America's Star-Crossed Sweethearts

by Jackie Braun

  Her gaze snapped back to his. “What do you mean?”

  “When I’m standing at home plate, I never feel alone or…or rejected.”

  She covered one of his hands with her own. He could stop, he knew. She would understand how hard the words were for him to say. But he needed to say them. Aloud. Not for Atlanta, but for himself. It was time to finally accept that the great and glorious ride he’d been on for the past two decades was ending.

  “When I’ve got that bat in my hand and the fans are chanting ‘Angel, Angel, Angel,’ it’s not just a rush of adrenaline I feel. It’s…it’s validation,” he admitted.

  Though she said nothing, the pressure on his hand increased.

  “I’m someone then, Atlanta. I don’t want to lose that, but it’s slipping away. It’s not about being important or famous. It’s…it’s just about mattering.”

  When he glanced up she was nodding, blue eyes awash in unshed tears. “I know what it’s like not to recognize your own worth and to see yourself as defined by things outside your control. But the fact is, Angelo, you do matter. You’ve always mattered, with or without a bat in your hand. And that will continue to be the case.”

  He squeezed her hand back. “I want to believe that.”

  “You will. It takes time. I’m still getting there.”

  The moment stretched as they sat holding hands. The emotional distance he’d always maintained narrowed precariously. He cleared his throat. “So, what about that espresso?”

  “Sure.” She rose and reached for her cup. “I’ll just be a moment.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN she was gone, Angelo scrubbed a hand over his face. Afterward, his gaze landed on the script she’d left on the table. The fact that it was upside down didn’t help given his dyslexia. It took him a full five minutes to figure out the first few words.

  “The Blue Flag.”

  He glanced up just as she placed the cups on the table. He hadn’t heard her return, probably because he was concentrating so hard trying to make out the letters.

  Easing back in his chair, he apologized. “Sorry. I’m being nosy.”

  “That’s all right. It’s nothing personal. Just a script I’m considering.”

  Glad to have something else to discuss, he asked, “Is it one of those indie projects you mentioned the other night?”

  Atlanta nodded. “The title refers to a kind of wild iris that grows in swampy conditions.”

  “So, are you going to take it?” he asked.

  “No. I want my return to the big screen to be memorable for the right reasons, and I think critics and moviegoers ultimately would have the same concerns with the story and its characters that I do.”

  She picked up the script and flipped absently through the pages. “It’s not a bad story. The leading role, which is what I would play, has some depth. The character is a young woman who’s just discovered that she’s pregnant and is struggling to come to terms with her younger sister’s recent schizophrenia diagnosis. She’s worried that her unborn child could be at risk for mental illness. She’s also afraid to tell her husband about the baby since he basically thinks her sister, and all people similarly afflicted, should be locked away.”

  “How does it turn out?”

  “Let’s just say the ending is satisfying in a theatrical sense, but not terribly happy.”

  “It sounds dark.” Far darker than anything Angelo could recall Atlanta ever doing. Of course, that was exactly why she was considering the script. She wanted to break free from the mold.

  “It needs to be given the subject matter, but some of the scenes border on superficial and do very little to heighten the overall tension. To make matters worse, the husband’s character is way underdeveloped. I can’t figure out what motivates the guy, why he’s such an insensitive jerk. For that matter, I can’t understand why my character would stay with him.”

  “Maybe she’s not as tough as you are. It takes guts to walk away.”

  Atlanta glanced up sharply, but when she spoke, it was to change the subject. “You know, we really should be going. It’s sunny now, but the forecast is for rain later in the day. We should have no problem getting in our sightseeing before the weather turns if we leave now.”

  The ruins were indeed off the beaten path. During the last half-hour of the drive, they didn’t pass so much as a roadside stand. Luckily, Atlanta had taken Franca’s advice and packed a simple lunch for the two of them to share.

  “Are you sure this is it?” Angelo asked after he pulled the car to the side of the road. A path opened up through the dense woods, but the only marker was a crude wooden arrow whose painted words were too weathered to read.

  “According to Franca’s directions. She said it wasn’t a regular tourist destination.”

  “We don’t have to go.” His gaze flicked to her feet. Her shoes were practical for hoofing around the city, but not exactly designed for hiking.

  Atlanta pushed open her car door. “No. We came all this way. Besides, it might be nice to see ruins on a grander scale than those in my life.”

  “Or mine,” Angelo muttered as he joined her.

  It was cooler there, perhaps because the trees blocked out most of the sun. Despite the occasional wayward branch, the path was wide enough for them to walk side-by-side. They started out at a brisk pace and maintained it even when the incline grew steeper and the ground more treacherous. Twenty minutes into the walk, Atlanta’s heart was hammering, her leg muscles starting to burn and a blister had begun to form on her left heel.

  “This is a regular workout,” Angelo remarked, as if he could read her mind.

  “Darnell would be pleased,” she said, thinking of her trainer for the first time in days.

  A moment later, she nearly tripped over an exposed tree root.

  Angelo offered a hand to steady her. “Watch out,” he warned with a laugh. “Given the shape of my shoulder, I won’t be able to carry you out of here if you sprain an ankle.”

