Bella Rosa Proposals: Star-Crossed Sweethearts

“Wh-what are you doing here?” she asked inanely.

He tugged at the strap of his seat belt. “Preparing for takeoff.”

“Are…are you following me?”

She immediately felt like an idiot for making the assumption and that was before Angelo replied, “And you claim to have a wounded ego. Seems perfectly healthy to me.”

Her gaze darted around. Thankfully none of the other passengers in first class seemed to be paying much attention.

“So, you’re going to Italy,” she managed on a weak smile.

“Yeah. Is that seat next to you open?”

Angelo didn’t wait for her to reply. He unbuckled and rose, grinning as he plopped down beside her. One thought came through loud and clear: The flight to Italy was going to be interesting indeed.

CHAPTER TWO

“SO, WHAT takes you to Italy?” Angelo asked once their flight was airborne. “A movie role?”

“A vacation, actually. I want some time alone without the media following my every move.”

“So you picked a small town like Rome for that,” he replied deadpan.

“Rome isn’t my final destination.” She lowered her voice. “I’m heading a little farther south to an isolated little village that I’d never heard of before. It’s tucked up on a hillside, very remote and the people are very discreet when it comes to celebrities, or so I’ve been told.”

No way, Angelo thought. What would be the odds? He had to know. “You’re not talking about Monta Correnti, by any chance?”

“You know it?” Then her face paled. “You’re…you’re not going…”

“Yep.” Angelo’s laughter rang out loud enough to draw the attention of the passengers around them.

Distraction. In the airport’s VIP lounge he’d told Atlanta it was the name of their game as well as its object. Apparently they were going into extra innings.

A couple hours into their flight, Angelo could no longer ignore the angry throbbing of his shoulder. Atlanta was reading a magazine, or more likely pretending to since she hadn’t turned the page in twenty minutes. He was no speed-reader, but even he could have finished the article on eyeliner dos and don’ts in that amount of time.

He twisted the cap off the mineral water he’d ordered when the flight attendant last came around, and as discreetly as possible popped a couple of the potent painkillers the team doctor had prescribed, washing them down with a gulp of the beverage.

“That bad, huh?” She closed the magazine and laid it on her lap.

“Just stiff,” he lied. “I’ll be all right.” He had to be.

After the pills kicked in, he didn’t wake until shortly before the aircraft was making its final descent into the larger of Rome’s two airports. He was hungry, having slept through the dinner that was served during the flight, the medicine was wearing off and his overall mood wasn’t much improved.

Through the thick glass of the plane’s window, Angelo caught his first glimpse of Italy in thirty-five years. Even with the floral scent of Atlanta’s perfume teasing his senses, he could no longer ignore his real reason for coming.

“Sleep well?” she asked.

“Like a baby.”

“You moaned a few times. I thought maybe you were in pain.”

“Erotic dreams,” he corrected on a wink.

“My mistake.” But she rolled her eyes.

“Sir, your seat needs to be in the upright position,” a flight attendant stopped by to remind him.

He shifted and a moan escaped before he could muffle it.

“Apparently you have those dreams even when you’re awake,” Atlanta said dryly.

“Want me to share the particulars with you?”

“That’s all right.”

“Sure? I wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, but I’ll pass.”

“How long are you going to be staying in Monta—?”

“Shh!” she admonished and glanced around as if she expected to find the other first-class passengers shamelessly eavesdropping. That was a virtual impossibility over the loud hum of the jet engines. Still, he obliged her by lowering his voice.

“So, how long?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Just curious how much time I’ll have to wear you down. Eventually, even though you claim not to drink, I predict you and I will share a bottle of wine and some more fascinating conversation.”

She chuckled. “What do you call this?”

“You’re avoiding answering my question.”

“Fine. I’ll be there for three glorious weeks with an option to stay four.” She sighed, as eager to arrive as he was to have the trip behind him.

“I’ll be there two weeks tops. Might as well be a life sentence,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing. You never said what made you decide to make Monta—” he caught himself before he finished the village’s name “—MC your final destination. It’s a speck on the map, you know.”

If she heard the derision in his tone, she didn’t comment on it. “That’s why it’s ideal.”

“Ah, that’s right. Hiding out.”

A line formed between her brows. “That makes me sound like a coward.”

