America's Star-Crossed Sweethearts

by Jackie Braun

  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 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, befor
e 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.”