Bella Rosa Proposals. Barbara McMahon

her to blink. “I…I feel bad about yesterday. About…about how things ended between us.”

      “Well, as you said, it was time for them to end. The game was over and all,” he drawled.

      Atlanta winced. “That came out…”

      “Wrong?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Actually, I appreciate your honesty.”

      She blinked again, this time looking more piqued than perplexed. “I doubt that. You were clearly mad.”

      Royally ticked was more like it. But he smiled now. “Whatever. Water under the bridge.”

      “Then why bring it up?”

      “I didn’t.”

      “You did.”

      Damn. She had him there. He glanced past her up the block. A coffee shop caught his attention. He told himself it was only the promise of his first cup of java that caused him to say, “I want a cannolo.”

      “What?”

      “A cannolo. I’ll buy the espresso if you’ll share your cannoli. It doesn’t even have to be a whole one. I’ll settle for a bite or two.”

      Her eyes narrowed. “You want a cannolo?”

      “That’s what I said.” He held his breath, half expecting her to state the obvious and tell him to go buy his own.

      Instead, to his surprise, she said slowly, “I guess that’s a reasonable trade.”

      The coffee shop was small with limited seating inside and only half a dozen wrought-iron tables and chairs on its speck of a cobblestone patio. Most of the tables indoors were unoccupied, but it was too nice a day to sit inside. Outdoors, only two were empty. They took a seat at one of them and waited for the server to come for their order. Angelo went with espresso, the stronger the better in his opinion, especially given the rough start to his day. Atlanta opted for a cappuccino.

      “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she announced when their beverages arrived.

      “What do you mean by that?” he asked.

      She pointed to the rich froth that topped her cup. “This is steamed whole milk and the espresso isn’t decaffeinated. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I allowed myself to have either?” She didn’t wait for Angelo to answer. “And a cannolo!” She pulled one of the pastries in question from the paper bag. “I would be eating two if you hadn’t talked me into being nice and sharing.”

      She tried to hand him one of the tempting pastries, but he refused to take it. “I’ve changed my mind. I want you to eat them both. And I want to watch.”

      “God, no! Please, Angelo. Save me from myself.” Though the drama of her words was definitely for effect, he sensed a nugget of truth—and perhaps of fear—in them.

      He leaned back in his chair. “What’s to save, sweetheart? Everyone’s entitled to a little indulgence from time to time.”

      Still eyeing the cannolo, she nodded. “I know.”

      “Do you?”

      “Some habits are hard to break,” she said softly.

      “Zeke?”

      She set the cannolo on a napkin and glanced away. “You think it’s stupid that I let a man run my life to such a degree for so long.”

      “Is that what I think? Or is that what you think?” he asked, reneging on his earlier promise to himself to stay out of her business. He’d also vowed to steer clear of her. As the woman said, in for a penny, in for a pound.

      “It’s what I think.”

      “So, how’d it happen?”

      Her brow furrowed. “It wasn’t all at once. I thought I was free…”

      “Free?”

      She cleared her throat. “You know. Footloose and fancy free. God knows, I was all attitude when I first arrived in Hollywood. I didn’t look in the rearview mirror when I left rural Louisiana. I was happy to kiss my hick roots and…and everything else goodbye.”

      The way she hesitated made him think there was more to it than that, but he commented on the obvious. “I thought you were born in Georgia?”

      One side of her mouth rose. “That’s what you’re supposed to think. It was Zeke’s idea after he came up with my name. Atlanta is one of his favorite cities, very cosmopolitan but with a bit of edge. He said it suited me.”

      “What is your given name?”

      “Jane. Jane Marie Lutz.”

      It was a nice enough name, but it didn’t fit her, Angelo decided as he took in the tumble of nearly white hair and the blue eyes that, even without the benefit of much makeup, were her face’s star feature.

      “Forgive me for saying so, but you don’t look like a Jane.”

      Her laughter held little humor. “Zeke’s words exactly. He wanted something exotic, something people would remember. A name that could be used all by itself and people would know who you meant.”

      “Like Cher or Madonna.”

      She nodded. “You got it. The idea of being that famous caught my attention, even if at first I wasn’t too excited about being called Atlanta. Still, I was willing to do whatever Zeke suggested. He was a Hollywood big shot who had managed the careers of some of the hottest names in the business, and I was a nobody who wanted to be a star. I was grateful to him, pathetically so, for believing that I could be.”

      “I don’t think he had to overtax his imagination. He must have seen a spark of something that he knew would have broad appeal.”

      “He saw my body,” she said dryly. “I was nineteen, wearing a G-string and pasties and performing onstage at a gentleman’s club. Not my finest hour and definitely not the career I envisioned when I traded in my Podunk Ville address for a cockroach-invested walkup in Tinsel Town.”

      A G-string and pasties.

      Angelo had too much testosterone not to hone in on those words and be turned on by the erotic image they evoked. Somehow, however, he managed to say in a remarkably normal tone, “It takes more than a hot body and pretty face to become a mainstay in Hollywood. Lots of actresses with only that to recommend them have come and gone, while you’ve remained a box-office draw. You’re selling yourself short again.”

      He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. Neither did she agree. Instead, she tore open a white packet of sugar and added it to her beverage. Another act of defiance, he was sure.

      “So what does all of this have to do with a couple of cannoli and caffeine laced with whole milk and now some sugar?” he asked.

      “Zeke was strict about what I could eat.” She exhaled and shook her head. “And about what I could drink, wear…you name it.”

      “Controlling?”

      “He claimed that he was only looking out for my best interests.”

      Of course he did.

      “Controlling,” Angelo said again, this time not as a question but as a statement.

      “He was right about a lot of things, though. He got me my first big break. I didn’t want the part of Daisy Maddox.” It was the role that had made her a bona fide star. “He insisted I take it and it wound up being my best-grossing movie.”

      “Are you defending him?” Angelo asked.

      “No.” She looked insulted. “I’m merely pointing out the hand he had in making my career.”

      “So, you’re defending him.”

      “No!”

      “He could have had the same