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The breeze kicked up. Without the ball cap he found so offensive, it sent ribbons of her hair across her face. The yellow blossom tumbled free from its perch at her ear. He caught it before it could hit the ground.
“It doesn’t want to stay put,” she murmured as her heart kicked out an extra beat. He was standing so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body.
“I guess I cut the stem a little too short.”
“You could try another one.”
“Yeah? You mean keep at it till I get it right?”
Atlanta swallowed, nodded.
“You know, you have a point,” he said slowly, seriously. “Not everything works the way we want it to the first time.” He leaned back against the car and rested his hands lightly on her waist. “Like last night.”
“What about last night?”
“That kiss you gave me.”
“You had a problem with it?” she asked, trying to sound insulted rather than insecure.
“I wouldn’t call it a problem. It’s just that if I’d been in control I would have done things a little differently.”
Angelo’s choice of words was deliberate, she knew. He was making a not so subtle reference to Zeke, as well as offering a not so subtle reminder that last night he’d let her call the shots, everything from where to eat to how to end the evening.
“You were a perfect gentleman, by the way, a fact I appreciated.”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “Were you worried that I wouldn’t be?”
“If I had been I wouldn’t have agreed to have dinner with you,” she replied seriously.
He nodded. “And what about tonight?”
Because she found the invitation to spend another evening with him way too tempting, she dodged it by asking, “When are you going to get around to visiting with the relatives you came to Italy to see?”
“When I can no longer avoid it,” he said pointedly. “So, about tonight?”
“All right, under one condition.”
His eyes narrowed. “What might that be?”
“You have to tell me something about yourself. Something no one else knows. I figure that’s only fair since so much of my dirty laundry is out in the air.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, but I have a condition of my own. I get to pick the place tonight.”
“Deal,” Atlanta said, sure she’d gotten the better end of the bargain.
Back at the villa, she hurriedly changed her clothes. Angelo insisted she needn’t bother, with the exception of the ball cap. But that meant she had to do something different with her hair and, while she was at it, it seemed a shame not to slip into one of the pretty skirts and new blouses she’d brought with her. So while he paced around the courtyard, she was in her room, primping for another evening out.
She wasn’t sure what had happened to her resolve to steer clear of men in general and Angelo Casali in particular. Nor could she say why she’d told him things about her relationship with Zeke that she’d only admitted to a few people, and then with mixed reactions.
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” her agent had warned when Atlanta had confided her unhappiness a year earlier. “You might be a box-office draw, but Zeke wields a scary amount of power in this town. So what if he likes to tell you how to wear your hair or which entree to order at Spago? Nine times out of ten, he’s right. The guy has the Midas touch when it comes to building careers. A million other wannabes would be only too happy to heed his advice.”
Angelo, however, had understood that it wasn’t advice Zeke imparted, but rules. He’d created her, named her, handcrafted every aspect of her past and present. He’d controlled her, every bit as much as her stepfather had, caging her in and making her feel trapped, helpless.
But just as she’d broken free from her stepfather’s grip, she’d wrested herself from Zeke’s control. No man was going to bully her or boss her around. That included Angelo, even if she’d opted to let him pick the location for tonight’s meal.
She felt confident and unconcerned when, once they were seated in his car, she asked, “So, where are we heading for dinner?”
He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “My villa.”
“Your villa?” Her nerves kicked into high gear right along with the sports coupe.
“We can go somewhere else if you’d rather,” he said.
His offer quelled her concern. Now Atlanta was intrigued, “Why your villa?”
“My sister made this incredible feast for me the other night. I have a lot of leftovers. More than I can eat in this lifetime. I thought we could dine alfresco. The view from my patio is five-star.
“Is that the only reason?” When he shook his head, she added, “I didn’t think so.”
She waited for him to make some flirty comment about wanting to be alone with her. He didn’t. Rather, he sighed. “Monta Correnti is small. Everyone here knows my father or someone in my family.”
“You should be used to being recognized,” she reminded him. “It’s not like you’re anonymous when you go out in New York or anywhere in America, for that matter.”
“That’s just it. I’m not recognized here, Atlanta. No one here knows Angelo Casali.” He was talking about the ballplayer. “Here I am only Luca’s long-lost son.”
“Angelo.” Understanding the source of his pain, she reached out to him. Then she screamed, “Look out!”
Angelo had been watching her rather than the road, a dangerous proposition, especially on this winding stretch. As a result, he wasn’t quite ready for the hairpin turn ahead. To avoid collision with a tree, he stepped on the brake and yanked the steering wheel to one side. The car skidded on gravel for what seemed like a lifetime before the tire found traction.
He grunted and bit back the worst of an oath as pain shot from his shoulder. As he cupped it with his hand he asked, “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Atlanta said. “But I don’t think you are.”
He tried to lie around a grimace. “I’m good.”
She wasn’t buying it. “Your shoulder is bothering you again.”
“More like still,” he admitted.
“Are you taking something for the pain?”
“When it becomes unbearable.”
“From what I’ve observed that must be most of the time.”
Angelo didn’t deny it. Instead, he said, “The pills the doctor prescribed make me tired and a little foggy. I’ve played through pain before.”
“We’re not talking about a baseball game, Angelo. This is your health, your quality of life. You can’t keep on this way. Eventually, I’m guessing your shoulder is going to require surgery.”
Surgery. The S word. After which would come the R word. Not rehabilitation, but retirement.
“Look, I’m fine,” he said a second time. He didn’t need to see her blink to know his tone carried an edge. “Sorry.”
