Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts. Barbara McMahon
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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