“Sorry. I didn’t—”

“No.” She waved off the rest of his apology. “I guess I am hiding out. I just needed a place to go to recharge my batteries.” Her expression turned rueful. “Someplace where I wouldn’t have to deal with booing fans or the paparazzi at every turn. My stylist suggested the village. She visited it a few years ago. She was seeing a rather famous actor at the time and according to her they could go anywhere in town without worrying about drawing a crowd, much less paparazzi.”

Frowning, Angelo said, “It’s nothing like LA or New York, that’s for sure.”

“So, this isn’t your first visit?”

He shook his head.

“What’s it like?”

“It’s been a while, years in fact.”

Vague images of quaint, red-tile-roofed houses tucked into the side of a hill rose from his memory, accompanied by the scents of fresh basil, roasted red peppers and plum tomatoes. Angelo couldn’t be sure if they were real or the result of wishful thinking. As it was, nothing of his childhood in Boston evoked anything worth recalling.

“I looked it up on Google,” Atlanta was saying. “There’s not a lot of information, but I did find some photographs. It’s very picturesque and old-fashioned, like a snapshot out of the past.”

His past.

Her gaze shifted to his shoulder. Her expression held understanding. “Are you interested in dropping out of sight for a while, too?”

“Not exactly.” He took a deep breath before admitting, “My father lives there.”

Atlanta blinked, not quite able to hide her surprise.

“Yes, I have one of those,” he replied dryly.

“From the scowl on your face I gather the two of you aren’t close.”

“I haven’t seen him in thirty-five years.” And Angelo had no desire to see Luca now.

“Ouch. Sorry.”

He laughed outright as a cover for the pain he couldn’t admit to feeling. “It’s no big deal. I didn’t need him and I haven’t missed him. Hell, I barely remember him.”

“So, why are you going? If you don’t mind me asking,” she added.

He shrugged. The pain the gesture caused made him wince. “My brother booked my flight and my accommodations. Alex thinks that making peace with our father is important.”

“But you don’t share his opinion,” she guessed.

Angelo caught himself before he could shrug again. “It’s ancient history. What’s to be gained?”

“I’m the wrong person to ask,” Atlanta admitted. “I haven’t seen my mother in years. My choice.”

“You’re smart. The only reason my brother is all for a reunion now is that he’s met a woman and they’re getting married. He’s in love.”

“From your tone I’d take it you’re not a big fan of the emotion.”

“I’ve got nothing against love. I’m happy for my brother.”

How could Angelo not be? Allie, the woman Alex was marrying, was pretty, kind and intelligent. She had a daughter whom his brother obviously adored. Together they were a ready-made family. If that thought made him feel unbearably alone at times, it was his own problem. He’d get over it.

“Have you ever been in love yourself?” Atlanta asked.

“You’re a regular Oprah. So many questions,” he teased, stretching out his stiff legs. He hoped whatever accommodations Alex had arranged came with a jetted tub. He could do with a nice long soak.

“Sorry.” She ruined the apology by adding, “Well?”

“No. I like women in general too much to commit to any one in particular.” He sent Atlanta a wolfish smile that caused her to roll her sky-blue eyes.

“Gee, that’s romantic,” she said dryly.

“No, that’s realistic. I could say something cliché like I haven’t met the right woman, but I don’t think the right woman exists.”

“Your brother apparently disagrees.”

Angelo held up a finger. “Let me clarify. I don’t believe the right woman exists for me.” It was a long-held belief, one that predated puberty. Commitment? His parents had gone that route and look how it had turned out. They hadn’t been able to keep the promises they made to one another, let alone to the children they’d brought into the world. He grinned wickedly to banish the old bitterness, hiding behind the cockiness that was as much his trademark as Atlanta’s bombshell looks were hers. “But if she did exist, she’d be blonde, about your height and have ridiculously long legs.”

Atlanta crossed her arms and sent him a pointed look. “Do lines like that actually work for you?”

“Apparently not,” he replied with feigned disappointment.

She shook her head. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I know. A judge told me that very thing before sending me off to juvie when I was a kid.” He said it lightly, though nothing about the incident could be considered fun or funny. Before she could comment he said, “I won’t bother to ask if you’ve ever been in love. You lived with that Zeke guy for—what?—a decade?”

“Something like that,” she murmured. Her gaze strayed to the window.

“But no ring?” he prodded.

“Not the kind you’re talking about.”

Curious, he asked, “What other kind is there?”

It sounded as if she said, “Through the nose,” but he couldn’t be sure.

“I find it hard to believe he didn’t propose. If I were the sort of guy interested in lifelong commitments, I’d have been on bended knee after our first date.”

