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“I could say the same about you.”
Her mouth tightened fractionally. “Yes, I have.”
“Is that why you’re wearing sunglasses inside?”
“Maybe.” She motioned to his Oakleys. “And you?”
“Definitely. This way no one can be sure I’m making eye contact with them. I find it discourages conversation.”
A pair of finely arched brows rose over the top rim of her dark lenses.
“You find that ironic,” he guessed.
“A little.” She shrugged delicately.
“Here’s the thing. Since you and I are the only two people in the lounge wearing shades I figure we probably should stick together. You know, play for the same team.”
“Given all that is being said about me right now, are you sure you want me on your team, Mr. Casali?”
“The name is Angelo.” He cocked his head to one side. “We’ll consider this a tryout.”
Atlanta laughed if for no other reason than the man’s sheer nerve. A tryout? She hadn’t had to read for a part in quite a while. The starring roles in her last three movies, each of which had grossed well over a hundred million dollars in the American market alone, had been written specifically with her in mind. Everyone in Hollywood knew that no one played the vulnerable vixen better than Atlanta Jackson. It was her niche. Her character type. She sobered at that.
“What if I don’t want to be on your team?” she asked.
“You do.”
She wanted to be turned off by his unflagging confidence or at the very least irritated by it. She found herself intrigued instead and maybe even a little envious. While she could portray confidence in front of the camera, she seldom felt it in real life. It was just one of the many things she was working to rectify.
“How can you be so sure?” she wanted to know.
“Everyone wants to be on the winning team.”
“And that would be yours?”
“Of course. I’ve got the golden touch. The Rogues are in the playoffs because of me. We’re heading to the World Series.”
“That’s only an assumption at this point.”
“No. It’s a fact, sweetheart. We’ll be there.”
Normally, she didn’t care for empty endearments, but his casual use of sweetheart complemented his bravado so perfectly, she let it pass. Instead, she honed in on another matter.
“We? Are the news reports wrong, then?” Her gaze strayed to his shoulder. It didn’t look injured. Indeed, nothing about the man’s rock-hard physique appeared compromised…or compromising, for that matter.
“You know the media.” He shrugged.
Atlanta might have believed that news of Angelo’s professional demise was vastly overblown if he hadn’t grimaced after making the casual movement.
“They’re ruthless when they scent blood,” he was saying.
Thinking of Zeke, she replied, “They’re even more ruthless when they’ve got sources happy to help draw it.”
Her image was being put through the shredder, and, while she wasn’t all that sad to see some of the false layers she’d once agreed to peel away, she certainly didn’t want them replaced with more lies and half-truths. Unfortunately, that was exactly what Zeke was feeding the hungry hordes these days, and they were eating it up, ravenous for more.
I made you. I’ll ruin you.
Zeke’s parting words. Foolishly, she hadn’t believed he’d do it. She knew better now. He was doing a bang-up job of making good on his promise.
Angelo was apparently far less naïve than she. “The world is full of people eager to sell you out. You have to be careful who you trust.”
“At this point, I trust no one.” Surprised to have told him that, She asked, “Who do you trust?”
“My twin,” he replied without hesitation. “Alex has always had my back.”
“You have a twin?” Good heavens, there were two men on the planet as good-looking as this one? She’d worked with A-list actors, bona fide heartthrobs, who couldn’t match Angelo’s rugged male perfection. “Are you identical?”
“Not quite. I’m better looking.”
“No doubt you’re more modest, too,” she replied dryly.
“Sure.” Angelo wasn’t put off. In fact, he pulled the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and winked as he boasted, “I’m also better with women.”
God help her. The man was every bit as sexy as she recalled from their brief meeting in a nightclub a few years back. He also was every bit as cocksure. She was used to being around oversized egos, her own included. Angelo, at least, tempered his with humor. He was harmless, she decided, especially here in a public place.
Which was what gave her the nerve to lean closer and say, “So, Don Juan, if I’m going to be on your team, perhaps you should explain the game we’re playing.”
“Distraction.”
“Is that the name or the object?”
“Both.”
“I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
He glanced at the chunky Rolex strapped to his wrist. “Here’s the thing—I have an hour and forty minutes to kill before my flight departs. I could get my own table, order a drink and sip it alone while I wait. Or I could stay here with you and enjoy what is bound to be some fascinating conversation.”
A lifetime ago, Atlanta had thought herself interesting, but it had been a very long time since a man had said so. “What makes you so sure the conversation would be fascinating?”
“You’re a fascinating woman. What else would it be?”
Come-on or not, his reply caused her breath to catch. Clearly, being a pariah among the people she’d considered her friends had taken its toll on her self-esteem.
“I like your answer,” she told him.
“Enough to let me buy you a drink?”
“Enough that the drink’s on me.”
Angelo waved over a server and they ordered their beverages—an imported beer for him and a glass of unsweetened iced tea for her. As the waitress left he was frowning.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“Not wrong. I guess I thought you’d order something…else.”
“Such as champagne perhaps? And not just any champagne but Piper-Heidsieck by the magnum?”
