Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts

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.”