Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts

“They don’t know who I am.”

“They will back home. You’ll be labeled as my latest conquest.”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t look so smug,” she cried. “That’s not a good thing.”

“From your point of view,” he replied, hoping to see her smile.

Her expression remained grim.

“You need to get out of here,” he told her.

“I would, but apparently my driver is late.” Her laughter verged on hysteria.

“It’s Italy,” Angelo said. “I’ve been told they run on their own time here.”

More camera flashes popped. Atlanta backed up, trying to put as much distance between herself and Angelo in the photographers’ frames as possible.

“Come with me. We’re heading to the same place.”

He extended a hand. She declined both it and his offer with a shake of her head. “No, no. That’s kind, but I have my own transportation. Or I will. Soon.”

The photographers snapped off a couple more shots. In addition to paparazzi they were drawing a crowd of onlookers, some of whom had pulled out their camera phones. Within a matter of hours this was going to be all over the Internet.

“Do you really want to wait around?” he asked.

“I…” She issued a heartfelt sigh. “God, no.”

Along with the porter and driver, they made a mad dash for the exit. At the curb, Angelo peeled off some bills, trying to remember the exchange rate of dollars to euros. At the porter’s broad grin, he figured the tip was as generous as intended.

He grinned, too, but for an entirely different reason.

CHAPTER THREE

ATLANTA assumed that the closer they drew to Monta Correnti and the villa she’d rented, the more relaxed she would feel. But just the opposite was occurring, probably because the small, isolated village was Angelo’s final destination, too.

While it was entirely likely they would bump into each other a time or two during the next couple weeks, she didn’t want it to become a habit. She was enjoying his company…a little too much. She found him funny and surprisingly interesting. He was far more than the inflated ego and one-dimensional jock she’d first assumed. She also found him intensely attractive. Their kiss kept coming to mind. It had her yearning for something she’d lost long ago. Something she could never get back.

It was just as well this wasn’t a true vacation for either of them. He was in Italy to meet with his estranged father. She had come to escape the media’s prying eyes. She had a career to save, a reputation to salvage. A life to start over without the guiding influence of a man. Any man. By the time the driver pulled the Mercedes sedan to a stop outside a sun-bleached two-story villa, she had rehearsed the lines in her head for her farewell speech.

“Great view,” Angelo remarked before she could get the first words out.

The pre-World-War-II residence was bounded on one side by a cobblestone courtyard, part of which was shaded by a grapevine-draped pergola. Beyond it, the land sloped gently down before falling away completely to reveal a valley dotted with houses, farms and olive groves.

“Stunning,” she agreed. “Well, thank you again. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

She reached for the door handle, intent on making her exit. Angelo ruined it by following her out.

“From what Alex has told me about the place I’m staying, it has an equally gorgeous view. It’s farther up the hillside. If you want to stop by tomorrow evening, we can compare panoramas before going to dinner.”

The invitation was delivered so smoothly that she nearly agreed. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll be eating in for most of my stay.”

The driver had retrieved her bags from the trunk. Despite her objections, Angelo insisted on carrying one of them to the door. After the man returned to the car to wait, Angelo said, “I thought one of the reasons in coming to Monta Correnti was the discretion of the locals. Does that scene at the airport have you worried about being ambushed by paparazzi?”

“No. I just need time alone…to reflect and make plans. You understand, right?”

Angelo whistled through his teeth. “I can’t believe I just struck out for the third time with you. You’d think I’d learn.” The accompanying smile took the sting out of his words. Even so, Atlanta felt bad.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you personally. In fact, I was just thinking about how much I’ve enjoyed your company on the trip here. It’s bad timing.”

“For dinner?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No.” He set his hands on his hips. “Not really. I’m talking about a meal.”

She changed tactics. “You’re talking about avoidance, as in avoiding the real reason you came here. Your father.”

“My choice. My business.” His expression lost some of its easy charm, telling her she’d struck a nerve. So much for his earlier claim not to care about the estrangement. But the affable smile was back when he said, “What’s the harm, Atlanta? We’ve already established that I’m not interested in a long-term relationship and you’re not ready for one. What’s wrong with a little…friendship?”

He stepped closer and ran his knuckles lightly down her cheek, making it clear he had more than friendship in mind. God help her, the simple touch stoked her pulse to life. Her feelings scared her almost as much as what he was suggesting. “We’re two Americans in a foreign country. What happens here stays here.”

He wound up his tempting offer with, “No one needs to ever find out.”

Don’t tell your mother. It’s our little secret.

Bile rose in her throat, along with anger and a baffling amount of disappointment. But she kept her tone even when she said, “Let me put this another way: I’m not interested in continuing as your distraction, Angelo.”

Indeed. She’d spent too many years being just that: A sick father figure’s plaything. A powerful man’s puppet.

Angelo frowned. “You just said you’re not looking for strings.”

“I’m not, but while I didn’t mind being a distraction during the trip over, that scenario has played out.” She took a step back. “To use your vernacular, the game is over.”

He sucked in a breath and stepped back with his palms up in defeat. “Got it, sweetheart. Enjoy your stay.”

She watched the Mercedes drive away. Should she have been so blunt? Could she have handled things differently, more diplomatically, perhaps? Though she was beset with doubts and some regret, one thing came through clearly. As angry and irritated as Angelo had been, he’d respected her decision.

As she stood on the steps replaying the encounter, the door behind her opened. A young woman stood just inside the entry. She wore a plain cotton dress and her dark hair was parted in the middle and pulled back.

“Miss Jackson, welcome,” she said in heavily accented English. “I am Franca Bruno.”

The name registered as Atlanta stepped inside. This was the owner of the house. “Thank you. I was just admiring the view. My travel agent said it was lovely and he wasn’t mistaken.”

The woman glanced at the bags before poking her head out the door. “Is my husband with you? He was supposed to pick you up from the airport.”

“No. I caught another ride.”