America's Star-Crossed Sweethearts Page 5
“We have a plan in mind. Our cousins and I. We want to combine our families’ restaurants. They are joined by a courtyard. It is time they were joined in other ways.”
“How does Luca feel about that?”
“He knows nothing of the plan. We want to surprise him. We want everyone who is descended from our grandmother, Rosa Firenzi, to come together. As I said, it will take all of us to make it happen.”
He didn’t question whether she was referring to funding now. He knew better.
Isabella rose to her feet. “I will leave you now to finish your meal and to settle in. I have things I must see to.”
“At the restaurant?” It was a low blow and he knew it. Shame stirred, making him wish it were possible to snatch back the words and start over.
Instead of answering his question, Isabella said, “If you want for anything, I wrote my number next to the telephone in the front parlor.”
With that, his sister disappeared out the door. Angelo stood so abruptly that his chair tipped backward, clattering noisily on the tiled floor. He wanted to call her back so he could apologize. He felt horrible, putting her on the defensive, especially when she’d gone to such trouble to make his first day in Monta Correnti pleasant.
Besides, this wasn’t her fault. None of it was. Luca was the one responsible for the rift in their family. Their father was the one who had screwed up all of their lives with his selfishness and single-minded pursuits.
Oh, Alex had tried to palm off some of the blame on Lisa Firenzi, Luca’s older sister and the owner of the restaurant with which Isabella wanted to join Rosa. According to Angelo, if only their aunt had given Luca the loan he’d sought when the boys were toddlers, they could have remained in Italy rather than being sent to live with Cindy. Angelo wasn’t buying it. Ultimately, the choice had been Luca’s.
Angelo didn’t go after his sister. Instead, he uncorked the bottle of wine and filled his glass to the rim. Then, without bothering to change into the swim trunks that were packed in the luggage the driver had toted upstairs, he went outside and lowered himself fully clothed into the hot tub.
It would be several hours yet before the sun set, but, lost as he was in bitter memories of his fractured childhood, he really didn’t give a damn about either his pricey clothes or the million-dollar view.
CHAPTER FOUR
ANGELO woke early the next morning with a pounding headache that was the result of jet lag, regrets and too much wine. He’d finished off the bottle the evening before. In fact, he’d sat in the hot tub drinking it. Now, not quite dawn, he was in his bed. His head was throbbing more than his shoulder, but not quite as much as his conscience.
He owed Isabella an apology.
Women. This made two who’d gotten under his skin in short order in ways that he hadn’t thought possible.
Last night, after a second glass of wine and half an hour of bubbling hot water had mellowed his mood, he’d considered going to see Atlanta. He’d poured himself more vino and brooded instead. He’d never pursued a woman in the past. He’d never needed to. Yet he found himself practically chasing Atlanta and eager to see her even though she’d made it clear she wanted solitude. And that she didn’t want him. He didn’t care for the fact he was acting like some lovesick teen.
As for Isabella, his sister had welcomed him to Monta Correnti with a feast suitable for a returning prodigal son, which in a way he guessed he was. They were strangers, yet they also were siblings. Half, whole or otherwise, she hadn’t felt the need to sever their kinship. She’d made it clear all she wanted was a chance to get to know her long-lost brother. A chance to right a wrong and mend a rift. In return, all she asked of Angelo was for him to keep an open mind when it came to their father and the rest of the family.
He’d blown that deal before they’d finished eating the pasta she’d no doubt spent hours preparing. God, he was a heel. He had to make amends. He waited until it was a reasonable hour and called the number she’d left, only to find out she wasn’t home.
The man who answered the phone told Angelo in heavily accented English that she was in the village running errands and he didn’t expect her back for a couple hours.
“This is Angelo, no?” the man asked gruffly.
Guilty as charged, he thought. “Yes.”
“I am Max, Isabella’s husband.”
Not sure what else to say, Angelo replied, “It’s nice to meet you.”
Max didn’t bother with inane pleasantries. “Isabella was upset when she returned to our home last night.”
“That would be my fault.”
“Sì. She told me as much. You made her very angry.” Max’s voice softened when he added, “My Isabella is especially pretty when her temper flares.”
Angelo had heard that tone before. His brother used it whenever the subject of his intended came up.
Max was saying, “As much as it was my pleasure to take her mind off family matters, it is my duty to look out for her well-being. I do not wish to see her distraught again.”
Under other circumstances, the man’s subtle threat might have irritated Angelo. In this case, he figured he deserved it. Besides, he’d already managed to get off on a bad foot with relatives. No sense making matters worse by getting into a verbal boxing match with Max.
So, he said, “Neither do I. In fact, that’s why I’m calling. I’d hoped to apologize to her. I knew even before she left that I was way out of line.”
“Good.” Max sounded pleased. “If you happen to be in the village this afternoon, you can find her at Rosa.”
And chance running into Luca? No, thanks, Angelo thought.
Max seemed to read his mind. “Your father will not be at the restaurant today. In fact, he is away from Monta Correnti on a buying trip to the coast for fresh seafood. He prefers to take care of important business in person.”
