Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts. Barbara McMahon
His ego certainly hoped that was the case with the gorgeous blonde sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the tarmac.
Despite the oversized sunglasses perched on her small nose, Atlanta Jackson was easy to recognize. The actress had starred in a dozen bona fide blockbusters. He took in the naturally pouty lips and the trademark blonde hair that tumbled just past her shoulders. Interest stirred. Again. He’d met her at a New York nightclub a few years earlier. They’d talked briefly. He’d flirted shamelessly, but to no avail. She’d turned him down flat when he’d asked her to dance. A couple of Angelo’s teammates still liked to razz him about the fact that he, Angelo Casali, had struck out.
She shifted in her seat to cross her legs. The demure hemline of her simple navy dress pulled partway up her thighs. Interest turned to outright lust. Not many women were built as she was: long-limbed and slender, yet curvy in all of the places a man liked to rest his hands. A little less curvy than he recalled. He could guess why. Her image was taking a beating in the tabloids ever since she’d walked out on her much older manager slash boyfriend.
According to one story Angelo had read, the guy claimed Atlanta had betrayed him with a slew of lovers over the years, most recently bedding his twenty-year-old son.
Had she?
Maybe it was Angelo’s ego talking, but the woman who’d turned him down flat in a nightclub a few years earlier hadn’t seemed the sort to stray. With that in mind, he crossed to her table and waited until she looked up to speak.
“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but you’d probably turn me down. So, how about some meaningful conversation until one of our flights boards?”
He couldn’t see her eyes behind the glasses, but her full lips twitched with amusement. “As lines go, that’s very original, Mr. Casali.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t wait to be offered a seat. He pulled out one of the chairs and straddled it backward. “So, you do remember me. I wasn’t sure you would. It’s been a few years.”
His ego took another little hit when she replied, “Well, you’ve been in the news a lot these days.”
“I could say the same about you.”
Her mouth tightened fractionally. “Yes, I have.”
“Is that why you’re wearing sunglasses inside?”
“Maybe.” She motioned to his Oakleys. “And you?”
“Definitely. This way no one can be sure I’m making eye contact with them. I find it discourages conversation.”
A pair of finely arched brows rose over the top rim of her dark lenses.
“You find that ironic,” he guessed.
“A little.” She shrugged delicately.
“Here’s the thing. Since you and I are the only two people in the lounge wearing shades I figure we probably should stick together. You know, play for the same team.”
“Given all that is being said about me right now, are you sure you want me on your team, Mr. Casali?”
“The name is Angelo.” He cocked his head to one side. “We’ll consider this a tryout.”
Atlanta laughed if for no other reason than the man’s sheer nerve. A tryout? She hadn’t had to read for a part in quite a while. The starring roles in her last three movies, each of which had grossed well over a hundred million dollars in the American market alone, had been written specifically with her in mind. Everyone in Hollywood knew that no one played the vulnerable vixen better than Atlanta Jackson. It was her niche. Her character type. She sobered at that.
“What if I don’t want to be on your team?” she asked.
“You do.”
She wanted to be turned off by his unflagging confidence or at the very least irritated by it. She found herself intrigued instead and maybe even a little envious. While she could portray confidence in front of the camera, she seldom felt it in real life. It was just one of the many things she was working to rectify.
“How can you be so sure?” she wanted to know.
“Everyone wants to be on the winning team.”
“And that would be yours?”
“Of course. I’ve got the golden touch. The Rogues are in the playoffs because of me. We’re heading to the World Series.”
“That’s only an assumption at this point.”
“No. It’s a fact, sweetheart. We’ll be there.”
Normally, she didn’t care for empty endearments, but his casual use of sweetheart complemented his bravado so perfectly, she let it pass. Instead, she honed in on another matter.
“We? Are the news reports wrong, then?” Her gaze strayed to his shoulder. It didn’t look injured. Indeed, nothing about the man’s rock-hard physique appeared compromised…or compromising, for that matter.
“You know the media.” He shrugged.
Atlanta might have believed that news of Angelo’s professional demise was vastly overblown if he hadn’t grimaced after making the casual movement.
“They’re ruthless when they scent blood,” he was saying.
Thinking of Zeke, she replied, “They’re even more ruthless when they’ve got sources happy to help draw it.”
Her image was being put through the shredder, and, while she wasn’t all that sad to see some of the false layers she’d once agreed to peel away, she certainly didn’t want them replaced with more lies and half-truths. Unfortunately, that was exactly what Zeke was feeding the hungry hordes these days, and they were eating it up, ravenous for more.
I made you. I’ll ruin you.
Zeke’s parting words. Foolishly, she hadn’t believed he’d do it. She knew better now. He was doing a bang-up job of making good on his promise.
Angelo was apparently far less naïve than she. “The world is full of people eager to sell you out. You have to be careful who you trust.”
“At this point, I trust no one.” Surprised to have told him that, She asked, “Who do you trust?”
“My twin,” he replied without hesitation. “Alex has always had my back.”
“You have a twin?” Good heavens, there were two men on the planet as good-looking as this one? She’d worked with A-list actors, bona fide heartthrobs, who couldn’t match Angelo’s rugged male perfection. “Are you identical?”
“Not quite. I’m better looking.”
“No doubt you’re more modest, too,” she replied dryly.
“Sure.” Angelo wasn’t put off. In fact, he pulled the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and winked as he boasted, “I’m also better with women.”
God help her. The man was every bit as sexy as she recalled from their brief meeting in a nightclub a few years back. He also was every bit as cocksure. She was used to being around oversized egos, her own included. Angelo, at least, tempered his with humor. He was harmless, she decided, especially here in a public place.
Which was what gave her the nerve to lean closer and say, “So, Don Juan, if I’m going to be on your team, perhaps you should explain the game we’re playing.”
“Distraction.”
“Is that the name or the object?”
“Both.”
“I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”
He glanced at the chunky Rolex strapped to his wrist. “Here’s the thing—I have an hour and forty minutes to kill before my flight departs. I could get my own table, order a drink and sip it alone while