America's Star-Crossed Sweethearts Page 2

  Despite the oversized sunglasses perched on her small nose, Atlanta Jackson was easy to recognize. The actress had starred in a dozen bona fide blockbusters. He took in the naturally pouty lips and the trademark blonde hair that tumbled just past her shoulders. Interest stirred. Again. He’d met her at a New York nightclub a few years earlier. They’d talked briefly. He’d flirted shamelessly, but to no avail. She’d turned him down flat when he’d asked her to dance. A couple of Angelo’s teammates still liked to razz him about the fact that he, Angelo Casali, had struck out.

  She shifted in her seat to cross her legs. The demure hemline of her simple navy dress pulled partway up her thighs. Interest turned to outright lust. Not many women were built as she was: long-limbed and slender, yet curvy in all of the places a man liked to rest his hands. A little less curvy than he recalled. He could guess why. Her image was taking a beating in the tabloids ever since she’d walked out on her much older manager slash boyfriend.

  According to one story Angelo had read, the guy claimed Atlanta had betrayed him with a slew of lovers over the years, most recently bedding his twenty-year-old son.

  Had she?

  Maybe it was Angelo’s ego talking, but the woman who’d turned him down flat in a nightclub a few years earlier hadn’t seemed the sort to stray. With that in mind, he crossed to her table and waited until she looked up to speak.

  “I’d offer to buy you a drink, but you’d probably turn me down. So, how about some meaningful conversation until one of our flights boards?”

  He couldn’t see her eyes behind the glasses, but her full lips twitched with amusement. “As lines go, that’s very original, Mr. Casali.”

  “Thanks.” He didn’t wait to be offered a seat. He pulled out one of the chairs and straddled it backward. “So, you do remember me. I wasn’t sure you would. It’s been a few years.”

  His ego took another little hit when she replied, “Well, you’ve been in the news a lot these days.”

  “I could say the same about you.”

  Her mouth tightened fractionally. “Yes, I have.”

  “Is that why you’re wearing sunglasses inside?”

  “Maybe.” She motioned to his Oakleys. “And you?”

  “Definitely. This way no one can be sure I’m making eye contact with them. I find it discourages conversation.”

  A pair of finely arched brows rose over the top rim of her dark lenses.

  “You find that ironic,” he guessed.

  “A little.” She shrugged delicately.

  “Here’s the thing. Since you and I are the only two people in the lounge wearing shades I figure we probably should stick together. You know, play for the same team.”

  “Given all that is being said about me right now, are you sure you want me on your team, Mr. Casali?”

  “The name is Angelo.” He cocked his head to one side. “We’ll consider this a tryout.”

  Atlanta laughed if for no other reason than the man’s sheer nerve. A tryout? She hadn’t had to read for a part in quite a while. The starring roles in her last three movies, each of which had grossed well over a hundred million dollars in the American market alone, had been written specifically with her in mind. Everyone in Hollywood knew that no one played the vulnerable vixen better than Atlanta Jackson. It was her niche. Her character type. She sobered at that.

  “What if I don’t want to be on your team?” she asked.

  “You do.”

  She wanted to be turned off by his unflagging confidence or at the very least irritated by it. She found herself intrigued instead and maybe even a little envious. While she could portray confidence in front of the camera, she seldom felt it in real life. It was just one of the many things she was working to rectify.

  “How can you be so sure?” she wanted to know.

  “Everyone wants to be on the winning team.”

  “And that would be yours?”

  “Of course. I’ve got the golden touch. The Rogues are in the playoffs because of me. We’re heading to the World Series.”

  “That’s only an assumption at this point.”

  “No. It’s a fact, sweetheart. We’ll be there.”

  Normally, she didn’t care for empty endearments, but his casual use of sweetheart complemented his bravado so perfectly, she let it pass. Instead, she honed in on another matter.