Max’s message was clear. Angelo should offer his apology to Isabella in person as well.
He was right, too, Angelo thought after ending the call. Hadn’t Big Mike, the only foster father he’d ever considered worthy of the title, taught Angelo that very lesson right along with tips for how to steal a base when the pitcher wasn’t looking?
Dressed and ready to eat whatever amount of crow was necessary, he started off for the village a little later. He figured he could poke around a bit before going to see Isabella.
In New York or while on the road with his team, Angelo left the driving to others. Here, he had a car at his disposal, a sporty little five-speed that his brother had thoughtfully rented on his behalf. He was itching to get behind the wheel, but he decided to walk. He could use the fresh air and exercise. Besides, he was too off-kilter to remember which side of the road he was supposed to be on.
The temperature was cool when he started out, the air still moist from dew. After a while, the sun poked through the filmy layer of clouds. Between its warmth and Angelo’s physical exertion, by the time he reached the village he was regretting the jacket he’d pulled over his button-down shirt. He shrugged it off and slung it over his good shoulder as he made his way down cobbled streets that looked like something straight out of Brigadoon.
He navigated his way around what he figured was the main business district. With each turn, he discovered quaint shops and encountered the homey smells of fresh-baked bread and drying herbs. Based on his reaction the previous day to scent, he waited for some blast of recognition or sense of déjà vu to slow his steps. But while he definitely found Monta Correnti inviting and the smells mouthwatering, none of it was familiar.
Angelo told himself he was relieved. The last thing he wanted at the moment was to take a trip down memory lane. So what if the place of his birth didn’t ring any mental bells? Why would it? He’d barely spent three years here. He and Alex had spent more than a decade with their apathetic mother in a Boston apartment building, and those memories were good and buried. That was how he preferred it. As far as he was concerned, his life had begun the day a scout from a smal
l private college in upstate New York had come knocking at his foster family’s door. It hadn’t been the big leagues, but it had helped pave the way to them.
Lost in good memories, he took a moment to recognize the woman who emerged from the pastry shop at the corner. It was Atlanta.
She was wearing jeans, the faded boot-cut variety, and a ridiculously prim apple-green sweater set that did nothing to diminish her sex appeal. She might as well have been outfitted in skin-tight leather pants and a low-cut leopard-print blouse given the way his body reacted.
She’s not interested, he reminded himself. She’d made that abundantly clear. He was just starting to turn in the opposite direction when she spied him and offered a tentative wave. He waved back and though he intended that to be the end of the encounter, his feet had other ideas. They started off in her direction.
“Good morning,” he said when he reached her.
“Buongiorno.”
“Show off. You listened to Berlitz tapes before you came,” he accused, finding it easier to distance himself from real emotions by hiding behind teasing humor.
For her part, Atlanta looked almost relieved.
“Actually, I had to learn a little Italian for a movie I did a few years back. I liked the language, so I brushed up on it before traveling.” As she spoke, she tucked the little white pastry bag behind her back.
“What have you got in there?” he asked, craning to one side.
“N-nothing.” She looked and sounded nervous. Not nervous, he amended. Guilty. But he’d be damned if he could figure out why.
“Did you knock over the pastry shop or something?”
Her mouth fell open and she sputtered a moment before finally managing a full sentence. “Why on earth would you say that?”
“Because you’re acting suspicious.” He retrieved the bag from her hands. “It’s like you’ve got the Hope diamond stuffed in there or something.”
She snatched it away before he could open it. “It’s just a cannolo.”
“A cannolo?” All that subterfuge for a damned pastry? He said as much.
She sighed. “Okay, two. I couldn’t resist. They were fresh-made this morning.”
“Mmm. Nothing like a freshly made cannolo.” Angelo’s mouth watered a little, but it wasn’t the pastry alone that had whetted his appetite. “Were you planning to share with someone?”
“No. I bought them for me.” She laughed and some of her nervousness leaked away. “I guess that’s why I seemed so guilty. I can’t believe I bought one cannolo, much less two and just for myself.”
“What’s so wrong with that?”
“I planned to eat them both. In one sitting.” The last part was confessed in a near whisper with her gaze glued to the tips of her shoes.
“Is that a crime?”
“Yes.” She shook her head then and her gaze reconnected with his. “No. Of course not. Unless you’re Darnell.”
“Darnell?”
“My sadistic personal trainer. Since I’ve been away from Los Angeles he’s text-messaged me nearly every day to ask if I’ve been working out and sticking to my diet.”
Though he knew he’d regret it, Angelo allowed his gaze to slip south. The woman had a killer body. It was perfectly proportioned, even if parts of it were a little less full these days. “I don’t think you need to worry about a diet right now.”
“I’ve lost a little weight,” she admitted. “I call it the stress diet.” She touched a finger to her chin, the pose intentionally thoughtful. “You know, maybe I should patent it and start hawking it to young starlets as a backup plan in case my career never recovers.”
“That would be a waste of your talent. Besides, I like women with some curves.”