  Though the words were spoken in jest, they represented a shift for him. He was no longer denying his injury and the effect it was having on him now or in the future, she thought, recalling his earlier candor about why he didn’t want his career to end and his recognition that it was.

  The trail ended a few minutes later at a clearing where the grass grew knee-high and was interspersed with prickly shrubs and the occasional tree. But it was the huge, grayish-white stones that commanded attention. They rose up from the vegetation like an army of ghosts, a haunting reminder of a time long past.

  “It’s not what I was expecting,” Angelo said.

  Once a fortress, it was now a pile of rubble. Atlanta had to use her imagination to picture it as it once had been, with high walls and towers and a thriving community living inside. “Nor I, but it is pretty amazing.”

  She rested her hands against one of the rough-hewn slabs. It was cool to the touch and partly covered in moss. Long ago, someone had labored to bring it and the others to this remote hilltop and create a wall that was intended to keep out invaders.

  It had seen hard times, withstood the attacks of invaders for a couple centuries before falling into enemy hands. That was when the real damage to the structure had occurred, according to Franca. Yet part of it remained today, and it would be there long after Angelo and Atlanta were gone.

  Some things defied the passage of time. The thought had her recalling what she’d told Angelo earlier about his worth regardless of his baseball career. She’d told him he would always matter. It had been on the tip of her tongue to add, to me.

  It was a fact Atlanta could no longer deny.

  They spent an hour strolling amid the ruins. The view alone was worth the hike. Even with a few clouds starting to darken the sky, or perhaps because of them, the vista was dramatic. Atlanta leaned her elbows on what remained of the fortress’s exterior wall and gazed down at the valley below.

  “Do you really see me as tough?” she asked, harking back to their earli
er conversation on her patio. She turned to face Angelo. “And not, well, the man-eating shrew the tabloids are portraying?”

  He settled one hip on the edge of a stone and studied her.

  “You’re a force to be reckoned with, Atlanta, and for all of the right reasons.”

  “When I was a little girl…I…I wasn’t so tough. I vowed to myself I would never make that mistake again, yet I did with Zeke. The circumstances were different, but…” She shrugged.

  “No one’s tough when they’re a kid, even if they want everybody to believe otherwise.”

  “Does that include you?”

  He studied the calluses on his hands, no doubt the result of gripping a bat. “A week ago, I would have denied it, but yeah. That includes me.”

  “What’s different now than a week ago?”

  His expression turned oddly guarded and it sounded as if he said, “I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

  There wasn’t much left to explore, but they stayed a little longer. The approaching storm made the view all the more compelling.

  “I can’t believe I forgot to bring my camera today,” she said as, far in the distance, lightning streaked the sky.

  “I’ve got my cell phone. It’s got a camera.” He unclipped it from his belt.

  “Do you get a signal out here?”

  “I haven’t checked. To tell you the truth, I hope to God not. The only people likely to call right now are my agent, the team doctor or some reporter. I don’t want to talk to any of them on this trip.”

  “Then why bring a cell?”

  “Habit. A bad one.” But then he was holding up the phone and instructing her to smile.

  He glanced at the display afterward. “Gorgeous.”

  She dismissed his compliment with a shrug. “I’m photogenic is all.”

  “Actually, I don’t think you look as good on film as you do in person.”

  She opened her mouth to dismiss his compliment once again. Instead, she heard herself ask, “Really?”

  “Really.” Angelo leaned one elbow against a boulder, the picture of masculine perfection. “They say the camera adds ten pounds. From where I’m standing, it’s more like fifteen.”

  Atlanta was laughing too hard to be insulted. She attempted to slap him on the upper arm, but Angelo caught her hand before it made contact. He used it to pull her to him. Once she was in his arms, he slid his hands from her waist up to the sides of her breasts, eliciting a shiver.

  “Maybe it is only ten.” He leaned closer, kissed her neck. “You know I’m only kidding, right?”

  “Yes, but only because the cannoli haven’t caught up with me yet.”

  She turned her head to grant him greater access. He nipped her earlobe.

  “God, I can’t wait till they do. Don’t get me wrong. You’ve got a killer body right now.”

  Eyes at half-mast, she muttered, “Zeke would say I’m too thin. Of course, if I gained back the weight I’ve lost, he’d get on me for letting myself go.”

  Angelo’s breath was hot on her neck. “We’ve already established that Zeke is an idiot.” His mouth detoured south to her collarbone. “You should eat two cannoli a day for the duration of your stay in Italy.”

  “Is that an order?”

  “I know how you feel about those, so, no. Consider it more of a plea.”

  “A plea?”

  “I’m not above begging when it comes to certain things.”

  At that moment, neither was she.

  It was late afternoon when they returned to Monta Correnti. By that time the wind had picked up and the mass of billowing purple clouds was no longer far away, but directly overhead. Thankfully, Mother Nature waited to unleash her fury until they were almost to Atlanta’s villa with the worst of the hairpin turns behind them.

  Then the rain came down in a torrent. Even on high the car’s wipers couldn’t clear the windshield of water fast enough to provide decent visibility. Angelo navigated the last quarter-mile at a snail’s pace. His knuckles glowed white on the steering wheel. When he finally pulled the car to a stop and shifted it into park, he let out a gusty sigh.

