Bella Rosa Proposals. Barbara McMahon
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It had been downright greedy. He’d felt teeth nip at his lower lip and fingernails bite into the flesh of his arms. It hadn’t ended slowly or on a sigh. No, she’d broken it off cleanly, her breathing labored afterward.
He’d considered a pithy comeback. Hell, he’d considered hauling her back into his arms and having a second go at it. Only her expression had stopped him. It had been neither smug nor frightened. Rather, she’d looked uncertain, confused.
For him, sex had never been complicated, partly because he was smart enough to know women often viewed the act differently. They tried to inject emotions into the mix, which could cause problems if a guy let things progress too far. Mindful of his parents and the disaster they had made of not only their marriage but of their children’s lives, he’d been careful not to let that happen.
So, why was he feeling every bit as confused and uncertain as Atlanta had looked? He turned out the lamp and gave his pillow a couple of punches. It was going to be a long night.
Angelo had no firm plans for the following day, which was just as well. He woke in pain not long after the sun rose.
“Damned shoulder,” he muttered, although it wasn’t his only source of discomfort. “Damned woman.”
He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and scraped the hand of his good arm over his jaw, eyeing the pills on the nightstand as he did so. In the end, he decided to do what he had for the past year of his career: play through the pain.
By mid-afternoon, with nothing more to occupy his time than Italian television programs and a couple of old Sports Illustrated magazines he’d brought with him, he was surly and sick of his own company, so he got in the car and headed out for a drive. He didn’t plan his destination, at least not consciously, but he wound up at Atlanta’s villa. This time, however, when he knocked at the door it was a dark-haired woman who answered. Given the wicker basket of linens on the floor at her feet, he figured she was there to do the cleaning.
“Hi…I mean, ciao. I was looking for Atlanta Jackson. I take it she’s not here.”
“No.” But the woman’s expression brightened. Her tone held a little awe when she said, “You are Angelo Casali.”
Finally, someone recognized him. He grinned in return. “Yes, I am.”
“It is such a pleasure to meet you.”
“Thanks.”
Her obvious excitement. The wide-eyed adoration. He lapped both up. He was just about to ask her if she wanted his autograph when she added, “I know your family well. I attended school with Isabella. I had a crush on Valentino.”
Angelo’s smile faltered. She knew his family, but apparently she’d never heard of his multimillion-dollar baseball career, which was fading as fast as the season. How ironic that the New York Angel’s only claim to fame here was as Luca Casali’s son.
The young woman was saying, “I met Alessandro while he was in Monta Correnti. He was at Rosa one evening when my husband and I dined there.” She tipped her head to one side and studied Angelo. “You both have the look of your father. You have his eyes.”
Angelo backed up a step. He cared for neither the comparison she was making nor the connection it defined. “I have to be going.”
“Do you wish to leave a message for Miss Jackson?”
“No. I’ll…” He shook his head and said a second time, “No.”
The woman was still standing in the open doorway staring after him when he climbed into the car. He revved its engine to life, shifted into gear and hit the gas. The tires spat gravel and gave a little squeal as he sped away. He didn’t care. He had to get out of there. Just as Atlanta had the day before at the coffee shop, Angelo found himself running from the past.
It was the present that caused him to slow down before he hit the first bend in the road, which was a good thing considering the sharp turns up ahead. Another fifty feet and the road became as curvy as the woman walking along the side of it.
Atlanta.
She was more strolling than walking, given the leisurely pace of her long-legged stride. She looked more relaxed than he’d ever seen her. Fresh air and the Italian countryside agreed with her. She held a bouquet of wildflowers in one hand. Her signature blonde hair was partly obscured beneath a cap that, upon closer inspection, he realized was emblazoned with the logo of a rival ball club. Even so, the sight of her made him smile. Some of his tension ebbed away, only to be replaced with a different sort of restlessness when she spotted him and waved. He pulled the car over and got out, leaning against the hood while he waited for her to reach him.
When she did he asked, “Getting in a little exercise?”
“That wasn’t my primary objective, but yes.”
He was glad to hear she didn’t feel the need to walk off last night’s carbohydrate indulgence. The woman who just the day before had been racked with guilt over a couple of cannoli was making progress.
“Are you heading back?” he asked.
She glanced at her wristwatch. “Not quite yet. My landlady, Franca, is there. She insists on changing the sheets every day, though I’ve told her I’m not that picky. I left because I didn’t want to be underfoot.”
“Interested in some company?”
She fussed with the ponytail that spilled out the back of the hat. “I wouldn’t mind it.”
Initially, Atlanta had gone for a walk to clear her head. The day was perfect for it, so sunny and warm. But how was a woman supposed to keep her head clear when the man responsible for clouding it up was now asking to join her?
She could tell him no. She’d turned Angelo down more than once, and for things more consequential than a stroll down a country road. Despite the bruises he claimed his ego had endured, it hadn’t stopped him from coming back or from being a friend, even if it was clear he had more than friendship on his mind.
Still, the friendship was an unexpected gift. She’d never had a male friend before. For that matter, with the exception of Sara, Atlanta had precious few female ones. Hollywood wasn’t the sort of town where one could cultivate deep bonds of any sort easily. Too many people had an agenda or an angle to work. Very little was ever as it seemed on the surface, a fact Atlanta knew all too well.
“I want to thank you,” she said.
His brows shot up. “For what?”
“For being a friend.”
He stuffed his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “That’s just what a guy wants to hear.”
“Sorry, it’s just that I don’t have many friends and I really need one right now.”
“I know.” His tone was serious when he said, “Same goes for me.”
“Oh.” She smiled, pleased.
“Just to be clear, though. I still want to sleep with you.”
She stopped walking and faced him. “Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Hide behind macho come-on lines.”
She expected him to deny it. Instead, he replied, “For the same reason that you fall back on your plastic Hollywood smile.”
She sobered.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I can tell the difference between a real Atlanta Jackson smile and the ones you manufacture for the masses.”
“Touché.” She plucked at the petals of one of the flowers in her bouquet.
“How about we make a deal?”
“I’m listening.”
“How about if we’re real with one another?”
“Flaws