star. “He insisted I take it and it wound up being my best-grossing movie.”

  “Are you defending him?” Angelo asked.

  “No.” She looked insulted. “I’m merely pointing out the hand he had in making my career.”

  “So, you’re defending him.”

  “No!”

  “He could have had the same impact on your career without treating you like a lump of clay to be molded to his exact specifications.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand.”

  “Do you?”

  “He managed what has been a very successful career for me.”

  “So, that meant he got to manage your life, too?”

  “Of course not.”

  “As for your career, is it all you envisioned for yourself?”

  He wasn’t sure what made him ask the question, but he was glad he had when he saw her mouth drop open. “I…I have other ideas, other avenues I’d like to explore.”

  “Let me guess. He didn’t want you to explore them.”

  Her gaze slid away. “Let’s drop it.”

  “Sure.”

  Atlanta grew quiet. He considered apologizing, but he wasn’t really sorry. She’d been under the guy’s thumb for way too long. Angelo didn’t want to see her slip beneath it again, even for a moment. No one deserved that kind of treatment.

  She dipped the tip of her index finger into the custard that oozed from the end of the cannolo and licked it off. All thoughts of Zeke vanished. In fact, thoughts of every variety except the lustful kind vanished. It was all he could do not to groan.

  “That’s a good start. But you can do better.”

  When she looked at him in question, he nodded to the cannolo.

  She dipped her finger in a second time for another nibble. He snagged her wrist before she could and brought it to his mouth instead, taking his time licking off the last of the rich filling. The quick intake of her breath was all of the encouragement he needed.

  “I know all about indulgence, Atlanta. You might say I’m an expert.”

  She pulled her fingers free and reached for her cappuccino. The hands holding the cup weren’t completely steady. He knew the feeling.

  “Seduced in Italy.”

  “Excuse me?” She gaped at him and his ego needed to believe she looked every bit as guilty as she had over the cannoli.

  “The name of the movie you learned Italian for.”

  “Oh. Right.” She smiled. “That was the one. It was shot on location in Venice. I loved it there.”

  “Was Zeke with you?”

  “Only for the first couple days, then he had to fly back to LA for business.”

  “Perhaps that’s why you enjoyed Venice so much. It’s a city known for indulgence.”

  She shrugged, non-committal, and took another sip of her cappuccino. “I’m guessing you were on a date when you saw the movie.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It’s a chick flick. I can’t see you going with a couple of guys from the team.”

  “You’re right.” His expression was unrepentant when he said, “I don’t remember the woman I was with, but I remember the scene where you danced in the fountain in that really sheer top.”

  “What a surprise,” Atlanta replied dryly.

  Angelo was flirting with her again, although at times it seemed as if he was testing himself as much as her. Either way, flirting was harmless, she decided. Come to that, even though she’d had precious little practice at it away from the big screen, it was all but required when two healthy and unattached adults got together in an idyllic setting. In Angelo’s case, it was second nature and indicative of nothing more than his interest in a romp in the sack. The man had a one-track mind.

  He needn’t bother. She was the polar opposite of her celluloid twin, the recent stirrings of her libido notwithstanding. With a crew looking on and a camera recording her every move and emotion, she’d enticed and seduced her leading man or fallen victim to his charms. In real life, however, she’d always been careful not to send out signals or offer come-hither glances and coy smiles. She considered that to be too close to her mother’s method of operation when it came to men. Too close to what her stepfather had accused Atlanta of doing to assuage his conscience for the petting and pawing that had begun even before she’d hit puberty.

  Even with Zeke, Atlanta had felt awkward and had approached sex with a straightforwardness that had siphoned off every last ounce of romance from the act. He hadn’t seemed to mind, which she realized now was because for him romance had never entered into it.

  “Is something wrong with your dessert?” Angelo’s question roused her from her thoughts.

  “No. It’s fine. Delicious, in fact.” She reached for her napkin and blotted the corners of her mouth.

  “Then why are you frowning?”

  “I wasn’t aware that I was.”

  “You are.”

  “If I am, it’s not the company.” She said it automatically. She’d had a lot of practice placating men.

  “Sure it is.” Angelo’s eyes narrowed. “I make you nervous.”

  “Please.” She waved a hand. “What do I have to be nervous about?”

  “You’re attracted to me.”

  She huffed out an impatient breath to camouflage the truth. “Right. And that would make me nervous?”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “You’re not as confident in real life as you are in your movies.”

  So, he’d figured that out, had he? Well, points to him.

  “That’s because I’m a person, not a character for whom every action and reaction has been scripted.” She crossed her arms. “You, on the other hand, come across as grossly overconfident.”

  “It’s not overconfidence if you can back it up with actions.”

  “I’m talking off the ball diamond.”

  “So am I.”

