black memories that accompanied them back. Then she glanced at her watch. It was time to go. Thank God, she thought, as she made her way out the suite’s door. She was as eager to leave New York as she’d been to leave Los Angeles. Neither place was welcoming now that Zeke had poisoned the well of public opinion against her and made her a pariah among her peers.
In the elevator, she checked her purse one more time, making sure she had her itinerary, tickets and passport. Her luggage was waiting downstairs. The limousine she’d called for would be at the curb, only a gauntlet of paparazzi to run before she could relax in the relative privacy that its tinted windows would afford.
In a dozen hours she would be in Monta Correnti, Italy. Her stylist, one of the few people from her old life still willing to speak to her, assured Atlanta that the remote hillside village situated between Naples and Rome was the ideal place to drop off the radar, relax and rejuvenate.
God, she hoped Karen Somerville was right. Atlanta was wound so tightly these days she felt ready to explode. But first things first. Sucking in a deep breath, she donned a pair of dark designer sunglasses as the elevator’s doors slid open.
“Show time,” she murmured.
Eyes shaded with his trademark Oakleys, Angelo sauntered into the VIP lounge at JFK International as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Image was everything, especially given all of the speculation swirling around his career.
The official line from the team was that Angelo was suffering pulled ligaments and severe tendonitis in his right shoulder, but that after rest and physical therapy he would return to the regular lineup in the spring. The truth wasn’t quite as rosy as that. In addition to the start of osteoarthritis, he had a torn rotator cuff. Cortisone shots had kept the worst of the arthritis pain at bay in the past, but no shot would take care of the torn cuff.
As the team’s physician bluntly put it, “You need surgery. An injury like this won’t heal on its own. And, given your age, it might never heal well enough to take the abuse heaped on it by a major league ballplayer.”
It all boiled down to a truth he wasn’t ready to accept. Instead of scheduling surgery, he had embraced his brother’s high-handed scheme for a family reunion. He was going to Italy, where he would spend the next couple of weeks. He had no intention of reconnecting with his father, but the gesture would appease Alex. As an added bonus, that little speck on the map was a good place to duck the press and figure out his future.
The bar area of the VIP lounge held only a smattering of patrons. None of them looked up when he entered. They were all important people in their own right—movers, shakers, captains of industry. They didn’t get awestruck or if they did, they hid it well behind blasé attitudes. His ego certainly hoped that was the case with the gorgeous blonde sitting in front of the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked the tarmac.
Despite the oversized sunglasses perched on her small nose, Atlanta Jackson was easy to recognize. The actress had starred in a dozen bona fide blockbusters. He took in the naturally pouty lips and the trademark blonde hair that tumbled just past her shoulders. Interest stirred. Again. He’d met her at a New York nightclub a few years earlier. They’d talked briefly. He’d flirted shamelessly, but to no avail. She’d turned him down flat when he’d asked her to dance. A couple of Angelo’s teammates still liked to razz him about the fact that he, Angelo Casali, had struck out.
She shifted in her seat to cross her legs. The demure hemline of her simple navy dress pulled partway up her thighs. Interest turned to outright lust. Not many women were built as she was: long-limbed and slender, yet curvy in all of the places a man liked to rest his hands. A little less curvy than he recalled. He could guess why. Her image was taking a beating in the tabloids ever since she’d walked out on her much older manager slash boyfriend.
According to one story Angelo had read, the guy claimed Atlanta had betrayed him with a slew of lovers over the years, most recently bedding his twenty-year-old son.
Had she?
Maybe it was Angelo’s ego talking, but the woman who’d turned him down flat in a nightclub a few years earlier hadn’t seemed the sort to stray. With that in mind, he crossed to her table and waited until she looked up to speak.
“I’d offer to buy you a drink, but you’d probably turn me down. So, how about some meaningful conversation until one of our flights boards?”
He couldn’t see her eyes behind the glasses, but her full lips twitched with amusement. “As lines go, that’s very original, Mr. Casali.”
“Thanks.” He didn’t wait to be offered a seat. He pulled out one of the chairs and straddled it backward. “So, you do remember me. I wasn’t sure you would. It’s been a few years.”
His ego took another little hit when she replied, “Well, you’ve been in the news a lot these days.”
“I could say the same about you.”
Her mouth tightened fractionally. “Yes, I have.”
“Is that why you’re wearing sunglasses inside?”
“Maybe.” She motioned to his Oakleys. “And you?”
“Definitely. This way no one can be sure I’m making eye contact with them. I find it discourages conversation.”
A pair of finely arched brows rose over the top rim of her dark lenses.
“You find that ironic,” he guessed.
“A little.” She shrugged delicately.
“Here’s the thing. Since you and I are the only two people in the lounge wearing shades I figure we probably should stick together. You know, play for the same team.”
“Given all that is being said about me right now, are you sure you want me on your team, Mr. Casali?”
“The name is Angelo.” He cocked his head to one side. “We’ll consider this a tryout.”
Atlanta laughed if for no other reason than the man’s sheer nerve. A tryout? She hadn’t had to read for a part in quite a while. The starring roles in her last three movies, each of which had grossed well over a hundred million dollars in the American market alone, had been written specifically with her in mind. Everyone in Hollywood knew that no one played the vulnerable vixen better than Atlanta Jackson. It was her niche. Her character type. She sobered at that.
“What if I don’t want to be on your team?” she asked.
“You do.”
She wanted to be turned off by his unflagging confidence or at the very least irritated by it. She found herself intrigued instead and maybe even a little envious. While she could portray confidence in front of the camera, she seldom felt it in real life. It was just one of the many things she was working to rectify.
“How can you be so sure?” she wanted to know.
“Everyone wants to be on the winning team.”
“And that would be yours?”
“Of course. I’ve got the golden touch. The Rogues are in the playoffs because of me. We’re heading to the World Series.”
“That’s only an assumption at this point.”
“No.
