The Devil Served Desire (12 page)

Even as the words left her lips, though, Maria wasn't so sure it wasn't a losing proposition either way. The word "massage," combined with Dante's hands on her skin, well...

That wasn't losing, was it?

Nor was it staying away from him. Uninvolved. If anything, it was ratcheting up the connection, ten notches at once.

Dante grinned. "Doesn't sound like I really win either way."

"Exactly." She smiled, took a sip of wine. "Your move."

He slid a pawn forward two spaces.

Maria leaped her knight over its pawns.

"Gutsy move," Dante said. "For a girl."

"You ain't seen nothing yet, buddy."

He advanced a second pawn. She countered with one of her own. "Where'd you learn how to play?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I screwed the chess team in high school."

He hesitated, his fingertips on a pawn, his dark brown eyes studying hers. "I don't believe you for a second."

She drew herself up a little, blinking in surprise. "Really?"

"Well, hell, yes, you're a beautiful woman but not a stupid one." He drew out his bishop and aimed it toward her knight. "Or a loose one. You have more character than that."

Maria didn't say anything for a long moment. She didn't move any pieces, didn't sip her wine. When was the last time a man had observed anything about her besides her looks? Particularly something about her character?

"My grandfather. Not Sal, but my mother's father, who died when I was fifteen." She said it softly, with a shrug, pretending the answer was no big deal. "He liked chess. I was the only one who could beat him once in a while. And who didn't mind when he left his teeth on the table."

Dante almost felt bad taking advantage of her reminiscent state. Almost. But this was chess, after all, and, outside of the restaurant he took few things in life as seriously as he did chess. He slid his bishop forward and scooped up her knight.

She cursed under her breath. "That won't happen twice." She slid her own bishop out to take his.

Damn. She'd thought three steps ahead of him. Clearly, he'd met someone who took the game even more seriously than he did. "You-you—"

"What?"

"You took my bishop."

She grinned. "That's the objective, Dante."

He paused, his hand halfway to a piece on his side of the board. "Say that again."

"That's the objective? What, do you want me to rub it in?"

"No. Say my name."

"Why?" She smiled. "Did you forget it?"

He rested his arms on the table, his attention now off the game and on her mouth, wanting to see the little slip of her tongue when it formed the vowels in his name, the slight opening of her parted lips. "I like the way it sounds when you say it."

"Your move," she reminded him.

She hadn't said his name. With a twinge of disappointment, he reached forward and started to slide a pawn up two spaces.

"
Dante
, "she said, her voice deep and throaty, a caress that tingled through him with the force of a tidal wave.

The pawn tumbled to the board, teetering on its side.

"Oh, am I distracting you,
Dante?
" She gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence.

He smirked. "You don't play fair."

She gave him an answering grin. "I hate to lose."

"A woman after my own heart."

"Not your heart," she said, moving her rook forward two spaces, "just your king."

Dante's Hot-and-Spicy Rigatoni-to-Remember

1/2 pound pancetta, diced

1/4 cup olive oil

1 onion, chopped

1 red pepper, chopped

3 cups canned Italian plum tomatoes, strained

4 cloves garlic

1/8  teaspoon red pepper flakes

Salt

1/2 pound rigatoni, cooked al dente

8 to 10 basil leaves

3 sprigs parsley

2/3 cup Pecorino cheese, grated

Sauté the pancetta over a medium flame, keeping the heat up in your own kitchen, too. Don't back down now, she's beginning to cave. Add the oil, the onion and the pepper, sautéing until onion is translucent. Now add tomatoes, garlic, red pepper flakes and a pinch of salt.

Set things to simmering—in the pan and with the woman. You've got a good half hour to get her temperature up, but be careful not to let anything boil over.

Pour sauce over cooked rigatoni. Sprinkle with basil, parsley and grated Pecorino. Serve immediately. It'll be sure to add a little bite to things.

One hour and the entire bottle of Chianti later, Maria had Dante against the wall. "Checkmate," she said.

