Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts. Barbara McMahon

“I thought one of the reasons in coming to Monta Correnti was the discretion of the locals. Does that scene at the airport have you worried about being ambushed by paparazzi?”

      “No. I just need time alone…to reflect and make plans. You understand, right?”

      Angelo whistled through his teeth. “I can’t believe I just struck out for the third time with you. You’d think I’d learn.” The accompanying smile took the sting out of his words. Even so, Atlanta felt bad.

      “I’m sorry. It’s not you personally. In fact, I was just thinking about how much I’ve enjoyed your company on the trip here. It’s bad timing.”

      “For dinner?”

      “You know what I mean.”

      “No.” He set his hands on his hips. “Not really. I’m talking about a meal.”

      She changed tactics. “You’re talking about avoidance, as in avoiding the real reason you came here. Your father.”

      “My choice. My business.” His expression lost some of its easy charm, telling her she’d struck a nerve. So much for his earlier claim not to care about the estrangement. But the affable smile was back when he said, “What’s the harm, Atlanta? We’ve already established that I’m not interested in a long-term relationship and you’re not ready for one. What’s wrong with a little…friendship?”

      He stepped closer and ran his knuckles lightly down her cheek, making it clear he had more than friendship in mind. God help her, the simple touch stoked her pulse to life. Her feelings scared her almost as much as what he was suggesting. “We’re two Americans in a foreign country. What happens here stays here.”

      He wound up his tempting offer with, “No one needs to ever find out.”

      Don’t tell your mother. It’s our little secret.

      Bile rose in her throat, along with anger and a baffling amount of disappointment. But she kept her tone even when she said, “Let me put this another way: I’m not interested in continuing as your distraction, Angelo.”

      Indeed. She’d spent too many years being just that: A sick father figure’s plaything. A powerful man’s puppet.

      Angelo frowned. “You just said you’re not looking for strings.”

      “I’m not, but while I didn’t mind being a distraction during the trip over, that scenario has played out.” She took a step back. “To use your vernacular, the game is over.”

      He sucked in a breath and stepped back with his palms up in defeat. “Got it, sweetheart. Enjoy your stay.”

      She watched the Mercedes drive away. Should she have been so blunt? Could she have handled things differently, more diplomatically, perhaps? Though she was beset with doubts and some regret, one thing came through clearly. As angry and irritated as Angelo had been, he’d respected her decision.

      As she stood on the steps replaying the encounter, the door behind her opened. A young woman stood just inside the entry. She wore a plain cotton dress and her dark hair was parted in the middle and pulled back.

      “Miss Jackson, welcome,” she said in heavily accented English. “I am Franca Bruno.”

      The name registered as Atlanta stepped inside. This was the owner of the house. “Thank you. I was just admiring the view. My travel agent said it was lovely and he wasn’t mistaken.”

      The woman glanced at the bags before poking her head out the door. “Is my husband with you? He was supposed to pick you up from the airport.”

      “No. I caught another ride.”

      Franca’s dark eyes narrowed and she rattled off something in Italian that didn’t sound particularly nice. “He was late, wasn’t he?”

      “Maybe just a little,” Atlanta hedged, not wanting to get in the middle of a domestic dispute. “Unfortunately, circumstances came up that forced me to leave in a rush. I was lucky to run into a friend who also was coming to Monta Correnti.”

      That snagged Franca’s attention. “Another American?”

      “Yes. Angelo Casali.”

      Franca nodded. “Luca’s other son. I had heard that he might come. I am pleased for his father’s sake that it is so. Signor Casali is a kind man…and far more reliable than my husband.”

      Franca helped Atlanta pull her bags inside. “Come, let me show you around.”

      In addition to the stunning view, the villa boasted three large bedrooms, three bathrooms, formal sitting and dining rooms, and what appeared to be a study. The furnishings were an eclectic mix of charming old-world pieces and modern conveniences such as the flat-screen television that hung over the fireplace in the study and the microwave oven that sat on the counter opposite a brick pizza oven.

      Atlanta had everything she needed. Franca had stocked the refrigerator with food and had even gone to the trouble of preparing an antipasto salad in case Atlanta was too jet-lagged to go out later that evening.

      “You will find bottled water and local vintage red wine in the pantry. I am happy to prepare any meals you request.”

      “Thank you. The antipasto will hold me over for tonight.”

      Together they walked back to the door and Atlanta followed the other woman outside.

      “I hope you will enjoy your stay.”

      “I’ll be hard-pressed not to.” She spread out her hands to encompass the scenery. “It’s truly lovely here.”

      “It is a special place,” Franca agreed. “It belonged to my grandparents. My husband and I live just down the hill. I will be by each morning to freshen up the linens and take care of anything else you need.”

      After Franca was gone, Atlanta headed upstairs. The only thing she needed right now was a hot shower and a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. Unlike Angelo, she’d spent the entire flight wide awake and way too aware of not only the sexy man slumbering next to her, but her physical response to him.

      The game is over.

      Angelo mulled Atlanta’s parting words on the way to his villa. He wanted to be able to shrug them off…shrug her off. There were plenty of other fish in the sea. He knew that firsthand. So, why did he feel so damned disappointed? Maybe because at times while they’d talked, it hadn’t felt like a game.

      It was the painkillers, he decided as the driver turned off the main road and passed through a gated drive. They made his brain fuzzy.

      A turn-of-the-last-century villa came into sight. Its view of the surrounding countryside was worth every penny of the rent. His courtyard sported more than the cobblestones and grapevines that graced Atlanta’s. His had a built-in pool and spa.

      While the driver took his bags inside, Angelo walked over to inspect the amenities. The pool wasn’t Olympic size, but he wasn’t in any condition to swim laps anyway. The hot tub was more his speed, he thought on a grin. He could picture himself in it, the pulsating jets working the tension out of his muscles as he enjoyed a glass of red wine and watched the sun set. If he had to stay in Monta Correnti, at least he would be comfortable. From what he’d seen so far, his brother had done well in choosing accommodations. He headed back to the house.

      Alex hadn’t said anything about meals being included, but when Angelo stepped inside he was greeted by the mouth-watering aroma of garlic, onions and assorted herbs. He inhaled deeply, letting the scents linger in his nose. Snippets of memories came to him before he could stop them, popping like corn kernels held over a flame. He recalled following his father to a nearby riverbed to pick the special basil that Luca said gave his tomato sauce its distinctive flavor. Alex was with them. Angelo swallowed now, remembering how happy the boys had been and how he’d basked in their father’s attention. It was not long after that that Luca sent his sons away.

      “No wonder