Star-Crossed Sweethearts / Secret Prince, Instant Daddy!

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.

Chapter Three

ATLANTA assumed that the closer they drew to Monta Correnti and the villa she’d rented, the more relaxed she would feel. But just the opposite was occurring, probably because the small, isolated village was Angelo’s final destination, too.

While it was entirely likely they would bump into each other a time or two during the next couple weeks, she didn’t want it to become a habit. She was enjoying his company…a little too much. She found him funny and surprisingly interesting. He was far more than the inflated ego and one-dimensional jock she’d first assumed. She also found him intensely attractive. Their kiss kept coming to mind. It had her yearning for something she’d lost long ago. Something she could never get back.

It was just as well this wasn’t a true vacation for either of them. He was in Italy to meet with his estranged father. She had come to escape the media’s prying eyes. She had a career to save, a reputation to salvage. A life to start over without the guiding influence of a man. Any man. By the time the driver pulled the Mercedes sedan to a stop outside a sun-bleached two-story villa, she had rehearsed the lines in her head for her farewell speech.

“Great view,” Angelo remarked before she could get the first words out.

The pre-World-War-II residence was bounded on one side by a cobblestone courtyard, part of which was shaded by a grapevine-draped pergola. Beyond it, the land sloped gently down before falling away completely to reveal a valley dotted with houses, farms and olive groves.

“Stunning,” she agreed. “Well, thank you again. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

She reached for the door handle, intent on making her exit. Angelo ruined it by following her out.

“From what Alex has told me about the place I’m staying, it has an equally gorgeous view. It’s farther up the hillside. If you want to stop by tomorrow evening, we can compare panoramas before going to dinner.”

The invitation was delivered so smoothly that she nearly agreed. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll be eating in for most of my stay.”

The driver had retrieved her bags from the trunk. Despite her objections, Angelo insisted on carrying one of them to the door. After the man returned to the car to wait, Angelo said, “I thought one of the reasons in coming to Monta Correnti was the discretion of the locals. Does that scene at the airport have you worried about being ambushed by paparazzi?”

“No. I just need time alone…to reflect and make plans. You understand, right?”

Angelo whistled through his teeth. “I can’t believe I just struck out for the third time with you. You’d think I’d learn.” The accompanying smile took the sting out of his words. Even so, Atlanta felt bad.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you personally. In fact, I was just thinking about how much I’ve enjoyed your company on the trip here. It’s bad timing.”

“For dinner?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.” He set his hands on his hips. “Not really. I’m talking about a meal.”

She changed tactics. “You’re talking about avoidance, as in avoiding the real reason you came here. Your father.”

“My choice. My business.” His expression lost some of its easy charm, telling her she’d struck a nerve. So much for his earlier claim not to care about the estrangement. But the affable smile was back when he said, “What’s the harm, Atlanta? We’ve already established that I’m not interested in a long-term relationship and you’re not ready for one. What’s wrong with a little…friendship?”

He stepped closer and ran his knuckles lightly down her cheek, making it clear he had more than friendship in mind. God help her, the simple touch stoked her pulse to life. Her feelings scared her almost as much as what he was suggesting. “We’re two Americans in a foreign country. What happens here stays here.”

He wound up his tempting offer with, “No one needs to ever find out.”

Don’t tell your mother. It’s our little secret.

Bile rose in her throat, along with anger and a baffling amount of disappointment. But she kept her tone even when she said, “Let me put this another way: I’m not interested in continuing as your distraction, Angelo.”

Indeed. She’d spent too many years being just that: A sick father figure’s plaything. A powerful man’s puppet.

Angelo frowned. “You just said you’re not looking for strings.”

“I’m not, but while I didn’t mind being a distraction during the trip over, that scenario has played out.” She took a step back. “To use your vernacular, the game is over.”

He sucked in a breath and stepped back with his palms up in defeat. “Got it, sweetheart. Enjoy your stay.”

She watched the Mercedes drive away. Should she have been so blunt? Could she have handled things differently, more diplomatically, perhaps? Though she was beset with doubts and some regret, one thing came through clearly. As angry and irritated as Angelo had been, he’d respected her decision.

As she stood on the steps replaying the encounter, the door behind her opened. A young woman stood just inside the entry. She wore a plain cotton dress and her dark hair was parted in the middle and pulled back.

“Miss Jackson, welcome,” she said in heavily accented English. “I am Franca Bruno.”