"I refuse to give up that easily." He bent over the board, looking one way, then the other, studying every angle like a mouse hoping to find a cranny to escape past the cat.

"Besides your king, you have three pieces left on the board," Maria said. "Or should I call them eunuchs?"

"Hey, pawns can be very effective warriors."

"Face it. You lost. To a girl."

He studied the board a moment longer, then tipped his king in defeat. "You're good."

"No, I'm
very
good."

Dante leaned forward, his gaze locking with hers. The wine had softened everything between them and when she looked at him now, a slow, burning want churned in her gut. The kind of comfortable sexy feeling that grew after years together. Not hours.

"At everything?" he asked.

What was it about this man that made her want to settle down and play house? Or at the very least, play bedroom and skip all the boring parts?

"You'll never know." She arched a brow and leaned back, determined to break the connection, yet not doing a very good job of it.

"Wanna bet?"

She laughed. "You've already lost to me once. You went down in flames that would embarrass Napoleon. And now you're challenging me again?"

The smile that curved across his face melted her resolve like butter on angel-hair pasta. "I'm a glutton for punishment."

No. She wouldn't do this. He was all wrong for her. Already he had her thinking about white picket fences and comparing him to illegal foods. Next she'd be kissing him between bites of three-cheese lasagna. And Mamma would be getting the calla lilies in order like soldiers going to war.

Antonio
was the man she wanted. A man who didn't require a commitment, a key to her apartment, or one to her heart.

"You're a man who has kept me up past my bedtime." She faked a yawn, got to her feet and pushed her chair back under the table.

Dante rose, came around to her side and took the wineglass from her hands, laying it beside her victorious queen. She could feel the tension building between them and knew what came next would undo her resolve as quickly as a whiff of Guido's manicotti.

But try as she might she couldn't step away. Couldn't back up. Could barely remember to breathe. Dante was in control of her emotions, her actions.

Everything
.

She watched, mesmerized, as his hand came back up to her chin. He trailed a finger along her jaw in a touch so gentle it could have been a whisper. Everything within her, kept on a tight rottweiler-worthy leash during the game, erupted in pandemonium like zoo animals suddenly freed.

"You don't look sleepy," he said.

"I'm exhausted."

"You may be good at chess," Dante said, his finger now toying with her bottom lip, "but you really stink at lying."

She opened her mouth to his touch, wanting more, wanting to take that finger in and taste him, to consume him like all the foods she'd denied herself these last few days.

He was watching her with those hypnotic chocolate eyes, that dimple beside his smile, all saying he knew the effect he had on her and he was enjoying having the upper hand.

Damn him. That was why she stuck to men like Antonio, who filled her bed for a few hours and nothing else.

Because
she
had the upper hand then. She was the one who teased and tempted. And who said it was over when it was obvious the relationship had become more drain than fun. When she, in short, had had enough.

But this time, she couldn't get enough. Heck, she couldn't even begin to get a taste.

His finger slipped into her mouth, just a fraction of an inch, tipping at her teeth, and she couldn't hold back anymore.

Her tongue zipped forward to taste the tip of his finger, her teeth holding it lightly there, a hostage in her mouth. He tasted of salt and warmth and—

"Dante," she groaned, her mouth parted now, asking for more than a finger to satiate the appetite within her.

"Maria," he said, his voice just as husky and full of want. He leaned forward and for one brief, frustrating second, kissed her. Then he pulled back and broke the contact between them. "Do you regret that kiss?"

"Oh... no," she breathed.

"Then we have a problem."

"A problem?"

He gave her a lopsided grin. "Yeah. You're falling for me, like it or not." He kissed her again, hot, sweet and short—much, much too short. "And that means your Mamma might just be right about me."

Then he was gone, leaving her with a fire in her belly and an unasked question still on her lips.

Thank God the lone leftover Guido's manicotti was still in her fridge. She needed that and a damned good vibrator if she was ever going to get to sleep tonight.

