Star-Crossed Sweethearts / Secret Prince, Instant Daddy!: Star-Crossed Sweethearts / Secret Prince, Instant Daddy!. Raye Morgan
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
Her neck snapped around and her gaze locked with Angelo’s. He was two rows behind her on the opposite side of the aisle. So much for restoring her composure.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked inanely.
He tugged at the strap of his seat belt. “Preparing for takeoff.”
“Are…are you following me?”
She immediately felt like an idiot for making the assumption and that was before Angelo replied, “And you claim to have a wounded ego. Seems perfectly healthy to me.”
Her gaze darted around. Thankfully none of the other passengers in first class seemed to be paying much attention.
“So, you’re going to Italy,” she managed on a weak smile.
“Yeah. Is that seat next to you open?”
Angelo didn’t wait for her to reply. He unbuckled and rose, grinning as he plopped down beside her. One thought came through loud and clear: The flight to Italy was going to be interesting indeed.
Chapter Two
“SO, WHAT takes you to Italy?” Angelo asked once their flight was airborne. “A movie role?”
“A vacation, actually. I want some time alone without the media following my every move.”
“So you picked a small town like Rome for that,” he replied deadpan.
“Rome isn’t my final destination.” She lowered her voice. “I’m heading a little farther south to an isolated little village that I’d never heard of before. It’s tucked up on a hillside, very remote and the people are very discreet when it comes to celebrities, or so I’ve been told.”
No way, Angelo thought. What would be the odds? He had to know. “You’re not talking about Monta Correnti, by any chance?”
“You know it?” Then her face paled. “You’re…you’re not going…”
“Yep.” Angelo’s laughter rang out loud enough to draw the attention of the passengers around them.
Distraction. In the airport’s VIP lounge he’d told Atlanta it was the name of their game as well as its object. Apparently they were going into extra innings.
A couple hours into their flight, Angelo could no longer ignore the angry throbbing of his shoulder. Atlanta was reading a magazine, or more likely pretending to since she hadn’t turned the page in twenty minutes. He was no speed-reader, but even he could have finished the article on eyeliner dos and don’ts in that amount of time.
He twisted the cap off the mineral water he’d ordered when the flight attendant last came around, and as discreetly as possible popped a couple of the potent painkillers the team doctor had prescribed, washing them down with a gulp of the beverage.
“That bad, huh?” She closed the magazine and laid it on her lap.
“Just stiff,” he lied. “I’ll be all right.” He had to be.
After the pills kicked in, he didn’t wake until shortly before the aircraft was making its final descent into the larger of Rome’s two airports. He was hungry, having slept through the dinner that was served during the flight, the medicine was wearing off and his overall mood wasn’t much improved.
Through the thick glass of the plane’s window, Angelo caught his first glimpse of Italy in thirty-five years. Even with the floral scent of Atlanta’s perfume teasing his senses, he could no longer ignore his real reason for coming.
“Sleep well?” she asked.
“Like a baby.”
“You moaned a few times. I thought maybe you were in pain.”
“Erotic dreams,” he corrected on a wink.
“My mistake.” But she rolled her eyes.
“Sir, your seat needs to be in the upright position,” a flight attendant stopped by to remind him.
He shifted and a moan escaped before he could muffle it.
“Apparently you have those dreams even when you’re awake,” Atlanta said dryly.
“Want me to share the particulars with you?”
“That’s all right.”
“Sure? I wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but I’ll pass.”
“How long are you going to be staying in Monta—?”
“Shh!” she admonished and glanced around as if she expected to find the other first-class passengers shamelessly eavesdropping. That was a virtual impossibility over the loud hum of the jet engines. Still, he obliged her by lowering his voice.
“So, how long?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“Just curious how much time I’ll have to wear you down. Eventually, even though you claim not to drink, I predict you and I will share a bottle of wine and some more fascinating conversation.”
She chuckled. “What do you call this?”
“You’re avoiding answering my question.”
“Fine. I’ll be there for three glorious weeks with an option to stay four.” She sighed, as eager to arrive as he was to have the trip behind him.
“I’ll be there two weeks tops. Might as well be a life sentence,” he mumbled.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. You never said what made you decide to make Monta—” he caught himself before he finished the village’s name “—MC your final destination. It’s a speck on the map, you know.”
If she heard the derision in his tone, she didn’t comment on it. “That’s why it’s ideal.”
“Ah, that’s right. Hiding out.”
A line formed between her brows. “That makes me sound like a coward.”
“Sorry. I didn’t—”
“No.” She waved off the rest of his apology. “I guess I am hiding out. I just needed a place to go to recharge my batteries.” Her expression turned rueful. “Someplace where I wouldn’t have to deal with booing fans or the paparazzi at every turn. My stylist suggested the village. She visited it a few years ago. She was seeing a rather famous actor at the time and according to her they could go anywhere in town without worrying about drawing a crowd, much less paparazzi.”
Frowning, Angelo said, “It’s nothing like LA or New York, that’s for sure.”
“So, this isn’t your first visit?”
He shook his head.
“What’s it like?”
“It’s been a while, years in fact.”
Vague images of quaint, red-tile-roofed houses tucked into the side of a hill rose from his memory, accompanied by the scents of fresh basil, roasted red peppers and plum tomatoes. Angelo couldn’t be sure if they were real or the result of wishful thinking. As it was, nothing of his childhood in Boston evoked anything worth recalling.
“I looked it up on Google,” Atlanta was saying. “There’s not a lot of information, but I did find