Star-Crossed Sweethearts / Secret Prince, Instant Daddy!. Jackie Braun

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 small 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.”