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“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.
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?”
Not exactly. There remained an unsettling amount of attraction that she didn’t know what to do with. But Atlanta nodded and smiled. As an afterthought, she added, “Well, except for the cannoli. I didn’t get to finish one, let alone two.”
“I guess I do owe you an apology after all.” He smiled as he stepped into the foyer, and she nearly regretted her impulse to invite him inside. “What can I do to make it up to you?”
“Buy me dinner.” The words were out in a rush. Being out in public with him seemed the safer bet.
“I can do that.”
“I can be ready in an hour if you want to come back.”
“What’s wrong with right now?”
“Right now? I’m not dressed for dinner.” She was wearing the same jeans and sweater set she’d had on earlier. It was fine for kicking around the village or hanging out alone at the villa, but dinner? She always dressed for dinner. Zeke said…She notched up her chin. “I’m wearing what I have on.”
“Fine by me. I wasn’t expecting you to change.”
Simple words, a simple statement. Yet her heart did a funny little flip. For good measure she added, “And I get to pick the place.”
CHAPTER SIX
ANGELO felt nervous as he ushered Atlanta to the car. He didn’t like it. When it came to women, he didn’t get nervous. It was the same with baseball. He was a natural. So why did he feel so out of sorts right now?
It wasn’t Atlanta’s fame that had his palms sweating. He’d been with well-known women before, including a couple of supermodels and a wealthy socialite who was a fixture on Page Six of the New York Post.
Some guys, he supposed, would confuse the woman with the breathy characters she portrayed on the big screen. Before he’d had an actual conversation with her, Angelo might have, too. But it hadn’t taken long to determine that, while Atlanta shared their vulnerability and some of their spunk, she wasn’t some celluloid creation concocted to appeal to the masses. Especially the male masses. She was flesh and blood. Real. Her current set of troubles would not be neatly resolved during the span of a full-length feature film. And, if his guess was right, she had a past to contend with, too, some ugly secrets that refused to stay under the rug no matter how many times she swept them there.
The two of them had that in common.
He thought about the note from his father. Atlanta was privy to far more of his past than any other woman in his life had ever been. Maybe that was why he felt nervous. Hell, maybe that was part of her overall draw. It was rare to find someone with as much baggage as he had. It was rare to have someone call him on his. In fact, he couldn’t think of a single woman who ever had. They’d accepted him as the fun-loving playboy he portrayed. Atlanta had spotted the troubled man behind the façade. It was that man she spoke to.
When they reached his car, he waited until they were both settled and the engine was humming before asking, “Where to?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“We’ll drive around the village. When you see something you like, tell me to stop.”
She turned to face him. “You don’t mind?”
“What’s to mind?”
“A lot of men—” Zeke was implied “—like to decide the destination or at the very least know what it will be before shifting the car into drive.”
“Then a lot of men don’t know what they’re missing,” he said casually before stepping on the accelerator.
They wound up on the far side of the village at a small eatery that was really more roadside diner than restaurant. It had a small dining room, but they sat outside, enjoying the view of the neighboring shops as evening settled in.
“You’re sure this is okay?” she asked not for the first time even before their beverages arrived.
“Why wouldn’t it be? I’m hungry. They serve food.”
