Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts

“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 through 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.”

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, thinking 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.