Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts. Barbara McMahon

      Sara heaved a sigh. “Okay. The headline on the one in The Scoop is, um, ‘Angel and the Tramp’. The article claims that the two of you have been involved on and off for years.”

      “Of course it does. And the other tabloid? What did it come up with for a headline?”

      “Keep in mind the writer is probably a Rogues fan, okay?” Sara hedged.

      “Okay.” Atlanta’s forehead throbbed more insistently.

      “‘New York’s Angel falls under Hollywood seductress’s spell.’”

      This time Atlanta wasn’t able to hold back her groan. Glutton for punishment that she was, she asked, “What does it say?”

      “The usual tripe about how Angelo is another of your many conquests. It includes a quote from Zeke. He, um, says he feels sorry for Mr. Casali and is a little surprised you went after him considering that the ballplayer is past his prime and not likely to continue in the spotlight much longer, unless, given his recent injury, it’s to do endorsements for over-the-counter pain medicine.”

      “God, he’s a piece of work,” she spat, insulted on Angelo’s behalf. “If he wants to trash me, fine. But he has no right to drag anyone else into the mud.”

      “Speaking of Angelo, how exactly did the two of you hook up?”

      “We haven’t hooked up. We were on the same flight, headed to the same place and he was kind enough to share his car with me after I was spotted by those photographers.”

      “So, that was the end of it?”

      “We bumped into each other again today.” She swallowed, thinking of how she’d overreacted during their conversation. And she had overreacted. She could see that now.

      “Do you plan to see each other again?”

      After her earlier display? He probably thought her to be either the quintessential drama queen or a complete nut. Either way, it was for the best. He had her thinking things, remembering things, best left alone.

      It’s not your fault.

      A therapist had assured her of that, although it hadn’t been necessary. Atlanta had always known who to blame. Her stepfather. Duke had been an adult and a parental figure. She’d been but a frightened girl who’d had the misfortune to blossom early and live in a trailer with a man who believed he was entitled to do as he pleased and a mother who chose to look the other way because she was too afraid of being alone.

      No means no.

      Knowing that didn’t automatically make everything all right, though.

      Thankfully, acting out a love scene in front of a camera had never been much of a problem for her, perhaps because she knew exactly what to expect. She knew when it would start and when it would stop. She knew what her reactions were supposed to be. The one time a co-star had tried to ad lib a bit too much for her liking, she’d ended the scene and walked off the set. Being in control made it easier, it made it almost cathartic, and it helped to block out the bad memories. Still, she considered it a testament to her acting ability that she could make the world believe she was truly enjoying herself.

      As an adult, it had taken a long time for Atlanta to actually have sex without getting physically sick afterward. After a decade with Zeke, she’d gotten to the point where she sometimes could enjoy herself, though she rarely wound up fully satisfied. She was fine with that. Or she had been…until recently. Angelo had her wondering what she might have been missing.

      “Atlanta?” Sara’s voice brought her back to the present.

      “What?”

      “I asked if you were going to see him again.”

      “No,” she replied with conviction.

      “Hmm. Too bad.”

      “Why do you say that?”

      Sara’s laughter came over the line. “Have you gone blind or taken vows with a religious order since you’ve been gone?”

      “My vision is perfect and, no, I doubt I’ll ever be a candidate for the abbey.”

      “Well, then, if you tell me that man isn’t every bit as sexy in real life as he comes across on television, I’m going to be crushed.”

      Atlanta nearly shivered as she recalled the way Angelo had licked cannolo custard from her fingers. “It’s no trick of the cameras. He’s sexy, all right.”

      “I thought so.”

      To counteract her friend’s smugness, Atlanta said, “And so is every male co-star I’ve worked with during my career. It doesn’t mean I want to sleep with them.”

      “Who said anything about sleeping together?” Sara asked. “I merely asked if you were going to see him again.”

      “My answer hasn’t changed. No.”

      “You could do a lot worse.”

      “Sara.”

      “Just saying. I mean, it’s not like I could see the two of you together for the long haul. But for a vacation fling? A post-Zeke fling?” Her friend sighed dreamily. “He’s perfect.”

      “I’m not here for a fling,” Atlanta replied impatiently, but Sara was right about one thing: if she were the sort of woman who engaged in casual, no-strings encounters, Angelo would be perfect.

      For the better part of the afternoon, Atlanta hung around the villa going through the stack of scripts she’d brought with her. None was written by an established name. That was half of their appeal. The parts hadn’t been penned with her in mind. They didn’t play to her known strengths, mainly her sex appeal. She would have to adapt herself to these parts, in some cases change physically to do the characters justice.

      Cut and dye her trademark locks? Gain a dozen pounds? The very idea was scary but exciting, too. Zeke never would have allowed it, but how else would she ever prove herself as more than a sex symbol?

      You sell yourself short.

      Angelo had told her that twice now.

      She set a script in her lap. Angelo. He was so different from Zeke. She didn’t mean to compare the men, but it was impossible not to. Physically, they were night and day. Zeke was lean with an elegant build. He claimed to be six feet tall, but she suspected he was closer to five ten. He also claimed to be fifty-two, but she knew for a fact that he was fifty-seven. He looked good for his age, though, thanks to regular workouts, a little Botox to his brow line and regular appointments with his stylist to ensure that the hair on his head and in his goatee remained a youthful chocolate brown. He was fond of designer clothes, preferred silk to cotton and didn’t own anything made from denim or, God forbid, a synthetic fiber. He regularly wore large diamond studs in both of his ears and carried a European handbag to accommodate his BlackBerry and assorted other electronic gadgets.

      In other words, Zeke was the walking definition of the metrosexual man while Angelo was the walking definition of masculinity.

      Atlanta couldn’t see Angelo carrying a purse, regardless of the label one gave it, and she knew he didn’t dye his hair because she’d spotted a few strands of gray around his temples. As for Botox, if he indulged in it, he wasn’t getting his money’s worth, but he was all the more ruggedly handsome for the lines that fanned out from his eyes, which most likely were the result of squinting into the sun to catch a fly ball.

      For the past decade, Zeke had dominated Atlanta’s life. Under his rigid tutelage, she’d been transformed from a mousy-haired, small-town girl with big dreams and some talent into a blonde, box-office bombshell. On screen, she melted hearts and left men salivating. More than once in real life, Zeke had accused her of being frigid. Given her past, she’d thought herself incapable of the kind of intense passion she portrayed on screen. But when Atlanta was around Angelo, she was never more aware of her sexuality