by Jackie Braun
She sobered slightly as she settled back in her chair. “I only ask that, when you are ready, you will listen to what he has to say.”
Angelo nodded and sipped his water. Still, he had to know. “Why is it so important to you?”
She seemed perplexed by the question. “We are family, Angelo. Familia. What is more important than that?”
He envied Isabella’s passion on the subject. This made twice in a matter of minutes that she’d referenced their shared bloodline. He wanted to be swayed by her argument, to get behind it with as much conviction. Even with half as much. But the truth was, “The only family I’ve had for a very long time is Alex.”
Her gaze held compassion as well as empathy. “I understand from your brother that your mother died when you were teenagers.”
“She drank herself to death,” he said bluntly. “Cindy…” An embarrassing rush of emotions washed away the rest of his words. He shook his head and tried again. “She was never going to win any Mother of the Year awards, you know? But she was all we had.”
“My mamma is gone as well. She died when I was young.” Her gaze softened. “I still miss her.”
Alex had mentioned that Luca’s second wife, Violetta, had been killed in a tragic fall. Fate could be crueler than addiction, even though some might argue that it didn’t matter since the end result was the same. But fate put things outside one’s control. “That’s rough. Sorry.”
“I remember her a little, as does Valentino. He is the youngest. Cristiano, who is two years older than I am, has more memories.” Her expression clouded.
“I get the feeling that even though you weren’t the oldest, you took care of them.” What little he knew of Isabella pointed to a take-charge person. After all, she’d been the one to initiate contact with Angelo and Alex. The peacemaker, the bridge-maker. He’d admire the characteristics more if they weren’t running against his own goals.
“I did.”
“And you helped out here.” He made a circular motion with one hand.
“Yes. Our father was lost in his grief after Mamma died. He needed me.”
Luca and his needs. It took all of Angelo’s willpower not to sneer.
“Why aren’t you bitter?” He hadn’t intended to ask that question, so he shook his head. “Never mind. I came here to apologize to you, not to pick another fight.”
“I will answer anyway. Bitterness serves no useful purpose, Angelo. I would have liked a different childhood, sì. One with fewer cares and responsibilities, but…” Isabella’s shoulders rose.
“Well, you’re obviously happy now.”
“I am. Very.” Blue eyes that were so like his own lit with an emotion that Angelo had yet to experience for himself.
“Alex said you’re married, and to a real prince, no less.”
Her smile grew wider. “Maximilliano Di Rossi.”
“I spoke to him today. He wasn’t very happy with me.”
Her laughter was pleased and wholly female. “He can be very protective.”
“So I gathered.”
“You will meet him and some of the others at the—” Isabella broke off and blushed.
“At the what?”
“Party.”
“Let me guess. I’m to be the guest of honor,” he said dryly.
She wrinkled her nose. “Would you rather not have such a gathering? If that is your wish I can call the others and explain. They can meet with you individually during the course of your stay in Italy.”
Now there was an even less appealing thought. Better to get it over with in one fell swoop than prolong the agony over days. “No. A party is fine. When is it and where?”
“We thought we would give you a chance to settle in first, get to know some people. So it is planned for a week from Friday at eight o’clock. Our plan is to close Rosa early for the occasion. Valentino will be here. Cristiano, unfortunately, can’t be. He’s a firefighter and was injured during a blaze in Rome.”
A strange feeling of concern stirred for this stranger who shared his bloodline. “Is he…okay?”
Isabella’s smile was all-knowing. “He will be.” Then, “You are sure a family party is all right with you?”
“Yes.”
Her expression turned wily when she mentioned, “You could bring someone.”
“Who would I bring?” he asked, though he had the feeling his sister had someone in mind.
She did. “How about Atlanta Jackson? I have heard from no fewer than three sources already this morning that you were spotted sharing cannoli with the pretty actress at the café up the street.”
And Atlanta’s abrupt departure? Had they mentioned that?
“Is everything all right, Angelo?”
“Fine. It’s just that she came here hoping to get away. She doesn’t want to draw any attention to herself.”
“Nor will she,” Isabella assured him. “The villagers are curious about her, but they will leave her be. No one will ask for autographs or pictures. The wealthy and famous come here because they know they can count on our discretion. In turn, they keep our economy going.”
“Good. She’s going through a rough patch professionally and personally. The last thing she needs right now is to find herself being tailed by the media, legitimate or otherwise.”
“I have read some of the things her ex is saying.”
“Lies.” But Angelo didn’t think Zeke’s cruelty or control were the only demons she needed to exorcise.
Isabella tilted her head to one side. “You seem very…concerned about her. Have you and this Atlanta known one another for very long?”
“We don’t really know one another at all,” he said slowly.
His sister smiled before helpfully suggesting, “Perhaps you can remedy that while you are here.”
Atlanta rubbed her throbbing forehead with one hand and pressed the telephone to her ear with the other as Sara Daniels, one of the few true friends she had in Los Angeles, confirmed her worst fears.
