LITMIR.BIZ

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“I can’t quite figure you out, Atlanta.”

      Her laughter was bitter. “No one else seems to have a problem.”

      “Yeah, I thought I had, too. But you’re a bundle of contradictions. Strong one moment, vulnerable the next.”

      She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Maybe I’m both. Maybe I’m neither. I am an actress.”

      “Uh-uh. My turn to tell you I’m not buying it. This is you. Not an act. Contradictions,” he said again. “Like the way you keep telling me no but—”

      That was as far as he got. She shot to her feet, rapping her hip against the edge of the table and spilling both of their beverages.

      “When I say no, I mean no.”

      “Atlanta.”

      “No means no!”

      He reached out a hand in entreaty, but she shook her head, turned and fled.

      CHAPTER FIVE

       What was that all about?

      Alone at the café, Angelo slumped back in his chair and replayed the encounter. Atlanta had surprised him twice. First, by turning the tables on him and questioning what his secrets and vulnerabilities might be. And then with her overreaction to his admittedly poor choice of words.

      He was a firm believer that when a woman said no, she meant no, but that was in the bedroom. He hadn’t been talking about sex, at least not directly; although where Atlanta was concerned, it was much on his mind.

      “I should have walked the other way,” he muttered.

      He didn’t have time to sort through her emotional baggage. As she’d already figured out, he had enough of his own.

      Standing, he tossed some bills onto the table alongside her discarded cannoli and left to meander through the town. He had a little more time to kill before seeing Isabella.

      Everyone he passed in Monta Correnti was friendly. From the shop owners to their customers to the people milling about on the streets, they smiled and called out polite greetings. But not one of them asked for Angelo’s autograph. Not one of them asked him to stop and pose for a photograph. Almost absently, he rubbed his shoulder. Just as he had at the airport in Rome, he found anonymity disturbing. He also found his need for fame disturbing.

      What insecurities are you hiding? Atlanta had asked.

       “Buongiorno.”

      He glanced up to find a young woman standing beside a pushcart of freshly cut flowers. The blooms were separated by kind and color and tucked into individual buckets of water. The overall effect was lovely, as was the cart’s owner. He guessed her to be in her mid-twenties. She had a ripe figure, Sophia Loren eyes and mahogany-colored hair that tumbled halfway down her back.

      “Hi, uh, buongiorno.”

      She switched to English when she asked, “Do you see something you like, signor?”

      The invitation in her smile was unmistakable, as was his appalling lack of interest. Here was the kind of mindless distraction he needed, yet the thought of spending time with her—clothed or otherwise—held virtually no appeal. Now, if she’d had blonde hair and blue eyes…He glanced past her to the cart.

      “Um, how about some roses?”

      “Roses.” Her disappointment was clear.

      “A dozen white.” The perfect peace offering for his sister, he decided.

      The woman gathered the blooms and added some greenery to the arrangement. Her movements were deft but her enthusiasm to make a sale had waned considerably. That much was all the more obvious when she thrust the bouquet into his hands and spat out a price.

      He was reaching into his pocket for his wallet when a burly older man rushed over shouting something in Italian. The words were directed at the young woman, who cast Angelo a second appraising look before leaving.

      “You are Luca’s son, no?”

      Despite the label’s uncomfortable fit, Angelo answered, “Yes, um, sì.”

      “I am Andrea. I own the village floral shop. My daughter, Bianca, looks after the cart for me. I provide flowers for the tables at Rosa.” He cast another dark look in her direction before continuing. “Luca, he is so good to me and my family. He is good to many of us in Monta Correnti. So, I give you these flowers for half the price.”

      Angelo fought the ridiculous urge to argue. Instead he offered a stilted, “Grazie.”

      After twenty minutes of brooding and walking, he arrived at his father’s restaurant. The exterior of Rosa was just as his brother described it, a rustic stone façade with arched windows. Directly next to it was the more upscale eatery Sorella. Their aunt, Luca’s older sister Lisa, owned it. The two restaurants shared a wall and a gated courtyard, but otherwise they had little in common.

      According to Alex, Sorella’s cuisine was contemporary and international, the sort of stuff that could be found at the trendy restaurants of New York. That sounded more like Angelo’s kind of thing. A peek through the restaurant’s wide windows revealed a stylish interior that leaned toward modern with its chrome and glass fixtures and sleek furnishings.

      Definitely more my thing, he thought. The designer he’d hired a couple years back to make over his Manhattan apartment had done the rooms in a similar style.

      Both restaurants were open for business. Rosa’s door was propped open. Music drifted from inside, something classical and soothing that probably was written around the same time the building was erected. Angelo stepped through the door and was immediately welcomed by the aroma of freshly baked bread and the same tomato sauce Isabella had made for him the evening before. His stomach growled.

      A young woman stood at the hostess station. She smiled politely and offered a greeting.

      “Ciao,” he replied. “I’m Angelo Casali.” His name, he figured, would say it all.

      Based on the way her face lit up, it did. “Sì,sì. Yes. Welcome. Signor Casali is not here.”

      Which was exactly why Angelo was willing to set foot in the place today. He smiled.

      “Actually, I was hoping to see Isabella. Her husband told me I might find her here.”

      “Isabella. Sì. She is taking a telephone call right now, but I will tell her you are here. Have a seat.” The young woman pointed to a table near the front window that offered a view of the street. “Can I get you a cup of espresso to drink while you wait?”

      The thought of more caffeine on an empty stomach held zero appeal. “Just water, please.”

      She returned a moment later with a bottle of sparkling water and a glass.

      “Isabella said to tell you she will be with you soon. Also, your cousin Scarlett is in her office. Shall I get her for you?”

      “No. That’s all right. I don’t want to disturb her.”

      He was bound to meet all of the Casali clan before he returned to New York, but he wasn’t in the mood to do it now. The young woman nodded and left him to greet a group of tourists that had just come through the door.

      Though it was barely a quarter past noon, Rosa was already filling up with patrons. The place was popular, no doubt about it. He figured the rich aromas that had greeted him when he stepped through the door explained why. He’d come here on a mission. He didn’t want to be hungry. Nor did he want to feel this odd sense of pride. But he did.

      Someone arrived with a basket of warm bread. When he glanced up to offer his thanks, he saw that it was Isabella.

      “Angelo. Hello. I hope you are well rested.” The words were offered with a polite if restrained smile. His doing, he knew.

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