Bella Rosa Proposals. Barbara McMahon

      Angelo laughed, even if in truth he didn’t want to need anybody. He’d learned a long time ago to rely on himself. The only people he trusted to help him out when needed were his twin and, of course, his teammates.

      Assuming they were together, the bushy-haired porter added Angelo’s bag to the cart stacked with Atlanta’s.

      “We’re going to owe him a really big tip when it’s all said and done,” Angelo muttered as the man started off toward Customs.

      “It’s not like we can’t afford it.”

      No indeed. She was one of the few women he’d ever met who actually made as much money as he did, perhaps more, since he didn’t know what her cut had been on her past few movies.

      Still, he had enough pride that he said, “I’ll get this one since you picked up the tab in the lounge.”

      “Grazie mille,” she said, batting her lashes at him for effect.

      After they cleared Customs, she dropped the sunglasses back onto the bridge of her nose. Before landing, she’d pulled her hair back into a simple ponytail. Along with the navy dress and flat-heeled shoes, she hardly screamed high-maintenance Hollywood. But such raw beauty rarely went unnoticed. As low-key as she was trying to be, as soon as they passed into the main terminal she attracted a lot of attention and some of it was exactly the kind she wanted to avoid.

      A couple of photographers began shouting her name. Even prefaced with the courtesy title of Signorina the intrusion was rude, especially since it was followed by a succession of near-blinding flashes. Atlanta held up her handbag as a shield. Just that quickly, the witty and surprisingly candid woman with whom he’d spent the past several hours was swallowed up by a monster of her own making.

      Fame. Sometimes it grew fangs and bit you.

      Angelo waited for the photographers to holler out his name, too. It was their lucky day. The parasites had a pair of American celebrities in their viewfinders. He patted his pockets in search of his Oakleys. He was as used to dealing with them as Atlanta was. On any given day, half a dozen of their ilk stood guard outside his Manhattan apartment building, their digital cameras trained on the exits in the hope of snapping a money shot or two for the tabloids.

      “I’m going to duck into the ladies’ room for a minute,” Atlanta whispered. “You go on ahead to your car. Tell the porter to wait there with my bags.”

      “Divide and conquer?” he asked.

      “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

      “See you in MC.”

      She didn’t answer. They’d reached the ladies’ room and she hustled inside.

      Angelo turned. He’d found his sunglasses but needn’t have bothered. With Atlanta gone, the paparazzi lowered their cameras. It came as a huge blow to realize that he hadn’t been recognized. Baseball was a largely American game, he reminded himself. Neither it nor its players resonated much outside the United States, and apparently that was true in Italy.

      He should have been relieved. It was a pain to be hounded by the paparazzi. Even so, he felt sucker-punched. Was this what his life would be like post-career? Would no one recognize him? Would no one care that for four consecutive seasons he’d led the league in runs batted in or that he was half a dozen homers from passing the current record? Would he return to the obscurity from which he’d come, a mere postscript in write-ups about the game that had literally saved his life?

      The porter nudged him and said something in Italian. It was Angelo’s native tongue, but he remembered none of it even if he found the accent and cadence oddly comforting.

      “Sorry. I only speak English,” he replied.

      “Taxi?” the man said helpfully and pointed to an overhead sign designating the way to ground transportation.

      “Ah, no. Someone is meeting me.”

      Several of those waiting to welcome passengers were holding signs with names written on them. One was printed with Angelo’s. “My driver.”

      “Signorina?” The porter glanced back to the rest-room door.

      She had her own transportation. She’d told Angelo to go. Yet Angelo told the porter, “We’ll wait for her here.”

      He knew the moment she was out in the open. The paparazzi descended on her like a pack of wolves on prey. Long legs and irritation made her pace fast, but eventually, she had nowhere left to run.

      “I told you to leave,” she snapped, turning this way and that in an effort to avoid the cameras.

      Angelo stood perfectly still. “I’m bad at following directions. It’s a guy thing.”

      “This will make a fine headline.”

      “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