  “We? Are the news reports wrong, then?” Her gaze strayed to his shoulder. It didn’t look injured. Indeed, nothing about the man’s rock-hard physique appeared compromised…or compromising, for that matter.

  “You know the media.” He shrugged.

  Atlanta might have believed that news of Angelo’s professional demise was vastly overblown if he hadn’t grimaced after making the casual movement.

  “They’re ruthless when they scent blood,” he was saying.

  Thinking of Zeke, she replied, “They’re even more ruthless when they’ve got sources happy to help draw it.”

  Her image was being put through the shredder, and, while she wasn’t all that sad to see some of the false layers she’d once agreed to peel away, she certainly didn’t want them replaced with more lies and half-truths. Unfortunately, that was exactly what Zeke was feeding the hungry hordes these days, and they were eating it up, ravenous for more.

  I made you. I’ll ruin you.

  Zeke’s parting words. Foolishly, she hadn’t believed he’d do it. She knew better now. He was doing a bang-up job of making good on his promise.

  Angelo was apparently far less naïve than she. “The world is full of people eager to sell you out. You have to be careful who you trust.”

  “At this point, I trust no one.” Surprised to have told him that, she asked, “Who do you trust?”

  “My twin,” he replied without hesitation. “Alex has always had my back.”

  “You have a twin?” Good heavens, there were two men on the planet as good-looking as this one? She’d worked with A-list actors, bona fide heartthrobs, who couldn’t match Angelo’s rugged male perfection. “Are you identical?”

  “Not quite. I’m better looking.”

  “No doubt you’re more modest, too,” she replied dryly.

  “Sure.” Angelo wasn’t put off. In fact, he pulled the sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and winked as he boasted, “I’m also better with women.”

  God help her. The man was every bit as sexy as she recalled from their brief meeting in a nightclub a few years back. He also was every bit as cocksure. She was used to being around oversized egos, her own included. Angelo, at least, tempered his with humor. He was harmless, she decided, especially here in a public place.

  Which was what gave her the nerve to lean closer and say, “So, Don Juan, if I’m going to be on your team, perhaps you should explain the game we’re playing.”

  “Distraction.”

  “Is that the name or the object?”

  “Both.”

  “I’m intrigued. Tell me more.”

  He glanced at the chunky Rolex strapped to his wrist. “Here’s the thing—I have an hour and forty minutes to kill before my flight departs. I could get my own table, order a drink and sip it alone while I wait. Or I could stay here with you and enjoy what is bound to be some fascinating conversation.”

  A lifetime ago, Atlanta had thought herself interesting, but it had been a very long time since a man had said so. “What makes you so sure the conversation would be fascinating?”

  “You’re a fascinating woman. What else would it be?”

  Come-on or not, his reply caused her breath to catch. Clearly, being a pariah among the people she’d considered her friends had taken its toll on her self-esteem.

  “I like your answer,” she told him.

  “Enough to let me buy you a drink?”

  “Enough that the drink’s on me.”

  Angelo waved over a server and they ordered their beverages—an imported beer for him and a glass of unsweetened iced tea for her. As the waitress left he was frowning.

/>   “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “Not wrong. I guess I thought you’d order something…else.”

  “Such as champagne perhaps? And not just any champagne but Piper-Heidsieck by the magnum?”

  “Or Dom. I read once that you bathed in it.”

  “I read that, too.”

  “It’s not true?”

  She shook her head. “Afraid not.”

  “I’m disappointed. I was going to ask you what it felt like having all of those bubbles bursting against your bare skin.”

  His smile, set as it was on a mouth that would have been at home on Michelangelo’s David, dazzled. Atlanta camouflaged her involuntary shiver by shifting in her seat. There was no camouflaging the gooseflesh that pricked her arms. She hoped he wouldn’t notice it.

  “My publicist made that one up. It enjoyed a lot of buzz for a while, and I even picked up an endorsement deal for another brand of champagne. The truth is, I prefer showers to baths of any sort and I don’t drink.”

