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