  “That was an adventure, one I’d prefer not to repeat in this lifetime.”

  He had parked as close to the villa’s main entrance as he could. Even so, with the way the rain was coming down, Atlanta knew she would be drenched to the skin before making it inside.

  “Give it a minute,” he said, stilling her hand when she went to unbuckle her seat belt. “It’s bound to let up.”

  Slap! Slap! Slap! went the wipers in the quiet that followed, making a mockery of his prediction.

  Atlanta glanced around the car. “I don’t suppose you have an umbrella handy?”

  He switched on the dome light, illuminating the rental’s interior, and checked. “Apparently not. Sorry.”

  Slap! Slap! Slap! went the wipers.

  Atlanta was a great believer in setting the scene. In her business it was vital, not only to involve those who plunked down cash to see the final product at their local theater, but to the actors as they worked to stay in character during filming. The storm, the close confines of the sports coupe and the intimate glow from the dome light—they turned the setting into something romantic rather than ridiculous.

  Or maybe it was the man who was responsible for that. She’d fought this attraction since the beginning, terrified of it at first. But it was like fighting gravity—exhausting and, in the end, pointless. She glanced over to find him watching her. His hungry gaze caused a shiver and brought forth an appalling amount of need. Even as a flash of lightning rent the dark sky, followed by ominous thunder, his gaze didn’t leave hers and his expression didn’t change. All the while, the wipers continued to slap across the windshield with ineffective results.

  “It’s not letting up,” she said quietly.

  “No. I keep thinking it will, but…” He sounded bemused.

  She moistened her lips. “You probably shouldn’t drive back in this. The roads around here are difficult enough to navigate when they’re dry.”

  “I could manage.”

  “I’d worry. Come in.”

  He sucked in a breath, exhaling as his thumbs tapped against the steering wheel. “Are you sure you want me to come in?”

  They were talking about more than her providing him with shelter from the storm. “Yes. No.”

  “Which is it?”

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  He switched off the ignition and pocketed the keys. The car’s interior went dark. The wipers went still. Thump, thump, thump went Atlanta’s heart.

  They stumbled through the villa’s door together, breathless from their frantic dash. As she’d anticipated, they were both soaked. Angelo’s shirt was plastered to his skin, outlining the hard contours of his athletic physique. Distracted, it took her a moment to realize that her own drenched clothing was providing a similar view. She tucked her arms over her chest. When she glanced up, he was watching her. He swiped his forearm over his face in a futile attempt to dry it. More rain dripped down from his hair.

  “I’ll…I’ll go get us some towels,” she said.

  “In a minute. There’s something I need to do first.”

  Angelo moved closer until barely a whisper of space separated their bodies. Slowly, he pushed the damp hair back from her face. His palms were warm against her cheeks. She savored his touch, reveled in the desire it had awakened from such a long slumber.

  “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He whispered the words, almost as if he were speaking to himself rather than offering a compliment.

  Atlanta swallowed.

  You’re a right pretty girl, Jane. The boys will be after you before long.

  She refused to think about what Duke had said after that or what he’d done. She refused to think about Zeke and the face he’d turned into both of their fortunes.

  Standing in the villa’s dimly lit entryway with Angelo, she simply allowed herself t
o feel. For the first time in her life, what she felt was beautiful and feminine. It struck her as ironic, given her disheveled state. Her hair was plastered to her head. God only knew what had become of the mascara she’d brushed on her eyelashes that morning. Yet he found her beautiful and she felt the same.

  Power surged through her, the origin of which she wasn’t quite able to name. She reveled in it all the same. No longer was she Duke’s terrified stepdaughter or Zeke’s dutiful protégé. It was as if the rain had washed away the last clinging bits of dirt from her past.

  She slipped out of her flats and kicked them aside. “I’m more than a pretty package, you know.”

  He nodded slowly, almost as if he liked hearing the clarification, almost as if he understood her reasons for offering it.

  “I figured that out within five minutes of meeting you. And I’m talking about at that nightclub three years ago.” He traced her lower lip with the pad of his thumb and the same lightning that intermittently streaked the sky outside shot through her.

  “It took me a little longer.” A lifetime, she thought ruefully.

  “Better late than never.”

  His hands came up to frame her face and then his mouth found hers. Desperate to hold on as the kiss deepened, she fisted her hands in the wet fabric of his shirt and gave herself over to desire.

  The worst of the storm had passed outside as well as in. Angelo and Atlanta lay exhausted on the metal-framed bed in her room. Like the thunder rumbling far off in the distance, her body still felt the aftershocks of their lovemaking. She’d played countless such scenes on screen and alone with Zeke. But she’d never experienced firsthand what she’d portrayed all these years.

  Until now.

  It wasn’t just the sex, though it had been every bit as incredible as she’d hoped it would be. It was the man. His strength and his vulnerability. His generosity, not only as a lover, but as a friend. The emotions she was experiencing at the moment were every bit as new and unnerving as those earlier physical sensations. They’d been mounting since their first meeting, growing deeper, stronger and impossible to ignore.