Papa's Simple-Answers Cookies and Beer

1 six-pack Samuel Adams beer

1 package biscotti

Open the beer. Take a drink, then flip channels until you find the Celts, the Knicks or two men beating the hell out of each other. Take another drink, then switch the channel because there's another goddamned commercial for Depends on.

Call for your wife to bring biscotti. Eat between sips and flips.

Kick back in the recliner and count your blessings, life is damned good.

Early the next morning, before she headed to work, Maria's doorbell rang. "Couldn't take losing, could you?" Maria said as she pulled open the door, expecting Dante and finding—

Malcolm in the Middle.

"Are you Maria?" the kid said, his face all toothy and acne-riddled. He looked like he'd picked up his driver's license on the way over.

"Yes." She narrowed her gaze. She had ho weapons nearby, but then again, this skinny teen wasn't big enough to take her on. As a size almost-ten, she could take him, should he try anything funny like trying to commandeer her TV for a PlayStation party. "Why?"

He shifted from foot to foot, a blush creeping up his collar and blooming in pale cheeks, seeping into his blond hairline. "I hear you're looking for a man. And uh"—he drew himself up to his full five-foot-eight height, letting out a John Wayne-type gust of testosterone— "I’m a man. Well, almost. I'm eighteen in six weeks."

"Who told you—"

No. She wouldn't. She
couldn't
have.

The teenager gave her a smile that had given some orthodontist a Benz. "Gerry at Paulie's Grocery said you were pretty hard up. Being as old as you are and all."

"I am not old and I am not hard up," Maria said, her fingers tightening on the door. "And you can tell Gerry that if he helps my mother anymore, he'll get a zucchini up his—"

But Malcolm in the Middle was already gone. Maybe the impending wrinkles on her face had scared him away. It was either that or the thought of losing his virginity to a member of the squash family.

That night, as soon as she got off work, Maria headed over to her mother's house. She timed her arrival to miss the calories of dinner but still catch her mother in the kitchen, where she was easiest to pin down for a conversation.

"Mamma, this has to stop," Maria said.

Biba hurried around her kitchen, stacking dinner dishes in the sink, then filling it with soapy water. Nonna stood to the left, drying the finished plates. "Stop what?" Mamma asked, all innocent

"Trying to marry me off like I'm some reject from a leper colony."

"I am not."

"Then why did a seventeen-year-old boy show up on my doorstep this morning, offering to take this 'old lady' out for a spin?"

From her place by the sink, Nonna snickered.

"I did nothing," Mamma said. "All I did was talk to Mary Louise Zipparetto's mamma in the checkout line. Maybe some snoop overheard."

Mary Louise Zipparetto. Everything bad in Maria's life could be traced back to that one name.

"Did you say anything to Gerry?" she asked.

"I only make conversation." Mamma scrubbed at the plates in the sink. "It's rude not to talk to the bag boy. He packs my bags so nice. Cans always on the bottom."

"He does a good job," Nonna piped up. "Never an egg broken."

"Mamma, I don't need you advertising for a husband for me when you redeem your double coupons."

"I'm only helping."

"Why won't you listen to me?" Maria sighed and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. "I am not going to get married.
Ever
."

Mamma clasped her hands over her ears, soap dripping from her fingers and onto her shoulders. Then she dropped one hand to her chest and made the sign of the cross, fast and furious. "The devil has ears, you know."

Maria rolled her eyes. "Mamma, all single people do not go to hell."

Mamma choked back a sob and laid a rooster serving bowl carefully into the sink, sniffling as she did. "Never will I hear the laugh of my grandchildren."

"And never smell the diaper of one, either.
Che puzza!
" Nonna pinched her nose. "Those plastic ones hold a lot of stink."

Clearly, she wasn't getting anywhere here. Maria left the kitchen to go farther up the chain of command.

"You should marry a good Italian boy," Papa said, settling into his worn black leather La-Z-Boy and flinging out the recliner base like a warrior girding up for couch potato battle. "Like your mamma did."

"Papa, I'm not interested in getting married."