The name registered as Atlanta stepped inside. This was the owner of the house. “Thank you. I was just admiring the view. My travel agent said it was lovely and he wasn’t mistaken.”

The woman glanced at the bags before poking her head out the door. “Is my husband with you? He was supposed to pick you up from the airport.”

“No. I caught another ride.”

Franca’s dark eyes narrowed and she rattled off something in Italian that didn’t sound particularly nice. “He was late, wasn’t he?”

“Maybe just a little,” Atlanta hedged, not wanting to get in the middle of a domestic dispute. “Unfortunately, circumstances came up that forced me to leave in a rush. I was lucky to run into a friend who also was coming to Monta Correnti.”

That snagged Franca’s attention. “Another American?”

“Yes. Angelo Casali.”

Franca nodded. “Luca’s other son. I had heard that he might come. I am pleased for his father’s sake that it is so. Signor Casali is a kind man…and far more reliable than my husband.”

Franca helped Atlanta pull her bags inside. “Come, let me show you around.”

In addition to the stunning view, the villa boasted three large bedrooms, three bathrooms, formal sitting and dining rooms, and what appeared to be a study. The furnishings were an eclectic mix of charming old-world pieces and modern conveniences such as the flat-screen television that hung over the fireplace in the study and the microwave oven that sat on the counter opposite a brick pizza oven.

Atlanta had everything she needed. Franca had stocked the refrigerator with food and had even gone to the trouble of preparing an antipasto salad in case Atlanta was too jet-lagged to go out later that evening.

“You will find bottled water and local vintage red wine in the pantry. I am happy to prepare any meals you request.”

“Thank you. The antipasto will hold me over for tonight.”

Together they walked back to the door and Atlanta followed the other woman outside.

“I hope you will enjoy your stay.”

“I’ll be hard-pressed not to.” She spread out her hands to encompass the scenery. “It’s truly lovely here.”

“It is a special place,” Franca agreed. “It belonged to my grandparents. My husband and I live just down the hill. I will be by each morning to freshen up the linens and take care of anything else you need.”

After Franca was gone, Atlanta headed upstairs. The only thing she needed right now was a hot shower and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Unlike Angelo, she’d spent the entire flight wide awake and way too aware of not only the sexy man slumbering next to her, but her physical response to him.

The game is over.

Angelo mulled Atlanta’s parting words on the way to his villa. He wanted to be able to shrug them off…shrug her off. There were plenty of other fish in the sea. He knew that firsthand. So, why did he feel so damned disappointed? Maybe because at times while they’d talked, it hadn’t felt like a game.

It was the painkillers, he decided as the driver turned off the main road and passed through a gated drive. They made his brain fuzzy.

A turn-of-the-last-century villa came into sight. Its view of the surrounding countryside was worth every penny of the rent. His courtyard sported more than the cobblestones and grapevines that graced Atlanta’s. His had a built-in pool and spa.

While the driver took his bags inside, Angelo walked over to inspect the amenities. The pool wasn’t Olympic size, but he wasn’t in any condition to swim laps anyway. The hot tub was more his speed, he thought on a grin. He could picture himself in it, the pulsating jets working the tension out of his muscles as he enjoyed a glass of red wine and watched the sun set. If he had to stay in Monta Correnti, at least he would be comfortable. From what he’d seen so far, his brother had done well in choosing accommodations. He headed back to the house.

Alex hadn’t said anything about meals being included, but when Angelo stepped inside he was greeted by the mouth-watering aroma of garlic, onions and assorted herbs. He inhaled deeply, letting the scents linger in his nose. Snippets of memories came to him before he could stop them, popping like corn kernels held over a flame. He recalled following his father to a nearby riverbed to pick the special basil that Luca said gave his tomato sauce its distinctive flavor. Alex was with them. Angelo swallowed now, remembering how happy the boys had been and how he’d basked in their father’s attention. It was not long after that that Luca sent his sons away.

“No wonder I’ve never been a fan of spaghetti,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

“Actually, I am making ravioli stuffed with porta-bella mushrooms and roasted garlic.” A young woman stood on the opposite side of the room. Given her apron and her words, he assumed the door from which she’d entered must be the kitchen. She was dark-haired and lovely with surprisingly blue eyes. Eyes that were the exact shade of his, a trait he had inherited from his father.

“Isabella,” he guessed, feeling mule-kicked.

