Barbara McMahon - Bella Rosa Proposals

Angelo nodded. Unsure what else to say, he told her, “Your English is very good.”

“Better than your Italian?” Isabella’s smile told him she already knew the answer to her question.

“It could use some work.”

“So could your brother’s when I met him. But he learned a lot during the time he was here.” Her satisfied expression made Angelo think she was referring to more than the language. “Alessandro is a good man. I was grateful that he came, and I am even more grateful that he was able to convince you to come as well.”

Angelo needed to set the record straight. “I’m not sure the outcome of my visit will be what you’re hoping for, Isabella. Alex and I may look a lot alike, but that doesn’t mean we think the same.”

She took a moment to weigh his words before nodding. “You are here. That is enough for now. We will see about the rest later.” She wiped her hands on her apron, a gesture that spoke of nerves more than necessity. “Come. You must be tired after your long journey. I can show you around.”

“Actually, I’m not all that tired. I slept most of the way.” He hated that he still felt a little groggy from the medication. Despite the returning pain, he was determined to forgo another dose. He had too much to process to be lost in the fog.

“Are you hungry, then?” Isabella asked.

He hadn’t been since leaving the plane. Between the visit to come and Atlanta’s intoxicating company, he’d been way too keyed up to think about food. Now, his empty stomach made its presence known with a loud growl, which she heard.

“I guess I am,” he said sheepishly.

Isabella smiled, clearly pleased. “I was hoping that would be the case. I will set the table while you freshen up. You will find a bathroom down there.” She pointed to a hallway that led from the room. “It’s the first door on the right. You will find a larger one upstairs. Your rooms are on the second floor to the left of the landing.”

Angelo opted for the former. A few minutes later, after splashing a little water on his face and adjusting his wrinkled clothes, he joined Isabella in the kitchen. Even though the villa had a formal dining room appointed with intricately carved mahogany furnishings, she’d set the wooden-plank table in what was a surprisingly plain kitchen. Plain and downright rustic, he thought, glancing around.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “The other room is fancier, but so big and formal. We are family.”

The word was as foreign to him as her accent. “I take it the American businessman who owns this place isn’t much of a chef.”

“No. On the rare occasions when he is here, he takes all of his meals in the village. But you are not to worry,” she said, as if reading Angelo’s mind. “You will find the master suite very comfortable. He has done what you would call extensive updating elsewhere in the house.”

“And outside as well. It was kind of hard to miss the in-ground pool and hot tub.”

“They look very inviting,” Isabella agreed.

“So does this meal.”

She motioned with her arms. “Then sit and enjoy.”

While he lowered himself into one of the chairs, she filled his glass with red wine. He tried not to stare, but he couldn’t help it. When she glanced up and caught him, they both flushed.

“I’m sorry. It’s just…disturbing, you know?” When her brows pulled together in puzzlement, he added, “Seeing a resemblance in a stranger’s face.”

“The eyes.”

“Yes, and our chins.” At her startled expression, he laughed. “Don’t worry. Yours is much smaller and far more refined.”

“And this resemblance disturbs you?”

He decided to be frank. “For most of my life, it’s been just Alex and me.”

“But your mother—”

“Even then,” he interrupted. Given Cindy’s fair looks and her absorption with partying, it had been easy to discount her role in their lives. As for Luca, whenever Angelo had thought of their father, he hadn’t considered the possibility of half-siblings. Or maybe he simply had been unable to process the idea that Luca could send away his twins and then someday have children he would keep. Confused and a great deal more curious than he wanted to be, he said, “You know, I’m a big eater, but there’s enough here to feed a small army.”

“I cook when I’m nervous,” she admitted on a laugh.

“Why don’t you join me and enjoy some of the fruits of your labor?”

A smile lit her face. “I would like that.” As she took the seat opposite his it was obvious she knew the real reason he’d issued the invitation. “It will give us a chance to get better acquainted with one another.”

He wasn’t exaggerating about the amount of food. In addition to the pasta dish, which she’d served with the savory tomato sauce that had assaulted his senses upon arrival, the table included a loaf of thick-crusted bread, steamed green beans and a side of some sort of sausage that she told him was produced locally.

“This is excellent,” he declared after his first bite of ravioli. It was no empty compliment. The flavors sang in his mouth. “You’re an excellent cook.”

“I cannot take all of the credit. The sauce is the real star.”

“It’s very good.” In fact, he’d never tasted its equal, which made his aversion to bottled pasta sauce all the more understandable.

“It’s very popular with our patrons.”

“At Rosa.” Despite his best effort, the name was hissed between clenched teeth. From Alex, Angelo had heard a lot about the quaint and rustic eatery their father owned and had named for their late grandmother. Far from taking pride in it, he saw the place as competition. After all, it was what Luca had squandered his time, love and attention on after shipping his sons off to America.

“I used to spend more time there than I did away,” Isabella mused. Shook her head and laughed. “Scarlett, our cousin from Australia, manages it now. Her husband to be, Lorenzo, is the chef. But I am still there a lot.”

“Why do you bother? Why do any of you bother to slave away for him?”

She sobered. “I have a full life, Angelo. As does Scarlett. I am married to a wonderful man and very happy. I work for our father because I enjoy what I do.”

Angelo snorted. “You must to put up with him.”

“That’s unfair,” Isabella objected. “You know nothing of Luca.”

“Only because that’s the way he wanted it,” he shot back. “From what Alex has told me, the restaurant isn’t doing as well as it could be these days. Money is tight.”

Her face had paled. “That is true. He insists on using local produce and labor, and sometimes that has cost him more than if he’d outsourced.”

The anger that had been simmering for the better part of three decades rolled to a boil. “So, call in the millionaire stepbrother to help save the day.”

Isabella’s cheeks flamed red now and she shot to her feet. She shouted something in Italian before she collected herself and, in a more moderated tone, replied in English, “I will apologize if that is the way it seems, but what you are saying is not true. Money is not why I sought out either you or Alex and asked you to come to Monta Correnti.”

He wanted to believe her. Even so, he challenged, “Then why? Why now?”

“I only recently learned of your existence, Angelo.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “That makes two of us. Again, Luca’s choice. Or, should I say, his fault?”

He had her there and she knew it. But Isabella raised that small chin that was so similar to his.

“My motives for asking you to come here are very simple. I have two older brothers whom I wished to meet and a rift in our family that I wish to see mended. These are the reasons I sought Luca’s permission to contact you and Alex in America.” She unknotted her fingers from the cloth napkin she held and set it on the table. “If all I needed was money to save Rosa, Angelo, my husband would be happy to provide it. It is not beyond his means, and he has generously offered to do so on more than one occasion.”