  “At all?” he asked.

  “Rarely these days.” She preferred to keep a clear head.

  “Neither do I.”

  “You just ordered a beer,” she reminded him.

  The corners of Angelo’s mouth turned down as if in consideration and he gazed out the window where a jumbo jet was lumbering toward a runway. “Special circumstances.”

  “You don’t like flying,” she guessed. It was a phobia Atlanta understood perfectly. She still experienced a burst of anxiety each time a plane she was on prepared for takeoff.

  But Angelo was shaking his head. “Nah. Flying doesn’t bother me. I do it all the time. But talking to a gorgeous woman? It leaves me tongue-tied.” Again, the dazzling smile made an appearance.

  “I don’t know. You’ve managed fine so far without any fortification,” she pointed out, well aware that she could do with a little of the false courage found in a cocktail right about now herself.

  Apropos of nothing, he asked, “When’s your flight?”

  “Two forty-something.”

  “Around the same time as mine, which means I’ve still got an hour and a half left with the potential to humiliate myself. I don’t want to take any chances.”

  “I’m sure if we keep the conversation light and neutral, you’ll be just fine.”

  And she would be just fine, too. So, that was precisely what they did.

  It was with regret that Angelo glanced at his watch a little over an hour later. He would have to leave soon. It wasn’t only the thought of what lay ahead in Italy that disturbed him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had an actual conversation with a woman that didn’t include foreplay of some sort or other. Both he and Atlanta still had their clothes on, a good thing given their surroundings. But they had ditched their sunglasses.

  “If you didn’t have a plane to catch, too, I’d hop on a later flight just so I could spend more time with you,” he told her.

  “Sure you would.” She humored him with a smile, apparently deciding she’d just been fed another line.

  “I mean it.” He reached across the table and caught her left hand in his. Her fingers were delicate and bare of any adornment. “To be honest, I didn’t expect to enjoy myself as much as I have.”

  Her brows pulled together at the same time she pulled her hand free. “Gee, thanks.”

  “Sorry.” He grimaced. “That was a pathetically backhanded compliment. I told you I get tongue-tied around beautiful women.”

  The truth was the only beautiful woman around whom he’d ever found himself at a loss for words with was Atlanta.

  Chuckling, she shook her head. “You’re forgiven. I think I know what you mean. I enjoyed being distracted.”

  That was all he’d had in mind when he’d sat down earlier, someone to take his mind off the problems at hand. Now…?

  “Maybe when we both get back to the States we could get together. If you’re going to be in New York, there’s a new exhibit coming to the Met in October.”

  “The Met?” Her eyelids flickered. No doubt she’d figured he was going to suggest a sporting event of some sort.

  “I’m a patron.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’m not exactly the quote unquote dumb jock whose only interests are those that happen on the diamond.”

  “I didn’t think you were. Honestly, I don’t know you well enough to draw that conclusion.”

  “That doesn’t stop most people.”

  She sighed. “Look, Angelo, I really appreciate the offer, but I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. Dating isn’t going to be a priority for a while.”

  He nodded slowly, bemused and a little disappointed. “You know, that makes twice now that you’ve thrown me out before I got on base. Forgive me for saying so, Atlanta, but you’re hell on a man’s ego.”

  “I think you’ll survive.” She smiled. It wasn’t the high-wattage sort the cameras captured. This one was the genuine article.

  “Glad I could make your day,” he grumbled.

  “You did, Angelo, but not in the way you mean.”

  Atlanta rarely did anything spontaneous. Spontaneity was too costly. She’d found that out as a child. Under Zeke’s care and later his control, she’d learned to deftly plan out her every move. She didn’t plan to kiss Angelo Casali. She just leaned across the table and did it, resting her lips against his for a brief, sweet moment during which neither of them closed their eyes.

  Innocent. That was what the gesture was. It had been a long time since she’d felt that way around a man, which was what caused her to draw away.

