Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts. Barbara McMahon
are.”
“Is that how you’re filling your time these days, trolling the Internet?”
“Yes, and, before you say anything, I’m loving it. I haven’t had a real vacation, and by real I mean a do-nothing sort of vacation, in years. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever had one,” she said wryly.
All of her downtime away from a movie set was spent promoting a project, a product or herself. That was Zeke’s idea. Two birds with one stone and all that. Even the supposedly romantic getaways the pair of them had taken over the years had included jaunts to public places where the paparazzi were sure to spot them. Indeed, Atlanta sometimes wondered if Zeke wasn’t responsible for some of the anonymous tips to the tabloids that had divulged their locations and left her ducking for cover.
“Neither have I, and for good reason,” Angelo was saying. “Two days with little to do and I’m going stir crazy.”
“How can you be bored here?” She spread her arms wide.
“I’m not bored, I just feel…trapped.”
She turned, not sure she’d heard him correctly. His frown told her that she had.
“I know about feeling trapped,” she said quietly.
He was still frowning, but something in his expression had changed, softened in a way she couldn’t quite define. “I think you do.”
“Anything I can do to help?”
“A friend to a friend?”
“That’s right.”
Though the way he was looking at her suggested more than friendly feelings.
“Then, yes.” His gaze grew intense as he studied her. Would he bare his soul and divulge some of his secrets? Would he kiss her? He did neither. Instead, he snatched the ball cap off her head. “You can set a match to this. God! The team manages to win one stinking World Series and suddenly everyone becomes a fan.”
She knew it was his intent to lighten the situation, so she allowed her laughter to ring out in the late afternoon. Another time, perhaps she wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily.
“Which team should I root for?”
“The best one out there.”
“Yours?”
“The Rogues.” Afterward, his expression darkened again, leaving her to wonder if it was mere clarification he sought with his answer or outright distance.
CHAPTER SEVEN
ATLANTA lost track of the time as they walked, but the lengthening shadows of the trees, as well as the indelicate protests of her empty stomach, told her it was getting close to dinner. Regardless, Franca would be done changing the linens by now.
They headed back to her villa, stopping when they reached his car. Though he probably found the gesture foolish, she handed him the flowers that she’d collected. They were drooping a little now.
“If you put them in water they should perk back up,” she said, not at all confident that would be the case.
“Thanks.”
He looked as ridiculous holding them as she would have looked outfitted in a catcher’s pads squatting behind home plate. He’d probably toss them out the window before he hit the first curve. Men weren’t sentimental.
Angelo surprised her by snapping the stem on one bloom. After tugging off her hat for the second time that day, he tucked the flower behind her ear.
“My Italian can use a lot of work, as you well know, but I’m aware of one word that applies in this case. Bella.”
Beautiful. She’d been called that before, in several different languages both on-screen and off. This time the compliment curled around her and she luxuriated in its embrace.
“Thank you.”
The breeze kicked up. Without the ball cap he found so offensive, it sent ribbons of her hair across her face. The yellow blossom tumbled free from its perch at her ear. He caught it before it could hit the ground.
“It doesn’t want to stay put,” she murmured as her heart kicked out an extra beat. He was standing so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body.
“I guess I cut the stem a little too short.”
“You could try another one.”
“Yeah? You mean keep at it till I get it right?”
Atlanta swallowed, nodded.
“You know, you have a point,” he said slowly, seriously. “Not everything works the way we want it to the first time.” He leaned back against the car and rested his hands lightly on her waist. “Like last night.”
“What about last night?”
“That kiss you gave me.”
“You had a problem with it?” she asked, trying to sound insulted rather than insecure.
“I wouldn’t call it a problem. It’s just that if I’d been in control I would have done things a little differently.”
Angelo’s choice of words was deliberate, she knew. He was making a not so subtle reference to Zeke, as well as offering a not so subtle reminder that last night he’d let her call the shots, everything from where to eat to how to end the evening.
“You were a perfect gentleman, by the way, a fact I appreciated.”
His gaze sharpened slightly. “Were you worried that I wouldn’t be?”
“If I had been I wouldn’t have agreed to have dinner with you,” she replied seriously.
He nodded. “And what about tonight?”
Because she found the invitation to spend another evening with him way too tempting, she dodged it by asking, “When are you going to get around to visiting with the relatives you came to Italy to see?”
“When I can no longer avoid it,” he said pointedly. “So, about tonight?”
“All right, under one condition.”
His eyes narrowed. “What might that be?”
“You have to tell me something about yourself. Something no one else knows. I figure that’s only fair since so much of my dirty laundry is out in the air.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay, but I have a condition of my own. I get to pick the place tonight.”
“Deal,” Atlanta said, sure she’d gotten the better end of the bargain.
Back at the villa, she hurriedly changed her clothes. Angelo insisted she needn’t bother, with the exception of the ball cap. But that meant she had to do something different with her hair and, while she was at it, it seemed a shame not to slip into one of the pretty skirts and new blouses she’d brought with her. So while he paced around the courtyard, she was in her room, primping for another evening out.
She wasn’t sure what had happened to her resolve to steer clear of men in general and Angelo Casali in particular. Nor could she say why she’d told him things about her relationship with Zeke that she’d only admitted to a few people, and then with mixed reactions.
“Don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” her agent had warned when Atlanta had confided her unhappiness a year earlier. “You might be a box-office draw, but Zeke wields a scary amount of power in this town. So what if he likes to tell you how to wear your hair or which entree to order at Spago? Nine times out of ten, he’s right. The guy has the Midas touch when it comes to building careers. A million other wannabes would be only too happy to heed his advice.”
Angelo, however, had understood that it wasn’t advice Zeke imparted, but rules. He’d created her, named her, handcrafted every aspect