“Some curves.” She nodded. “But there’s a fine line, which is why Zeke wouldn’t let me…”
She flushed and didn’t finish, but Angelo figured he could fill in the blanks easily enough. It sounded as if the guy had done a real number on her. Let it go, he told himself. Leave it alone. He had enough problems of his own to concentrate on without taking on Atlanta’s, especially since she’d made it abundantly plain she was not interested in sharing a cannolo or anything else with him.
He hitched one thumb over his shoulder and took a step backward. “I should be going.”
“Yes. I should, too.”
“You wouldn’t want those cannoli to get stale.” He motioned toward the bag as he backed up another step.
“No.” She forced out a laugh. “It was nice seeing you, Angelo.”
He stopped. “Was it?”
His point-blank question caused her to blink. “I…I feel bad about yesterday. About…about how things ended between us.”
“Well, as you said, it was time for them to end. The game was over and all,” he drawled.
Atlanta winced. “That came out…”
“Wrong?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Actually, I appreciate your honesty.”
She blinked again, this time looking more piqued than perplexed. “I doubt that. You were clearly mad.”
Royally ticked was more like it. But he smiled now. “Whatever. Water under the bridge.”
“Then why bring it up?”
“I didn’t.”
“You did.”
Damn. She had him there. He glanced past her up the block. A coffee shop caught his attention. He told himself it was only the promise of his first cup of java that caused him to say, “I want a cannolo.”
“What?”
“A cannolo. I’ll buy the espresso if you’ll share your cannoli. It doesn’t even have to be a whole one. I’ll settle for a bite or two.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You want a cannolo?”
“That’s what I said.” He held his breath, half expecting her to state the obvious and tell him to go buy his own.
Instead, to his surprise, she said slowly, “I guess that’s a reasonable trade.”
The coffee shop was small with limited seating inside and only half a dozen wrought-iron tables and chairs on its speck of a cobblestone patio. Most of the tables indoors were unoccupied, but it was too nice a day to sit inside. Outdoors, only two were empty. They took a seat at one of them and waited for the server to come for their order. Angelo went with espresso, the stronger the better in his opinion, especially given the rough start to his day. Atlanta opted for a cappuccino.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” she announced when their beverages arrived.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked.
She pointed to the rich froth that topped her cup. “This is steamed whole milk and the espresso isn’t decaffeinated. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I allowed myself to have either?” She didn’t wait for Angelo to answer. “And a cannolo!” She pulled one of the pastries in question from the paper bag. “I would be eating two if you hadn’t talked me into being nice and sharing.”
She tried to hand him one of the tempting pastries, but he refused to take it. “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to eat them both. And I want to watch.”
“God, no! Please, Angelo. Save me from myself.” Though the drama of her words was definitely for effect, he sensed a nugget of truth—and perhaps of fear—in them.
He leaned back in his chair. “What’s to save, sweetheart? Everyone’s entitled to a little indulgence from time to time.”
Still eyeing the cannolo, she nodded. “I know.”
“Do you?”
“Some habits are hard to break,” she said softly.
“Zeke?”
She set the cannolo on a napkin and glanced away. “You think it’s stupid that I let a man run my life to such a degree for so long.”
“Is that what I think? Or is that what you think?” he asked, reneging on his earlier promise to himself to stay out of her business. He’d also vowed to steer clear of her. As the woman said, in for a penny, in for a pound.
“It’s what I think.”
“So, how’d it happen?”
“Free?”
She cleared her throat. “You know. Footloose and fancy free. God knows, I was all attitude when I first arrived in Hollywood. I didn’t look in the rearview mirror when I left rural Louisiana. I was happy to kiss my hick roots and…and everything else goodbye.”
The way she hesitated made him think there was more to it than that, but he commented on the obvious. “I thought you were born in Georgia?”
One side of her mouth rose. “That’s what you’re supposed to think. It was Zeke’s idea after he came up with my name. Atlanta is one of his favorite cities, very cosmopolitan but with a bit of edge. He said it suited me.”
“What is your given name?”
“Jane. Jane Marie Lutz.”
It was a nice enough name, but it didn’t fit her, Angelo decided as he took in the tumble of nearly white hair and the blue eyes that, even without the benefit of much makeup, were her face’s star feature.
“Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look like a Jane.”
Her laughter held little humor. “Zeke’s words exactly. He wanted something exotic, something people would remember. A name that could be used all by itself and people would know who you meant.”
“Like Cher or Madonna.”
She nodded. “You got it. The idea of being that famous caught my attention, even if at first I wasn’t too excited about being called Atlanta. Still, I was willing to do whatever Zeke suggested. He was a Hollywood big shot who had managed the careers of some of the hottest names in the business, and I was a nobody who wanted to be a star. I was grateful to him, pathetically so, for believing that I could be.”
“I don’t think he had to overtax his imagination. He must have seen a spark of something that he knew would have broad appeal.”
“He saw my body,” she said dryly. “I was nineteen, wearing a G-string and pasties and performing onstage at a gentleman’s club. Not my finest hour and definitely not the career I envisioned when I traded in my Podunk Ville address for a cockroach-invested walkup in Tinsel Town.”