Bella Rosa Proposals. Barbara McMahon

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      Angelo was turning her inside out with his words, but she felt no shame, nor was she visited by any bitter memories. Even her current troubles blended into the background, until the only thing left was temptation and something akin to yearning. She recalled Sara’s suggestion of a vacation fling. A post-Zeke fling.

      “And you can guarantee those?” she asked as sparks showered her skin.

      “With a little encouragement and participation, of course.” He reached over to stroke the side of her face. “Lovemaking is all about give and take. It’s not just about having control, but giving it to the other person. Both parties end up satisfied that way.”

      His words had heat suffusing her face as well as regions of a body that had been languishing in permafrost for far longer than he assumed. Give and take. In her experience only one of those two verbs had ever come into play, unless she was in front of a camera with a director calling the shots.

      Her voice wasn’t quite steady when she asked, “Are you finished with your analysis, Dr. Freud?”

      “For now. The rest can wait for another time.”

      Because she found herself surprisingly eager for future tutelage, Atlanta decided to change the subject. “As fascinating as I find our conversation, I’m afraid jet lag is catching up with me.”

      “Does that mean you want me to take you home?”

      She nodded. Then, tipping her head to one side, she asked, “Mad?”

      “Disappointed, but it’s just as well. I don’t think either of us is ready for what our raging hormones have in store.”

      Not ready in the least, she knew. But that didn’t stop her from dreaming about it when, later that evening, she fell asleep in her bed all alone.

      From his prone position on the mattress, Angelo stared up at the bedroom ceiling. As his gaze idly traced the shadows thrown from the bedside lamp, he recounted the evening.

      That wasn’t something he did normally, even when the evening in question ended on a far more satisfactory note. Yet he didn’t feel frustrated exactly, sexually or otherwise. Like a damned moth, he just felt drawn and more curious than ever about the woman most of the world thought they knew.

      He flipped to his side, recalling the way Atlanta had looked when he’d left her on her doorstep. He’d waited, and, yes, he’d hoped that she would invite him inside. Whether for a nightcap or something more, he hadn’t cared. he’d only known that he hadn’t wanted the evening to end. But she hadn’t invited him in. Instead, she’d smiled and bade him goodnight.

      With a handshake!

      Left with little choice, he’d taken her hand, pumped it delicately and released it so quickly it might as well have been a poisonous snake. Patience, he’d reminded himself. He was pretty certain she was a woman who’d had some bad breaks when it came to physical intimacy. Just when he’d convinced himself of that and had turned toward his car, she’d grabbed his arm and spun him back around.

      The kiss that had followed hadn’t been chaste. It had been downright greedy. He’d felt teeth nip at his lower lip and fingernails bite into the flesh of his arms. It hadn’t ended slowly or on a sigh. No, she’d broken it off cleanly, her breathing labored afterward.

      He’d considered a pithy comeback. Hell, he’d considered hauling her back into his arms and having a second go at it. Only her expression had stopped him. It had been neither smug nor frightened. Rather, she’d looked uncertain, confused.

      For him, sex had never been complicated, partly because he was smart enough to know women often viewed the act differently. They tried to inject emotions into the mix, which could cause problems if a guy let things progress too far. Mindful of his parents and the disaster they had made of not only their marriage but of their children’s lives, he’d been careful not to let that happen.

      So, why was he feeling every bit as confused and uncertain as Atlanta had looked? He turned out the lamp and gave his pillow a couple of punches. It was going to be a long night.

      Angelo had no firm plans for the following day, which was just as well. He woke in pain not long after the sun rose.

      “Damned shoulder,” he muttered, although it wasn’t his only source of discomfort. “Damned woman.”

      He swung his legs over the side of the mattress and scraped the hand of his good arm over his jaw, eyeing the pills on the nightstand as he did so. In the end, he decided to do what he had for the past year of his career: play through the pain.

      By mid-afternoon, with nothing more to occupy his time than Italian television programs and a couple of old Sports Illustrated magazines he’d brought with him, he was surly and sick of his own company, so he got in the car and headed out for a drive. He didn’t plan his destination, at least not consciously, but he wound up at Atlanta’s villa. This time, however, when he knocked at the door it was a dark-haired woman who answered. Given the wicker basket of linens on the floor at her feet, he figured she was there to do the cleaning.

      “Hi…I mean, ciao. I was looking for Atlanta Jackson. I take it she’s not here.”

      “No.” But the woman’s expression brightened. Her tone held a little awe when she said, “You are Angelo Casali.”

      Finally, someone recognized him. He grinned in return. “Yes, I am.”

      “It is such a pleasure to meet you.”

      “Thanks.”

      Her obvious excitement. The wide-eyed adoration. He lapped both up. He was just about to ask her if she wanted his autograph when she added, “I know your family well. I attended school with Isabella. I had a crush on Valentino.”

      Angelo’s smile faltered. She knew his family, but apparently she’d never heard of his multimillion-dollar baseball career, which was fading as fast as the season. How ironic that the New York Angel’s only claim to fame here was as Luca Casali’s son.

      The young woman was saying, “I met Alessandro while he was in Monta Correnti. He was at Rosa one evening when my husband and I dined there.” She tipped her head to one side and studied Angelo. “You both have the look of your father. You have his eyes.”

      Angelo backed up a step. He cared for neither the comparison she was making nor the connection it defined. “I have to be going.”

      “Do you wish to leave a message for Miss Jackson?”

      “No. I’ll…” He shook his head and said a second time, “No.”

      The woman was still standing in the open doorway staring after him when he climbed into the car. He revved its engine to life, shifted into gear and hit the gas. The tires spat gravel and gave a little squeal as he sped away. He didn’t care. He had to get out of there. Just as Atlanta had the day before at the coffee shop, Angelo found himself running from the past.

      It was the present that caused him to slow down before he hit the first bend in the road, which was a good thing considering the sharp turns up ahead. Another fifty feet and the road became as curvy as the woman walking along the side of it.

      Atlanta.

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