  She gathered up her handbag and reached for her small carryon as she stood. Even though her legs felt ridiculously shaky, her voice came out steady. “From one wounded ego to another, thank you.”

  Atlanta stopped in the restroom after saying goodbye to Angelo. Taking several slow, measured breaths, she regained the last of her composure. Then, with her makeup freshened and her emotions firmly in check, she dropped the dark glasses back onto the bridge of her nose and hustled to the gate. She arrived just in time for the final boarding call for Flight 174 to Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci International Airport. A flight attendant helped stow her carryon in one of the overhead compartments. Atlanta let out a sigh and turned to find her seat.

  “Cutting it a little close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” a masculine voice drawled.

  Her neck snapped around and her gaze locked with Angelo’s. He was two rows behind her on the opposite side of the aisle. So much for restoring her composure.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked inanely.

  He tugged at the strap of his seat belt. “Preparing for takeoff.”

  “Are…are you following me?”

  She immediately felt like an idiot for making the assumption and that was before Angelo replied, “And you claim to have a wounded ego. Seems perfectly healthy to me.”

  Her gaze darted around. Thankfully none of the other passengers in first class seemed to be paying much attention.

  “So, you’re going to Italy,” she managed on a weak smile.

  “Yeah. Is that seat next to you open?”

  Angelo didn’t wait for her to reply. He unbuckled and rose, grinning as he plopped down beside her. One thought came through loud and clear: The flight to Italy was going to be interesting indeed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “SO, WHAT takes you to Italy?” Angelo asked once their flight was airborne. “A movie role?”

  “A vacation, actually. I want some time alone without the media following my every move.”

  “So you picked a small town like Rome for that,” he replied deadpan.

  “Rome isn’t my final destination.” She lowered her voice. “I’m heading a little farther south to an isolated little village that I’d never heard of before. It’s tucked up on a hillside, very remote and the people are very discreet when it comes to celebrities, or so I’ve been told.”

  No way, Angelo thought. What would be
the odds? He had to know. “You’re not talking about Monta Correnti, by any chance?”

  “You know it?” Then her face paled. “You’re…you’re not going…”

  “Yep.” Angelo’s laughter rang out loud enough to draw the attention of the passengers around them.

  Distraction. In the airport’s VIP lounge he’d told Atlanta it was the name of their game as well as its object. Apparently they were going into extra innings.

  A couple hours into their flight, Angelo could no longer ignore the angry throbbing of his shoulder. Atlanta was reading a magazine, or more likely pretending to since she hadn’t turned the page in twenty minutes. He was no speed-reader, but even he could have finished the article on eyeliner dos and don’ts in that amount of time.

  He twisted the cap off the mineral water he’d ordered when the flight attendant last came around, and as discreetly as possible popped a couple of the potent painkillers the team doctor had prescribed, washing them down with a gulp of the beverage.

  “That bad, huh?” She closed the magazine and laid it on her lap.

  “Just stiff,” he lied. “I’ll be all right.” He had to be.

  After the pills kicked in, he didn’t wake until shortly before the aircraft was making its final descent into the larger of Rome’s two airports. He was hungry, having slept through the dinner that was served during the flight, the medicine was wearing off and his overall mood wasn’t much improved.

  Through the thick glass of the plane’s window, Angelo caught his first glimpse of Italy in thirty-five years. Even with the floral scent of Atlanta’s perfume teasing his senses, he could no longer ignore his real reason for coming.

  “Sleep well?” she asked.

  “Like a baby.”

  “You moaned a few times. I thought maybe you were in pain.”

  “Erotic dreams,” he corrected on a wink.

  “My mistake.” But she rolled her eyes.

  “Sir, your seat needs to be in the upright position,” a flight attendant stopped by to remind him.

  He shifted and a moan escaped before he could muffle it.

  “Apparently you have those dreams even when you’re awake,” Atlanta said dryly.