  “Is that so, sweetheart?” she drawled. “I hate to tell you this, but, all of your bravado aside, you’re no more certain of yourself than I am. It’s easy to flirt and throw out pickup lines, but you’ve admitted that you aren’t capable of cultivating a real relationship.”

  “I didn’t say I was incapable.” The calf that had been rubbing against hers under the table stilled. “I said it’s not what I want.”

  “Uh-huh. The right woman doesn’t exist for you. I remember the conversation. Have you ever had a relationship? And I’m talking about something that involves more than the exchange of apartment keys and regular sex.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “As I said, that’s not what I want.”

  “Why?” It was her turn to play therapist, and if it kept her out of the hot seat, all the better. “Is your life so pe
rfect flying solo all the time?”

  “That’s right.”

  “No. That’s what you want everybody to think. Most people buy it. I don’t. What insecurities are you trying to mask? Hmm? What are your secrets?”

  He shifted back in his chair, his gaze turning guarded. She’d struck a nerve.

  “You know, I almost turned around and walked the other way when I saw you today,” he admitted.

  “Regretting that you didn’t?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You don’t like it when the shoe is on the other foot,” she said.

  “It’s damned uncomfortable,” he surprised her by admitting.

  “Then maybe you’ll resist the next time you’re tempted to analyze me.”

  “Maybe. I probably should.” He shrugged. “For that matter, I should probably leave you alone entirely. You’ve asked me to. I don’t usually pursue a woman who tells me not to bother.”

  “Then why are you?”

  She expected him to mention attraction again. What he said was, “I can’t quite figure you out, Atlanta.”

  Her laughter was bitter. “No one else seems to have a problem.”

  “Yeah, I thought I had, too. But you’re a bundle of contradictions. Strong one moment, vulnerable the next.”

  She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. I am an actress.”

  “Uh-uh. My turn to tell you I’m not buying it. This is you. Not an act. Contradictions,” he said again. “Like the way you keep telling me no but—”

  That was as far as he got. She shot to her feet, rapping her hip against the edge of the table and spilling both of their beverages.

  “When I say no, I mean no.”

  “Atlanta.”

  “No means no!”

  He reached out a hand in entreaty, but she shook her head, turned and fled.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  What was that all about?

  Alone at the café, Angelo slumped back in his chair and replayed the encounter. Atlanta had surprised him twice. First, by turning the tables on him and questioning what his secrets and vulnerabilities might be. And then with her overreaction to his admittedly poor choice of words.

  He was a firm believer that when a woman said no, she meant no, but that was in the bedroom. He hadn’t been talking about sex, at least not directly; although where Atlanta was concerned, it was much on his mind.

  “I should have walked the other way,” he muttered.

  He didn’t have time to sort through her emotional baggage. As she’d already figured out, he had enough of his own.

  Standing, he tossed some bills onto the table alongside her discarded cannoli and left to meander through the town. He had a little more time to kill before seeing Isabella.

  Everyone he passed in Monta Correnti was friendly. From the shop owners to their customers to the people milling about on the streets, they smiled and called out polite greetings. But not one of them asked for Angelo’s autograph. Not one of them asked him to stop and pose for a photograph. Almost absently, he rubbed his shoulder. Just as he had at the airport in Rome, he found anonymity disturbing. He also found his need for fame disturbing.

  What insecurities are you hiding? Atlanta had asked.

  “Buongiorno.”

  He glanced up to find a young woman standing beside a pushcart of freshly cut flowers. The blooms were separated by kind and color and tucked into individual buckets of water. The overall effect was lovely, as was the cart’s owner. He guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. She had a ripe figure, Sophia Loren eyes and mahogany-colored hair that tumbled halfway down her back. “Hi, uh, buongiorno.”

  She switched to English when she asked, “Do you see something you like, signor?”

  The invitation in her smile was unmistakable, as was his appalling lack of interest. Here was the kind of mindless distraction he needed, yet the thought of spending time with her—clothed or otherwise—held virtually no appeal. Now, if she’d had blonde hair and blue eyes… He glanced past her to the cart.

  “Um, how about some roses?”

  “Roses.” Her disappointment was clear.

  “A dozen white.” The perfect peace offering for his sister, he decided.

  The woman gathered the blooms and added some greenery to the arrangement. Her movements were deft but her enthusiasm to make a sale had waned considerably. That much was all the more obvious when she thrust the bouquet into his hands and spat out a price.

  He was reaching into his pocket for his wallet when a burly older man rushed over shouting something in Italian. The words were directed at the young woman, who cast Angelo a second appraising look before leaving.

  “You are Luca’s son, no?”

  Despite the label’s uncomfortable fit, Angelo answered, “Yes, um, sì.”