“I hate to tell you this, but you’re still making headlines. When I stopped for coffee on my way into work this morning, I saw pictures of you and Angelo Casali together in Rome’s airport on the front page of a couple of tabloids.”
Even as she bit back a groan Atlanta forced herself to ask, “What are they saying about me now?”
“Hon, you don’t want to know.”
“No, I don’t, but tell me anyway.” Forewarned was forearmed.
Sara heaved a sigh. “Okay. The headline on the one in The Scoop is, um, ‘Angel and the Tramp’. The article claims that the two of you have been involved on and off for years.”
“Of course it does. And the other tabloid? What did it come up with for a headline?”
“Keep in mind the writer is probably a Rogues fan, okay?” Sara hedged.
“Okay.” Atlanta’s forehead throbbed more insistently.
“‘New York’s Angel falls under Hollywood seductress’s spell.’”
This time Atlanta wasn’t able to hold back her groan. Glutton for punishment that she was, she asked, “What does it say?”
“The usual tripe about how Angelo is another of your many conquests. It includes a quote from Zeke. He, um, says he feels sorry for Mr. Casali and is a little surprised you went after him considering that the ballplayer is past his prime and not likely to continue in the spotlight much longer, unless, given his recent injury, it’s to do endorsements for over-the-counter pain medicine.”
“God, he’s a piece of work,” she spat, insulted on Angelo’s behalf. “If he wants to trash me, fine. But he has no right to drag anyone else into the mud.”
“Speaking of Angelo, how exactly did the two of you hook up?”
“We haven’t hooked up. We were on the same flight, headed to the same place and he was kind enough to share his car with me after I was spotted by those photographers.”
“So, that was the end of it?”
“We bumped into each other again today.” She swallowed, thinki
ng of how she’d overreacted during their conversation. And she had overreacted. She could see that now.
“Do you plan to see each other again?”
After her earlier display? He probably thought her to be either the quintessential drama queen or a complete nut. Either way, it was for the best. He had her thinking things, remembering things, best left alone.
It’s not your fault.
A therapist had assured her of that, although it hadn’t been necessary. Atlanta had always known who to blame. Her stepfather. Duke had been an adult and a parental figure. She’d been but a frightened girl who’d had the misfortune to blossom early and live in a trailer with a man who believed he was entitled to do as he pleased and a mother who chose to look the other way because she was too afraid of being alone.
No means no.
Knowing that didn’t automatically make everything all right, though.
Thankfully, acting out a love scene in front of a camera had never been much of a problem for her, perhaps because she knew exactly what to expect. She knew when it would start and when it would stop. She knew what her reactions were supposed to be. The one time a co-star had tried to ad lib a bit too much for her liking, she’d ended the scene and walked off the set. Being in control made it easier, it made it almost cathartic, and it helped to block out the bad memories. Still, she considered it a testament to her acting ability that she could make the world believe she was truly enjoying herself.
As an adult, it had taken a long time for Atlanta to actually have sex without getting physically sick afterward. After a decade with Zeke, she’d gotten to the point where she sometimes could enjoy herself, though she rarely wound up fully satisfied. She was fine with that. Or she had been…until recently. Angelo had her wondering what she might have been missing.
“Atlanta?” Sara’s voice brought her back to the present.
“What?”
“I asked if you were going to see him again.”
“No,” she replied with conviction.
“Hmm. Too bad.”
“Why do you say that?”
Sara’s laughter came over the line. “Have you gone blind or taken vows with a religious order since you’ve been gone?”
“My vision is perfect and, no, I doubt I’ll ever be a candidate for the abbey.”
“Well, then, if you tell me that man isn’t every bit as sexy in real life as he comes across on television, I’m going to be crushed.”
Atlanta nearly shivered as she recalled the way Angelo had licked cannolo custard from her fingers. “It’s no trick of the cameras. He’s sexy, all right.”
“I thought so.”
To counteract her friend’s smugness, Atlanta said, “And so is every male co-star I’ve worked with during my career. It doesn’t mean I want to sleep with them.”
“Who said anything about sleeping together?” Sara asked. “I merely asked if you were going to see him again.”
“My answer hasn’t changed. No.”
“You could do a lot worse.”
“Sara.”
“Just saying. I mean, it’s not like I could see the two of you together for the long haul. But for a vacation fling? A post-Zeke fling?” Her friend sighed dreamily. “He’s perfect.”
“I’m not here for a fling,” Atlanta replied impatiently, but Sara was right about one thing: if she were the sort of woman who engaged in casual, no-strings encounters, Angelo would be perfect.
For the better part of the afternoon, Atlanta hung around the villa going through the stack of scripts she’d brought with her. None was written by an established name. That was half of their appeal. The parts hadn’t been penned with her in mind. They didn’t play to her known strengths, mainly her sex appeal. She would have to adapt herself to these parts, in some cases change physically to do the characters justice.
Cut and dye her trademark locks? Gain a dozen pounds? The very idea was scary but exciting, too. Zeke never would have allowed it, but how else would she ever prove herself as more than a sex symbol?
You sell yourself short.