Atlanta made a tsking noise. “Obviously you’re not up on your tabloid reports. Zeke proposed dozens of times during the course of our relationship. Actually, begged is how I believe he put it. He wanted to marry me. He wanted to have a family with me. Heartless witch that I am, I repeatedly turned him down. I didn’t want a husband and I didn’t want babies. My figure is my fortune, you know. I’m nothing without a twenty-four-inch waist and flawless abs.”

He’d seen pictures of the abs in question. Still, he said, “You sell yourself short.”

She glanced over sharply, studied him for a moment. It might have been a trick of the light, but her eyes looked bright. “It doesn’t really matter now.”

The captain came on the public address system announcing the local time and temperature and the usual end-of-the-flight banter. Afterward, Angelo asked, “Should I apologize for prying?”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Even without her usual crimson gloss, her lips were full and inviting. “Are you sorry?”

Since she was striving to remain upbeat, he decided to oblige her. “No. I’m too curious to be sorry. You’re quite an enigma.”

“Me?” She laughed. “Everybody knows everything there is to know about me.”

Did they? People thought they knew him, too. Since his injury, Angelo had begun to wonder if he knew himself.

Alex had assured Angelo that a driver would be waiting to take him to Monta Correnti. A rental car would be at his disposal in the village, but his brother figured Angelo would appreciate having someone else navigate the roads after a long flight. Alex had thought of everything, perhaps so that Angelo wouldn’t have any excuses for backing out.

Atlanta had someone meeting her as well. Even so, they stayed together after deplaning.

“Want me to help you with your bags?” she asked.

“That’s supposed to be my line.”

She tilted her head to one side. “I’m not the one with a bum shoulder.”

“It’s fine,” he protested through gritted teeth.

Her brows rose but she said nothing else as they waited to spot their bags on the conveyor belt. One by one, Atlanta’s four pieces of matching designer luggage came around before Angelo’s large suitcase. She snatched them off before he could offer.

“I thought you said you were going to be in Italy for less than a month?” he drawled as a bushy-haired porter hurried over with a cart. “From the amount of luggage, it looks like you’re planning to move here.”

“I like clothes and shoes.”

“That’s obvious. You could outfit the population of a small country.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry. I’m incredibly selfish when it comes to my shoes. I don’t share.”

“How many pairs did you bring?”

“Twelve, not counting the ones I’m wearing.” She looked inordinately pleased when she announced, “Almost all of them have heels less than one inch.”

“No stilettos?”

“Not a one.”

“Damn.” He spied his bag and moved closer to the conveyor to snatch it. She was at his side in an instant, helping him heft the bulky suitcase off.

“I’ve got it,” he grumbled.

“Of course you do, big he-man that you are. You don’t need anybody.”

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 could get the first words out.

The pre-World-War-II residence was bounded on one side by a cobblestone courtyard, part of which was shaded by a grapevine-draped pergola. Beyond it, the land sloped gently down before falling away completely to reveal a valley dotted with houses, farms and olive groves.

“Stunning,” she agreed. “Well, thank you again. I hope you enjoy your stay here.”

She reached for the door handle, intent on making her exit. Angelo ruined it by following her out.

“From what Alex has told me about the place I’m staying, it has an equally gorgeous view. It’s farther up the hillside. If you want to stop by tomorrow evening, we can compare panoramas before going to dinner.”

The invitation was delivered so smoothly that she nearly agreed. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll be eating in for most of my stay.”

The driver had retrieved her bags from the trunk. Despite her objections, Angelo insisted on carrying one of them to the door. After the man returned to the car to wait, Angelo said, “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 I’ve never been a fan of spaghetti,” he muttered with a shake of his head.

“Actually, I am making ravioli stuffed with portabella mushrooms and roasted garlic.” A young woman stood on the opposite side of the room. Given her apron and her words, he assumed the door from which she’d entered must be the kitchen. She was dark-haired and lovely with surprisingly blue eyes. Eyes that were the exact shade of his, a trait he had inherited from his father.

“Isabella,” he guessed, feeling mule-kicked.

So this was the sister he’d never met and had only learned about recently. Yet another reason to resent Luca. But it wasn’t only resentment he felt. Emotions Angelo couldn’t label, much less process, raced through his head. For so long he’d just had Alex. Now he was meeting a sister, and Luca had two other sons who shared the Casali name, as well.