  “I am Andrea. I own the village floral shop. My daughter, Bianca, looks after the cart for me. I provide flowers for the tables at Rosa.” He cast another dark look in her direction before continuing. “Luca, he is so good to me and my family. He is good to many of us in Monta Correnti. So, I give you these flowers for half the price.”

  Angelo fought the ridiculous urge to argue. Instead he offered a stilted, “Grazie.”

  After twenty minutes of brooding and walking, he arrived at his father’s restaurant. The exterior of Rosa was just as his brother described it, a rustic stone façade with arched windows. Directly next to it was the more upscale eatery Sorella. Their aunt, Luca’s older sister Lisa, owned it. The two restaurants shared a wall and a gated courtyard, but otherwise they had little in common.

  According to Alex, Sorella’s cuisine was contemporary and international, the sort of stuff that could be found at the trendy restaurants of New York. That sounded more like Angelo’s kind of thing. A peek through the restaurant’s wide windows revealed a stylish interior that leaned toward modern with its chrome and glass fixtures and sleek furnishings.

  Definitely more my thing, he thought. The designer he’d hired a couple years back to make over his Manhattan apartment had done the rooms in a similar style.

  Both restaurants were open for business. Rosa’s door was propped open. Music drifted from inside, something classical and soothing that probably was written around the same time the building was erected. Angelo stepped through the door and was immediately welcomed by the aroma of freshly baked bread and the same tomato sauce Isabella had made for him the evening before. His stomach growled.

  A young woman stood at the hostess station. She smiled politely and offered a greeting.

  “Ciao,” he replied. “I’m Angelo Casali.” His name, he figured, would say it all.

  Based on the way her face lit up, it did. “Sì,sì. Yes. Welcome. Signor Casali is not here.”

  Which was exactly why Angelo was willing to set foot in the place today. He smiled.

  “Actually, I was hoping to see Isabella. Her husband told me I might find her here.”

  “Isabella. Sì. She is taking a telephone call right now, but I will tell her you are here. Have a seat.” The young woman pointed to a table near the front window that offered a view of the street. “Can I get you a cup of espresso to drink while you wait?”

  The thought of more caffeine on an empty stomach held zero appeal. “Just water, please.”

  She returned a moment later with a bottle of sparkling water and a glass.

  “Isabella said to tell you she will be with you soon. Also, your cousin Scarlett is in her office. Shall I get her for you?”

  “No. That’s all right. I don’t want to disturb her.”

  He was bound to meet all of the Casali clan before he returned to New York, but he wasn’t in the mood to do it now. The young woman nodded and left him to greet a group of tourists that had just come through the door.

  Though it was barely a quarter past noon, Rosa was already filling up with patrons. The place was popular, no doubt about it. He figured the rich aromas that had greeted him when he stepped throu
gh the door explained why. He’d come here on a mission. He didn’t want to be hungry. Nor did he want to feel this odd sense of pride. But he did.

  Someone arrived with a basket of warm bread. When he glanced up to offer his thanks, he saw that it was Isabella.

  “Angelo. Hello. I hope you are well rested.” The words were offered with a polite if restrained smile. His doing, he knew.

  “Yes,” he lied, even though nothing about the previous night had been restful.

  “I wasn’t expecting to see you here today. Luca is away.”

  “I know.”

  Her smile was sad. “Of course, you do.”

  Angelo decided to cut to the chase. “I came because I owe you an apology and I didn’t want to let it wait.”

  Isabella’s brows rose, but she said nothing. He took that as a positive sign and reached over to pull out the chair next to his. When she was seated he continued.

  “I offended you yesterday, and for that I’m sorry. You were nothing but kind, fixing me a meal and making me feel welcome on my first day in Monta Correnti, and I was rude.”

  A smile, this one more genuine than polite, creased her cheeks. “Yes, you were.”

  Her teasing reply, as much as her impish expression, made it easy to accept they really were siblings. “Unforgivably so?” he asked.

  “Never, especially if those flowers are for me.”

  He’d nearly forgotten about the roses. He picked up the bouquet now and handed it to her. “I thought it was a fitting gesture.”

  “And very sweet. I cannot remember our other brothers ever giving me such a peace offering. When we were little, Cristiano and Valentino used to tickle me till I forgave them.” As she buried her face in the blooms Angelo almost could hear the echoes of childish laughter. It unsettled him because he regretted not having been a part of it. She smiled at him. “I think I like your act of contrition better.”

  “I’m just glad you’re no longer upset with me.”

  “How could I be?” She set the roses aside and clasped his hands firmly in her much smaller ones. “We’re family, Angelo.”

  He didn’t argue, even though the concept still seemed so foreign. But he needed to make one thing clear. “I don’t know that I can forgive him, Isabella. What Luca did, it’s not the same as a surly mood. Sorry and flowers won’t fix it.”