“No. I’m sorry. It’s not my business.”
It wasn’t. Yet he heard himself say, “I’m scared, Atlanta.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “Of having surgery?”
That was only a small part of his fear. He was far more unnerved that he might lose his overall identity. But he nodded. As he maneuvered the car back onto the road, he said, “Well, there it is. The secret no one else knows. I’m a big baby when it comes to the thought of going under the knife.”
Her smile was the plastic Hollywood variety. She knew he was a liar.
The sun was just starting to set when they reached Angelo’s villa. Atlanta was out of the car before he could come around to open her door.
“I didn’t think it was possible to top the view from my place, but this does. And you have a pool. Very nice.”
“I also have a hot tub.”
“I’m going to have a talk with my travel agent when I get back.”
“No need to be jealous. I’m willing to share. We can take a dip in it later if you’d like.”
She pursed her lips in mock dismay. “Darn. I don’t have a suit.”
Blue eyes twinkled. “I don’t mind.”
She deflected his flirting by saying, “I bet the hot tub feels like heaven on your shoulder.”
He scowled and started to walk away before turning back. Snagging her wrist, he hauled her close. “Let’s get something straight. I may be on the injured list, but I’m not out of the game.”
She wasn’t put off in the least by his temper. “Are you talking figuratively or literally?”
“Both,” he said, before bringing his mouth down on hers.
Atlanta expected his kiss to be hard, punishing even. Angelo was angry. He was scared, too. Not of having shoulder surgery, though that was his claim. It went beyond that, she was sure. Which was why she allowed the kiss, hoping, foolishly perhaps, that he would find some comfort in it.
It was clear he hadn’t when he broke off abruptly and stepped away from her. Shoving a hand through his hair, he said, “If you want to leave now, I’ll understand.”
She frowned. “Why would I want to leave?”
“I shouldn’t have done that. I…I know you have some issues regarding…control. And with, um, no meaning no.”
Her throat ached as his words pierced the barrier protecting her heart. “I didn’t say no.”
“If you had, I wouldn’t have kissed you,” he said earnestly.
She nodded. “If I had, I wouldn’t have let you.”
“So, you want to stay?”
“I was promised a meal.”
Angelo ushered her inside the villa. The main living space was larger than the one in hers and, she decided from the well-appointed furnishings, professionally decorated.
“This is very nice.” The quality of the pieces was obvious. The owner had expensive taste and the bank account to indulge it.
Angelo’s tone was wry. “You might want to reserve your opinion until you’ve seen the kitchen.”
She understood what he meant a moment later. Rustic was the word that came to mind. The stove was a big black behemoth.
“Oh, my God.”
“Exactly, although Isabella managed to create a feast in here.” His expression brightened. “Hey, didn’t you play a chef in one of your movies?”
“Sous chef, but the operative word here is played. This is beyond my talents as either an actress or an amateur cook.” She exhaled softly as she turned in a semi-circle. “I don’t suppose there’s a microwave stashed in one of the cupboards?”
“Nope. And, believe me, I’ve checked every last one of them. Apparently the guy who owns this place stopped short of renovating the kitchen. This is original to the house.”
“So I can see. What’s wrong with the owner? He’s not a fan of eating?”
“He’s not a fan of cooking. My sister said he doesn’t spend much time in Monta Correnti and when he does, he takes his meals elsewhere.” Angelo’s brows drew together. “You know, I have a feeling that’s what my brother had in mind for me when he booked my accommodations.”
She chuckled. “Sounds like a bit of a set-up.”
“I’ll find a way to make him pay,” he muttered as he crossed to the equally ancient-looking refrigerator.
While Angelo pulled out an assortment of covered bowls, Atlanta rooted through cabinets and drawers, and came up with plates and silverware. They decided to eat the pasta cold, pairing it with fat slices of thick-crusted Italian bread. She decided to indulge in what Zeke had considered an absolute no-no and combined olive oil and some dried herbs she found in the pantry in a shallow bowl to dip the bread in. Then she took the dishes, utensils, bread and herbed oil out to the patio table. Night had fallen. Hanging lanterns illuminated the pool and patio area, while down the hillside the lights from scattered homes mirrored the stars that winked in the sky. Angelo joined her a moment later with the pasta, a bottle of wine and two glasses whose thin stems were wedged between his fingers.
“No wine for me, thanks,” she said.
Even so, he set one down in front of her plate. “Just in case you change your mind. Nothing brings out the rich flavors of a meal like a nice glass of wine.”
“Okay, half a glass.”
Before they finished their meal, Atlanta had consumed a second half. Angelo was right about the wine. It complemented the flavor of the tomato sauce perfectly. Indeed, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d enjoyed a meal as much as this one.
“This is incredible,” she said, forking up the last bite of pasta. “I’ve always been a fan of Italian cuisine, although I can’t quite place all of the flavors in this sauce.”
“It contains a special kind of basil. It’s grown locally. Very exclusive.” A deep groove formed between his brows. “When I arrived here the other day and smelled the sauce simmering in the kitchen, I remembered going out with Alex and my father to pick the herb. I would have been a preschooler.”
“I’ve heard it said that smell is one of the most potent senses when it comes to memory recall.”
“I believe it.”
He didn’t sound happy about it, so she didn’t ask if the outing with his father and brother was a good memory. Even if it were, the intervening years surely would have soured it.
She’d finished off her wine. He pointed to the empty glass. “Would you like some more?”