Angelo had told her that twice now.
She set a script in her lap. Angelo. He was so different from Zeke. She didn’t mean to compare the men, but it was impossible not to. Physically, they were night and day. Zeke was lean with an elegant build. He claimed to be six feet tall, but she suspected he was closer to five ten. He also claimed to be fifty-two, but she knew for a fact that he was fifty-seven. He looked good for his age, though, thanks to regular workouts, a little Botox to his brow line and regular appointments with his stylist to ensure that the hair on his head and in his goatee remained a youthful chocolate brown. He was fond of designer clothes, preferred silk to cotton and didn’t own anything made from denim or, God forbid, a synthetic fiber. He regularly wore large diamond studs in both of his ears and carried a European handbag to accommodate his BlackBerry and assorted other electronic gadgets.
In other words, Zeke was the walking definition of the metrosexual man while Angelo was the walking definition of masculinity.
Atlanta couldn’t see Angelo carrying a purse, regardless of the label one gave it, and she knew he didn’t dye his hair because she’d spotted a few strands of gray around his temples. As for Botox, if he indulged in it, he wasn’t getting his money’s worth, but he was all the more ruggedly handsome for the lines that fanned out from his eyes, which most likely were the result of squinting into the sun to catch a fly ball.
For the past decade, Zeke had dominated Atlanta’s life. Under his rigid tutelage, she’d been transformed from a mousy-haired, small-town girl with big dreams and some talent into a blonde, box-office bombshell. On screen, she melted hearts and left men salivating. More than once in real life, Zeke had accused her of being frigid. Given her past, she’d thought herself incapable of the kind of intense passion she portrayed on screen. But when Atlanta was around Angelo, she was never more aware of her sexuality or of her purely feminine response to him.
It scared her.
Angelo was ticked off. His lunch with Isabella had gone well, but when he returned to his villa he found a delivery from Luca. Tucked in the basket of fresh fruit was a note. It was written in Italian, so the only word he recognized was Papa.
He crumpled it up and shoved it into his pocket before grabbing the keys to the rental car.
Damn the man. Damn him.
He had no idea where he was going, only that he needed to get out, get away. The problem with Monta Correnti, though, was it wasn’t big enough to put much distance between Angelo and his troubles. After more than an hour of driving, mostly in circles, he wound up at the one place he knew he wasn’t welcome. Oddly, that made it perfect.
Lost in thought, the unexpected knock at the villa door gave Atlanta a start. It was late in the afternoon and she wasn’t expecting anyone. Probably Franca, she thought, smoothing the hair back from her face. The woman was super efficient and determined that Atlanta would enjoy her stay. But it wasn’t her landlady who stood on the other side of the door. It was Angelo.
Atlanta’s mouth fell open before she managed to sputter out a greeting. “I wasn’t expecting…company.”
Angelo’s in particular, though she’d thought of him incessantly all afternoon. For a moment she wondered if she’d conjured him up. But no, he was flesh and blood and all brooding male.
“Sorry to drop by unannounced,” he began. “I wasn’t exactly planning to come here. I just was driving around and…” His words trailed away on a frown.
It was the frown that stopped her from inviting him inside. He looked none too happy to be there and, as such, she doubted he planned to stay. So she folded her hands and waited patiently for him to say whatever it was that had compelled him to her villa.
“Can you read Italian?”
The question came out of left field. “Can I read…?”
“Italian,” he said impatiently.
“A little.”
“Good. Decipher this for me, okay?
” He pulled a wadded-up piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it into her palm.
Atlanta smoothed out the worst of the wrinkles. Though her grasp of the language was rudimentary at best, she understood enough that she glanced up sharply.
“It’s from your father.”
“I know. Even I could figure that out.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She tapped the paper with one finger. “This is personal. Are you sure you want me to read it?”
His laughter was bitter, but not directed at her. “Personal,” he drawled. “Isn’t that rich. The first I’ve heard from him in practically forever and the guy writes it in a language I can’t understand.” Despite the firm set of his jaw, she saw bewilderment and pain in his expression. “Read it.”
My Dearest Son,
Thank you for coming to Monta Correnti. I wanted to give you a little time to get settled before coming by, but I am eager to see you.
You have grown into a fine man from everything I have read and from what your brother told me. You cannot know how glad that makes my heart.
My hope is that, like Alessandro, you will come to forgive me and we can start fresh.
With love, Papa
“He sent me a damned fruit basket,” Angelo muttered as he pocketed the note Atlanta returned to him. “Can you believe that?”
“What should he send?”
“Nothing. I don’t want anything from him.”
But it was so plain to her he did that her heart ached. She knew what it was like to want to be loved. Angelo was no big-egoed jock now. Perhaps that was what prompted her to ask, “Do you want to come in?”
He surprised her again by saying, “I do, but first I feel like I owe you an apology for today, even if I don’t think I said anything out of line.”
“You didn’t. I overreacted.”
He shoved a hand through his hair as he exhaled, giving her the impression he’d expected her to argue. “So…we’re okay?”