Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts. Barbara McMahon
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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.