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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 and all?” she wanted to know.
“Why not? What’s to lose? The way I see it, everyone thinks they’ve got us figured out based on all of the media hype. We both know they’re wrong.”
“So, you’re not an arrogant athlete with more testosterone than intelligence?”
“No more than you are a self-absorbed starlet who uses and discards men by the dozen.” At her startled expression, he said, “That was the quote I read on an Internet site the other day.”
Her eyelids flickered. “God, we’re a pair.”
“Only if you believe the tabloids,” he said. “So, deal?”
“Deal.”
They started walking again. A few minutes later, Angelo bent to pick a flower similar to the ones in her bouquet. He handed it to her.
“Thanks.”
“They’re pretty.”
“I thought so. I’m going to look them up online later, find out what they 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 of her past and present. He’d controlled her, every bit as much as her stepfather had, caging her in and making her feel trapped, helpless.
But just as she’d broken free from her stepfather’s grip, she’d wrested herself from Zeke’s control. No man was going to bully her or boss her around. That included Angelo, 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 chuckled. “Sounds like a bit of a set-up.”
“I’ll find a way to make him pay,” he muttered as he crossed to the equally ancient-looking refrigerator.
While Angelo pulled out an assortment of covered bowls, Atlanta rooted through cabinets and drawers, and came up with plates and silverware. They decided to eat the pasta cold, pairing it with fat slices of thick-crusted Italian bread. She decided to indulge in what Zeke had considered an absolute no-no and combined olive oil and some dried herbs she found in the pantry in a shallow bowl to dip the bread in. Then she took the dishes, utensils, bread and herbed oil out to the patio table. Night had fallen. Hanging lanterns illuminated the pool and patio area, while down the hillside the lights from scattered homes mirrored the stars that winked in the sky. Angelo joined her a moment later with the pasta, a bottle of wine and two glasses whose thin stems were wedged between his fingers.
“No wine for me, thanks,” she said.
Even so, he set one down in front of her plate. “Just in case you change your mind. Nothing brings out the rich flavors of a meal like a nice glass of wine.”
“Okay, half a glass.”
Before they finished their meal, Atlanta had consumed a second half. Angelo was right about the wine. It complemented the flavor of the tomato sauce perfectly. Indeed, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d enjoyed a meal as much as this one.
“This is incredible,” she said, forking up the last bite of pasta. “I’ve always been a fan of Italian cuisine, although I can’t quite place all of the flavors in this sauce.”
“It contains a special kind of basil. It’s grown locally. Very exclusive.” A deep groove formed between his brows. “When I arrived here the other day and smelled the sauce simmering in the kitchen, I remembered going out with Alex and my father to pick the herb. I would have been a preschooler.”
“I’ve heard it said that smell is one of the most potent senses when it comes to memory recall.”
“I believe it.”
He didn’t sound happy about it, so she didn’t ask if the outing with his father and brother was a good memory. Even if it were, the intervening years surely would have soured it.
She’d finished off her wine. He pointed to the empty glass. “Would you like some more?”
“No, I’ve had enough.”
“I believe the word they use here is basta,” he told her.
“That’s right.” She nodded. “It’s a handy word to know.”
“Just be careful,” he warned. “If you use it too often you’re likely to miss out on a lot of…adventure.”
Angelo expected Atlanta to say she wasn’t up for any more adventure in her life. He wouldn’t blame her for feeling that way, especially with a new scandal brewing over the photos that had been snapped of the two of them in Rome’s airport. Instead, she studied him in the soft light that cascaded from the patio’s scattered lanterns.
“I guess I’ll have to use my best judgment, then.”
“You do that.”
Angelo finished his Chianti and leaned back in his chair on a contented sigh that morphed into a yelp of pain when he tried to stack his hands behind his head. He lowered his arms immediately and reached for his shoulder before he could think better of it.
Atlanta’s eyes were wide with concern.
“Don’t say it.” His words held more of a plea than a warning.
“Fine. I won’t ask about surgery or rehabilitation or quality of life,” she promised. “But I am curious.”
The pain was abating. He squinted at her. “About what?”
“What do you plan to do after baseball?”
After? The word hit him with the force of a fastball to the chest. There was no after. Just as he’d convinced himself over the years that there had been no before. Baseball was both his alpha and omega.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Even before she raised her eyebrows, he knew he sounded belligerent. That didn’t stop him from adding, “The Rogues still need me. I’ll be suiting up next season, make no mistake.”
“I’m not talking about next season. Or even the season after that. You can’t play ball forever, Angelo.”
It wasn’t anything he hadn’t heard from other people, including younger players speculating on what the future held for them post-career. Usually, Angelo deflected the conversation with a witty comeback. This time, seated next to Atlanta in the cool evening air, he not only accepted reality, he met it head-on.
Gazing up at the stars, he admitted, “I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“You have lots of options.”
He did. He could branch off into coaching. One of the farm teams had already approached him with an offer. He could buy one of the existing franchises when it came up for sale. Ownership certainly held appeal. Money wasn’t an object. The endorsement well showed no signs of drying up, despite his latest injury. But…
“Baseball is everything.”
“Not everything,” Atlanta replied softly.
“To me it is. It saved me. Literally. Baseball and Alex, they were what kept me from becoming a statistic.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
This wasn’t something he talked about freely, let alone with a beautiful woman who had her own set of problems. But the timing, the woman who was willing to listen, they both seemed right.
“I was bound for trouble and taking the express train to get there. I was too young and too stupid to care about consequences. And I was just plain ticked off,” he could admit now.