Bella Rosa Proposals. Barbara McMahon
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of it could hold a candle to the stuff Angelo had sampled at Rosa earlier in the day, a fact that made him feel strangely proud and definitely uneasy.
The thing that helped banish both was watching Atlanta eat. She pulled off one of the two slices of provolone and half of the salami, setting them aside with the top slice of bread. No doubt she was tallying up carb and protein grams as she went. Afterward, she went after what remained of the sandwich with dainty nibbles that barely put a dent in the hefty ciabatta. It was the damned cannoli all over again. Angelo stifled the urge to comment. Instead he went after his own sandwich with a gusto that far inflated his actual enjoyment of it.
When he glanced up, Atlanta was watching him. He took another bite and added a few sound effects as he chewed. “Mmm-mmm.”
Her gaze narrowed and she set her open-faced sandwich on her plate where she piled the rest of the ingredients back on, including the second slice of ciabatta. She lifted the finished product with a flourish, her expression as steely and no-nonsense as a gunslinger’s. Then she brought the sandwich to her mouth. No dainty nip for her this time. She opened wide and came away with enough to keep her chewing for the next couple minutes. He watched her the entire time, that same odd mixture of pride and unease making his skin prickle.
She wasn’t able to finish the sandwich. No surprise there since the portion had been generous. Still, she’d eaten more than half of it before calling it quits and even then had gone back to loot some of the good stuff from inside.
“I really enjoyed that,” she admitted, settling back in her chair on a sigh that, to Angelo’s way of thinking, seemed way too close to those issued during post-coital bliss.
“I enjoyed watching you.”
“So how does it rate?”
Lost as he was in carnal thoughts, the question had his mouth dropping open. “Rate?” he repeated inanely.
“You know, compared to Rosa.”
“Oh. Right. Food. And Rosa.” The words marched out his mouth in staccato procession.
Atlanta laughed, enjoying him as much as she’d just enjoyed her sandwich. “I’m not even going to ask what you thought I wanted you to rate.”
“Wise move, though I’ll be happy to tell you.”
He was back to flirting. She decided to play along. “Fine. Tell.”
His brows rose. Clearly, he hadn’t expected her to call him on it. Would he back down?
The answer was clear as soon as he said, “We danced about it earlier today.”
“Ah, attraction.”
“Let’s call it what it really is. Sex.”
At the coffee shop she’d gotten all riled for reasons that had nothing to do with the man sitting before her. Did he think she would again? Was he testing her?
“So we were,” she said nonchalantly.
He smiled, as if pleased by the way she was rallying. Then he asked point-blank, “How long has it been for you?”
“How long has…?” She sputtered out a mild oath before regaining her composure. She was offended, she reminded herself, even as heat curled through her. “Some questions are too rude to warrant an answer. Or are you one of those men who love to kiss and tell?”
Her reprimand left him undeterred. “I’m discreet. I see no reason to brag.” Then he got back to her sex life. “I’m guessing it’s been a while.”
She was not going to have this conversation. But she heard herself ask, “What makes you so sure?”
“Even though you ended things with Zeke about six months ago, if things weren’t going well, the two of you probably weren’t sleeping together for a while before then. So, it’s been months, perhaps more than a year.”
“What about all of the lovers I’ve supposedly had?”
“I’m not buying it.”
She swallowed, pathetically pleased and grateful. She was back to irritated when he said, “I’m not Zeke.”
“I wasn’t mistaking you for him.”
His eyes narrowed. “But I’m betting you’ve done some comparing.”
She flushed guiltily and was grateful they were seated outside under the uneven glow of hanging lanterns.
“For the record,” he was saying, “I’m younger, fitter and a whole lot more accommodating.”
“Thanks for the heads up.”
He wasn’t put off by her bored attitude. He leaned over the table, lowered his voice. “I like you. I’m attracted to you. I can’t promise you that whatever happens between us will last beyond Italy. I never make any kind of promises. And you may be okay with that since you aren’t looking for strings. But, given our individual circumstances, a few fireworks might be a welcome diversion for both of us.”
Angelo was turning her inside out with his words, but she felt no shame, nor was she visited by any bitter memories. Even her current troubles blended into the background, until the only thing left was temptation and something akin to yearning. She recalled Sara’s suggestion of a vacation fling. A post-Zeke fling.
“And you can guarantee those?” she asked as sparks showered her skin.
“With a little encouragement and participation, of course.” He reached over to stroke the side of her face. “Lovemaking is all about give and take. It’s not just about having control, but giving it to the other person. Both parties end up satisfied that way.”
His words had heat suffusing her face as well as regions of a body that had been languishing in permafrost for far longer than he assumed. Give and take. In her experience only one of those two verbs had ever come into play, unless she was in front of a camera with a director calling the shots.
Her voice wasn’t quite steady when she asked, “Are you finished with your analysis, Dr. Freud?”
“For now. The rest can wait for another time.”
Because she found herself surprisingly eager for future tutelage, Atlanta decided to change the subject. “As fascinating as I find our conversation, I’m afraid jet lag is catching up with me.”
“Does that mean you want me to take you home?”
She nodded. Then, tipping her head to one side, she asked, “Mad?”
“Disappointed, but it’s just as well. I don’t think either of us is ready for what our raging hormones have in store.”
Not ready in the least, she knew. But that didn’t stop her from dreaming about it when, later that evening, she fell asleep in her bed all alone.
From his prone position on the mattress, Angelo stared up at the bedroom ceiling. As his gaze idly traced the shadows thrown from the bedside lamp, he recounted the evening.
That wasn’t something he did normally, even when the evening in question ended on a far more satisfactory note. Yet he didn’t feel frustrated exactly, sexually or otherwise. Like a damned moth, he just felt drawn and more curious than ever about the woman most of the world thought they knew.
He flipped to his side, recalling the way Atlanta had looked when he’d left her on her doorstep. He’d waited, and, yes, he’d hoped that she would invite him inside. Whether for a nightcap or something more, he hadn’t cared. he’d only known that he hadn’t wanted the evening to end. But she hadn’t invited him in. Instead, she’d smiled and bade him goodnight.
With a handshake!
Left with little choice, he’d taken her hand, pumped it delicately and released it so quickly it might as well have been a poisonous snake. Patience, he’d reminded himself. He was pretty certain she was a woman who’d had some bad breaks when