So this was the sister he’d never met and had only learned about recently. Yet another reason to resent Luca. But it wasn’t only resentment he felt. Emotions Angelo couldn’t label, much less process, raced through his head. For so long he’d just had Alex. Now he was meeting a sister, and Luca had two other sons who shared the Casali name, as well.

Clearly, Isabella had more practice in handling the surreal. While he stood gaping, she smiled warmly at the mention of her name.

“And you are Angelo.” She crossed to him and rose up on tiptoe to kiss both of his cheeks. It was a standard Italian greeting, he reminded himself when a lump rose in his throat. “Welcome home.”

“This…this is Luca’s home?” He glanced around. Other than the aroma wafting from the kitchen, nothing about the place was remotely familiar.

“No. I meant welcome to Monta Correnti,” Isabella clarified. “An American businessman owns this particular villa. He leases it out when he is not here, which is most of the time. Alessandro said he thought it would suit your needs.”

Angelo nodded. Unsure what else to say, he told her, “Your English is very good.”

“Better than your Italian?” Isabella’s smile told him she already knew the answer to her question.

“It could use some work.”

“So could your brother’s when I met him. But he learned a lot during the time he was here.” Her satisfied expression made Angelo think she was referring to more than the language. “Alessandro is a good man. I was grateful that he came, and I am even more grateful that he was able to convince you to come as well.”

Angelo needed to set the record straight. “I’m not sure the outcome of my visit will be what you’re hoping for, Isabella. Alex and I may look a lot alike, but that doesn’t mean we think the same.”

She took a moment to weigh his words before nodding. “You are here. That is enough for now. We will see about the rest later.” She wiped her hands on her apron, a gesture that spoke of nerves more than necessity. “Come. You must be tired after your long journey. I can show you around.”

“Actually, I’m not all that tired. I slept most of the way.” He hated that he still felt a little groggy from the medication. Despite the returning pain, he was determined to forgo another dose. He had too much to process to be lost in the fog.

“Are you hungry, then?” Isabella asked.

He hadn’t been since leaving the plane. Between the visit to come and Atlanta’s intoxicating company, he’d been way too keyed up to think about food. Now, his empty stomach made its presence known with a loud growl, which she heard.

“I guess I am,” he said sheepishly.

Isabella smiled, clearly pleased. “I was hoping that would be the case. I will set the table while you freshen up. You will find a bathroom down there.” She pointed to a hallway that led from the room. “It’s the first door on the right. You will find a larger one upstairs. Your rooms are on the second floor to the left of the landing.”

Angelo opted for the former. A few minutes later, after splashing a little water on his face and adjusting his wrinkled clothes, he joined Isabella in the kitchen. Even though the villa had a formal dining room appointed with intricately carved mahogany furnishings, she’d set the wooden-plank table in what was a surprisingly plain kitchen. Plain and downright rustic, he thought, glancing around.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “The other room is fancier, but so big and formal. We are family.”

The word was as foreign to him as her accent. “I take it the American businessman who owns this place isn’t much of a chef.”

“No. On the rare occasions when he is here, he takes all of his meals in the village. But you are not to worry,” she said, as if reading Angelo’s mind. “You will find the master suite very comfortable. He has done what you would call extensive updating elsewhere in the house.”

“And outside as well. It was kind of hard to miss the in-ground pool and hot tub.”

“They look very inviting,” Isabella agreed.

“So does this meal.”

She motioned with her arms. “Then sit and enjoy.”

While he lowered himself into one of the chairs, she filled his glass with red wine. He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help it. When she glanced up and caught him, they both flushed.

“I’m sorry. It’s just…disturbing, you know?” When her brows pulled together in puzzlement, he added, “Seeing a resemblance in a stranger’s face.”

“The eyes.”

“Yes, and our chins.” At her startled expression, he laughed. “Don’t worry. Yours is much smaller and far more refined.”

“And this resemblance disturbs you?”

He decided to be frank. “For most of my life, it’s been just Alex and me.”

“But your mother—”

“Even then,” he interrupted. Given Cindy’s fair looks and her absorption with partying, it had been easy to discount her role in their lives. As for Luca, whenever Angelo had thought of their father, he hadn’t considered the possibility of half-siblings. Or maybe he simply had been unable to process the idea that Luca could send away his twins and then someday have children he would keep. Confused and a great deal more curious than he wanted to be, he said, “You know, I’m a big eater, but there’s enough here to feed a small army.”

