Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts

Surgery. The S word. After which would come the R word. Not rehabilitation, but retirement.

“Look, I’m fine,” he said a second time. He didn’t need to see her blink to know his tone carried an edge. “Sorry.”

“No. I’m sorry. It’s not my business.”

It wasn’t. Yet he heard himself say, “I’m scared, Atlanta.”

Her gaze snapped to his. “Of having surgery?”

That was only a small part of his fear. He was far more unnerved that he might lose his overall identity. But he nodded. As he maneuvered the car back onto the road, he said, “Well, there it is. The secret no one else knows. I’m a big baby when it comes to the thought of going under the knife.”

Her smile was the plastic Hollywood variety. She knew he was a liar.

The sun was just starting to set when they reached Angelo’s villa. Atlanta was out of the car before he could come around to open her door.

“I didn’t think it was possible to top the view from my place, but this does. And you have a pool. Very nice.”

“I also have a hot tub.”

“I’m going to have a talk with my travel agent when I get back.”

“No need to be jealous. I’m willing to share. We can take a dip in it later if you’d like.”

She pursed her lips in mock dismay. “Darn. I don’t have a suit.”

Blue eyes twinkled. “I don’t mind.”

She deflected his flirting by saying, “I bet the hot tub feels like heaven on your shoulder.”

He scowled and started to walk away before turning back. Snagging her wrist, he hauled her close. “Let’s get something straight. I may be on the injured list, but I’m not out of the game.”

She wasn’t put off in the least by his temper. “Are you talking figuratively or literally?”

“Both,” he said, before bringing his mouth down on hers.

Atlanta expected his kiss to be hard, punishing even. Angelo was angry. He was scared, too. Not of having shoulder surgery, though that was his claim. It went beyond that, she was sure. Which was why she allowed the kiss, hoping, foolishly perhaps, that he would find some comfort in it.

It was clear he hadn’t when he broke off abruptly and stepped away from her. Shoving a hand through his hair, he said, “If you want to leave now, I’ll understand.”

She frowned. “Why would I want to leave?”

“I shouldn’t have done that. I…I know you have some issues regarding…control. And with, um, no meaning no.”

Her throat ached as his words pierced the barrier protecting her heart. “I didn’t say no.”

“If you had, I wouldn’t have kissed you,” he said earnestly.

She nodded. “If I had, I wouldn’t have let you.”

“So, you want to stay?”

“I was promised a meal.”

Angelo ushered her inside the villa. The main living space was larger than the one in hers and, she decided from the well-appointed furnishings, professionally decorated.

“This is very nice.” The quality of the pieces was obvious. The owner had expensive taste and the bank account to indulge it.

Angelo’s tone was wry. “You might want to reserve your opinion until you’ve seen the kitchen.”

She understood what he meant a moment later. Rustic was the word that came to mind. The stove was a big black behemoth.

“Oh, my God.”

“Exactly, although Isabella managed to create a feast in here.” His expression brightened. “Hey, didn’t you play a chef in one of your movies?”

“Sous chef, but the operative word here is played. This is beyond my talents as either an actress or an amateur cook.” She exhaled softly as she turned in a semi-circle. “I don’t suppose there’s a microwave stashed in one of the cupboards?”

“Nope. And, believe me, I’ve checked every last one of them. Apparently the guy who owns this place stopped short of renovating the kitchen. This is original to the house.”

“So I can see. What’s wrong with the owner? He’s not a fan of eating?”

“He’s not a fan of cooking. My sister said he doesn’t spend much time in Monta Correnti and when he does, he takes his meals elsewhere.” Angelo’s brows drew together. “You know, I have a feeling that’s what my brother had in mind for me when he booked my accommodations.”

She chuckled. “Sounds like a bit of a set-up.”

“I’ll find a way to make him pay,” he muttered as he crossed to the equally ancient-looking refrigerator.

While Angelo pulled out an assortment of covered bowls, Atlanta rooted through cabinets and drawers, and came up with plates and silverware. They decided to eat the pasta cold, pairing it with fat slices of thick-crusted Italian bread. She decided to indulge in what Zeke had considered an absolute no-no and combined olive oil and some dried herbs she found in the pantry in a shallow bowl to dip the bread in. Then she took the dishes, utensils, bread and herbed oil out to the patio table. Night had fallen. Hanging lanterns illuminated the pool and patio area, while down the hillside the lights from scattered homes mirrored the stars that winked in the sky. Angelo joined her a moment later with the pasta, a bottle of wine and two glasses whose thin stems were wedged between his fingers.

“No wine for me, thanks,” she said.

Even so, he set one down in front of her plate. “Just in case you change your mind. Nothing brings out the rich flavors of a meal like a nice glass of wine.”

“Okay, half a glass.”

Before they finished their meal, Atlanta had consumed a second half. Angelo was right about the wine. It complemented the flavor of the tomato sauce perfectly. Indeed, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d enjoyed a meal as much as this one.

“This is incredible,” she said, forking up the last bite of pasta. “I’ve always been a fan of Italian cuisine, although I can’t quite place all of the flavors in this sauce.”

“It contains a special kind of basil. It’s grown locally. Very exclusive.” A deep groove formed between his brows. “When I arrived here the other day and smelled the sauce simmering in the kitchen, I remembered going out with Alex and my father to pick the herb. I would have been a preschooler.”

“I’ve heard it said that smell is one of the most potent senses when it comes to memory recall.”

“I believe it.”

He didn’t sound happy about it, so she didn’t ask if the outing with his father and brother was a good memory. Even if it were, the intervening years surely would have soured it.

She’d finished off her wine. He pointed to the empty glass. “Would you like some more?”