“Or Dom. I read once that you bathed in it.”
“I read that, too.”
“It’s not true?”
She shook her head. “Afraid not.”
“I’m disappointed. I was going to ask you what it felt like having all of those bubbles bursting against your bare skin.”
His smile, set as it was on a mouth that would have been at home on Michelangelo’s David, dazzled. Atlanta camouflaged her involuntary shiver by shifting in her seat. There was no camouflaging the gooseflesh that pricked her arms. She hoped he wouldn’t notice it.
“My publicist made that one up. It enjoyed a lot of buzz for a while, and I even picked up an endorsement deal for another brand of champagne. The truth is, I prefer showers to baths of any sort and I don’t drink.”
“At all?” he asked.
“Rarely these days.” She preferred to keep a clear head.
“Neither do I.”
“You just ordered a beer,” she reminded him.
The corners of Angelo’s mouth turned down as if in consideration and he gazed out the window where a jumbo jet was lumbering toward a runway. “Special circumstances.”
“You don’t like flying,” she guessed. It was a phobia Atlanta understood perfectly. She still experienced a burst of anxiety each time a plane she was on prepared for takeoff.
But Angelo was shaking his head. “Nah. Flying doesn’t bother me. I do it all the time. But talking to a gorgeous woman? It leaves me tongue-tied.” Again, the dazzling smile made an appearance.
“I don’t know. You’ve managed fine so far without any fortification,” she pointed out, well aware that she could do with a little of the false courage found in a cocktail right about now herself.
Apropos of nothing, he asked, “When’s your flight?”
“Two forty-something.”
“Around the same time as mine, which means I’ve still got an hour and a half left with the potential to humiliate myself. I don’t want to take any chances.”
“I’m sure if we keep the conversation light and neutral, you’ll be just fine.”
And she would be just fine, too. So, that was precisely what they did.
It was with regret that Angelo glanced at his watch a little over an hour later. He would have to leave soon. It wasn’t only the thought of what lay ahead in Italy that disturbed him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an actual conversation with a woman that didn’t include foreplay of some sort or other. Both he and Atlanta still had their clothes on, a good thing given their surroundings. But they had ditched their sunglasses.
“If you didn’t have a plane to catch, too, I’d hop on a later flight just so I could spend more time with you,” he told her.
“Sure you would.” She humored him with a smile, apparently deciding she’d just been fed another line.
“I mean it.” He reached across the table and caught her left hand in his. Her fingers were delicate and bare of any adornment. “To be honest, I didn’t expect to enjoy myself as much as I have.”
Her brows pulled together at the same time she pulled her hand free. “Gee, thanks.”
“Sorry.” He grimaced. “That was a pathetically backhanded compliment. I told you I get tongue-tied around beautiful women.”
The truth was the only beautiful woman around whom he’d ever found himself at a loss for words with was Atlanta.
Chuckling, she shook her head. “You’re forgiven. I think I know what you mean. I enjoyed being distracted.”
That was all he’d had in mind when he’d sat down earlier, someone to take his mind off the problems at hand. Now…?
“Maybe when we both get back to the States we could get together. If you’re going to be in New York, there’s a new exhibit coming to the Met in October.”
“The Met?” Her eyelids flickered. No doubt she’d figured he was going to suggest a sporting event of some sort.
“I’m a patron.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not exactly the quote unquote dumb jock whose only interests are those that happen on the diamond.”
“I didn’t think you were. Honestly, I don’t know you well enough to draw that conclusion.”
“That doesn’t stop most people.”
She sighed. “Look, Angelo, I really appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. Dating isn’t going to be a priority for a while.”
He nodded slowly, bemused and a little disappointed. “You know, that makes twice now that you’ve thrown me out before I got on base. Forgive me for saying so, Atlanta, but you’re hell on a man’s ego.”
“I think you’ll survive.” She smiled. It wasn’t the high-wattage sort the cameras captured. This one was the genuine article.
“Glad I could make your day,” he grumbled.
“You did, Angelo, but not in the way you mean.”
Atlanta rarely did anything spontaneous. Spontaneity was too costly. She’d found that out as a child. Under Zeke’s care and later his control, she’d learned to deftly plan out her every move. She didn’t plan to kiss Angelo Casali. She just leaned across the table and did it, resting her lips against his for a brief, sweet moment during which neither of them closed their eyes.
Innocent. That was what the gesture was. It had been a long time since she’d felt that way around a man, which was what caused her to draw away.
She gathered up her handbag and reached for her small carryon as she stood. Even though her legs felt ridiculously shaky, her voice came out steady. “From one wounded ego to another, thank you.”
Atlanta stopped in the restroom after saying goodbye to Angelo. Taking several slow, measured breaths, she regained the last of her composure. Then, with her makeup freshened and her emotions firmly in check, she dropped the dark glasses back onto the bridge of her nose and hustled to the gate. She arrived just in time for the final boarding call for Flight 174 to Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. A flight attendant helped stow her carryon in one of the overhead compartments. Atlanta let out a sigh and turned to find her seat.
“Cutting it a little close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” a masculine voice drawled.