“I cook when I’m nervous,” she admitted on a laugh.

“Why don’t you join me and enjoy some of the fruits of your labor?”

A smile lit her face. “I would like that.” As she took the seat opposite his it was obvious she knew the real reason he’d issued the invitation. “It will give us a chance to get better acquainted with one another.”

He wasn’t exaggerating about the amount of food. In addition to the pasta dish, which she’d served with the savory tomato sauce that had assaulted his senses upon arrival, the table included a loaf of thick-crusted bread, steamed green beans and a side of some sort of sausage that she told him was produced locally.

“This is excellent,” he declared after his first bite of ravioli. It was no empty compliment. The flavors sang in his mouth. “You’re an excellent cook.”

“I cannot take all of the credit. The sauce is the real star.”

“It’s very good.” In fact, he’d never tasted its equal, which made his aversion to bottled pasta sauce all the more understandable.

“It’s very popular with our patrons.”

“At Rosa.” Despite his best effort, the name was hissed between clenched teeth. From Alex, Angelo had heard a lot about the quaint and rustic eatery their father owned and had named for their late grandmother. Far from taking pride in it, he saw the place as competition. After all, it was what Luca had squandered his time, love and attention on after shipping his sons off to America.

“I used to spend more time there than I did away,” Isabella mused. Shook her head and laughed. “Scarlett, our cousin from Australia, manages it now. Her husband to be, Lorenzo, is the chef. But I am still there a lot.”

“Why do you bother? Why do any of you bother to slave away for him?”

She sobered. “I have a full life, Angelo. As does Scarlett. I am married to a wonderful man and very happy. I work for our father because I enjoy what I do.”

Angelo snorted. “You must to put up with him.”

“That’s unfair,” Isabella objected. “You know nothing of Luca.”

“Only because that’s the way he wanted it,” he shot back. “From what Alex has told me, the restaurant isn’t doing as well as it could be these days. Money is tight.”

Her face had paled. “That is true. He insists on using local produce and labor, and sometimes that has cost him more than if he’d outsourced.”

The anger that had been simmering for the better part of three decades rolled to a boil. “So, call in the millionaire stepbrother to help save the day.”

Isabella’s cheeks flamed red now and she shot to her feet. She shouted something in Italian before she collected herself and, in a more moderated tone, replied in English, “I will apologize if that is the way it seems, but what you are saying is not true. Money is not why I sought out either you or Alex and asked you to come to Monta Correnti.”

He wanted to believe her. Even so, he challenged, “Then why? Why now?”

“I only recently learned of your existence, Angelo.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “That makes two of us. Again, Luca’s choice. Or, should I say, his fault?”

He had her there and she knew it. But Isabella raised that small chin that was so similar to his.

“My motives for asking you to come here are very simple. I have two older brothers whom I wished to meet and a rift in our family that I wish to see mended. These are the reasons I sought Luca’s permission to contact you and Alex in America.” She unknotted her fingers from the cloth napkin she held and set it on the table. “If all I needed was money to save Rosa, Angelo, my husband would be happy to provide it. It is not beyond his means, and he has generously offered to do so on more than one occasion.”

“But you’ve turned him down.”

“Yes. Family is more important than the restaurant, but family is what it will take to save it.”

She needn’t have stressed the word. It would have struck him like a prizefighter’s blow anyway. He’d never viewed family as the sort of savior she was implying it could be. Before he could respond, she was going on.

“We have a plan in mind. Our cousins and I. We want to combine our families’ restaurants. They are joined by a courtyard. It is time they were joined in other ways.”

“How does Luca feel about that?”

“He knows nothing of the plan. We want to surprise him. We want everyone who is descended from our grandmother, Rosa Firenzi, to come together. As I said, it will take all of us to make it happen.”

He didn’t question whether she was referring to funding now. He knew better.

Isabella rose to her feet. “I will leave you now to finish your meal and to settle in. I have things I must see to.”

“At the restaurant?” It was a low blow and he knew it. Shame stirred, making him wish it were possible to snatch back the words and start over.

Instead of answering his question, Isabella said, “If you want for anything, I wrote my number next to the telephone in the front parlor.”

With that, his sister disappeared out the door. Angelo stood so abruptly that his chair tipped backward, clattering noisily on the tiled floor. He wanted to call her back so he could apologize. He felt horrible, putting her on the defensive, especially when she’d gone to such trouble to make his first day in Monta Correnti pleasant.