Barbara McMahon - Bella Rosa Proposals

“Who said anything about sleeping together?” Sara asked. “I merely asked if you were going to see him again.”

“My answer hasn’t changed. No.”

“You could do a lot worse.”

“Sara.”

“Just saying. I mean, it’s not like I could see the two of you together for the long haul. But for a vacation fling? A post-Zeke fling?” Her friend sighed dreamily. “He’s perfect.”

“I’m not here for a fling,” Atlanta replied impatiently, but Sara was right about one thing: if she were the sort of woman who engaged in casual, no-strings encounters, Angelo would be perfect.

For the better part of the afternoon, Atlanta hung around the villa going through the stack of scripts she’d brought with her. None was written by an established name. That was half of their appeal. The parts hadn’t been penned with her in mind. They didn’t play to her known strengths, mainly her sex appeal. She would have to adapt herself to these parts, in some cases change physically to do the characters justice.

Cut and dye her trademark locks? Gain a dozen pounds? The very idea was scary but exciting, too. Zeke never would have allowed it, but how else would she ever prove herself as more than a sex symbol?

You sell yourself short .

Angelo had told her that twice now.

She set a script in her lap. Angelo. He was so different from Zeke. She didn’t mean to compare the men, but it was impossible not to. Physically, they were night and day. Zeke was lean with an elegant build. He claimed to be six feet tall, but she suspected he was closer to five ten. He also claimed to be fifty-two, but she knew for a fact that he was fifty-seven. He looked good for his age, though, thanks to regular workouts, a little Botox to his brow line and regular appointments with his stylist to ensure that the hair on his head and in his goatee remained a youthful chocolate brown. He was fond of designer clothes, preferred silk to cotton and didn’t own anything made from denim or, God forbid, a synthetic fiber. He regularly wore large diamond studs in both of his ears and carried a European handbag to accommodate his BlackBerry and assorted other electronic gadgets.

In other words, Zeke was the walking definition of the metrosexual man while Angelo was the walking definition of masculinity.

Atlanta couldn’t see Angelo carrying a purse, regardless of the label one gave it, and she knew he didn’t dye his hair because she’d spotted a few strands of gray around his temples. As for Botox, if he indulged in it, he wasn’t getting his money’s worth, but he was all the more ruggedly handsome for the lines that fanned out from his eyes, which most likely were the result of squinting into the sun to catch a fly ball.

For the past decade, Zeke had dominated Atlanta’s life. Under his rigid tutelage, she’d been transformed from a mousy-haired, small-town girl with big dreams and some talent into a blonde, box-office bombshell. On screen, she melted hearts and left men salivating. More than once in real life, Zeke had accused her of being frigid. Given her past, she’d thought herself incapable of the kind of intense passion she portrayed on screen. But when Atlanta was around Angelo, she was never more aware of her sexuality or of her purely feminine response to him.

It scared her.

Angelo was ticked off. His lunch with Isabella had gone well, but when he returned to his villa he found a delivery from Luca. Tucked in the basket of fresh fruit was a note. It was written in Italian, so the only word he recognized was Papa.

He crumpled it up and shoved it into his pocket before grabbing the keys to the rental car.

Damn the man. Damn him .

He had no idea where he was going, only that he needed to get out, get away. The problem with Monta Correnti, though, was it wasn’t big enough to put much distance between Angelo and his troubles. After more than an hour of driving, mostly in circles, he wound up at the one place he knew he wasn’t welcome. Oddly, that made it perfect.

Lost in thought, the unexpected knock at the villa door gave Atlanta a start. It was late in the afternoon and she wasn’t expecting anyone. Probably Franca, she thought, smoothing the hair back from her face. The woman was super efficient and determined that Atlanta would enjoy her stay. But it wasn’t her landlady who stood on the other side of the door. It was Angelo.

Atlanta’s mouth fell open before she managed to sputter out a greeting. “I wasn’t expecting…company.”

Angelo’s in particular, though she’d thought of him incessantly all afternoon. For a moment she wondered if she’d conjured him up. But no, he was flesh and blood and all brooding male.

“Sorry to drop by unannounced,” he began. “I wasn’t exactly planning to come here. I just was driving around and…” His words trailed away on a frown.

It was the frown that stopped her from inviting him inside. He looked none too happy to be there and, as such, she doubted he planned to stay. So she folded her hands and waited patiently for him to say whatever it was that had compelled him to her villa.

“Can you read Italian?”

The question came out of left field. “Can I read…?”

“Italian,” he said impatiently.

“A little.”

“Good. Decipher this for me, okay?” He pulled a wadded-up piece of paper from his pocket and dropped it into her palm.

Atlanta smoothed out the worst of the wrinkles. Though her grasp of the language was rudimentary at best, she understood enough that she glanced up sharply.

“It’s from your father.”

“I know. Even I could figure that out.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She tapped the paper with one finger. “This is personal. Are you sure you want me to read it?”

His laughter was bitter, but not directed at her. “Personal,” he drawled. “Isn’t that rich. The first I’ve heard from him in practically forever and the guy writes it in a language I can’t understand.” Despite the firm set of his jaw, she saw bewilderment and pain in his expression. “Read it.”

My Dearest Son,

Thank you for coming to Monta Correnti. I wanted to give you a little time to get settled before coming by, but I am eager to see you.

You have grown into a fine man from everything I have read and from what your brother told me. You cannot know how glad that makes my heart.

My hope is that, like Alessandro, you will come to forgive me and we can start fresh.

With love, Papa

“He sent me a damned fruit basket,” Angelo muttered as he pocketed the note Atlanta returned to him. “Can you believe that?”

“What should he send?”

“Nothing. I don’t want anything from him.”

But it was so plain to her he did that her heart ached. She knew what it was like to want to be loved. Angelo was no big-egoed jock now. Perhaps that was what prompted her to ask, “Do you want to come in?”

He surprised her again by saying, “I do, but first I feel like I owe you an apology for today, even if I don’t think I said anything out of line.”

“You didn’t. I overreacted.”

He shoved a hand through his hair as he exhaled, giving her the impression he’d expected her to argue. “So…we’re okay?”

Not exactly . There remained an unsettling amount of attraction that she didn’t know what to do with. But Atlanta nodded and smiled. As an afterthought, she added, “Well, except for the cannoli. I didn’t get to finish one, let alone two.”

“I guess I do owe you an apology after all.” He smiled as he stepped into the foyer, and she nearly regretted her impulse to invite him inside. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

“Buy me dinner.” The words were out in a rush. Being out in public with him seemed the safer bet.