The Devil Served Desire (15 page)

"I mean it. You know your stuff. I'm not just talking about what you did with the food critic either. These ideas are the kinds of things that will make Vita a bit different from the other restaurants. Set us apart, give us that touch people remember. Make it live up to its name." His gaze softened and he put the basket back on the counter. "And my dad's vision."

"Well, good." Maria swallowed, wanting to touch him, to somehow show she'd heard the emotion in his voice, but not quite knowing how to do that. She opted to do nothing because it was easier than saying words that would build any more of a connection with him. "I'm glad I could help."

"So," Dante said, his voice changing in pitch back to normal tones, "how do I do that with you?"

"Do what?"

"Build goodwill." He twirled the basket on the smooth granite surface. "I think it's going to take more than some wicker and a few cookies."

"Why do you keep trying? I told you, I'm not interested."

"In me? Or dating?"

"Both."

"Bull." He gestured to her cell phone. "You made a date for tonight."

"With a man who has no use for marriage and doesn't expect anything out of me."

Dante gave her a lopsided smile. "Now where's the fun in that?"

She wasn't going to answer that question. Not now, not later. Not until she was seventy-five and no one cared if she was married.

She didn't want commitment and predictability. Both were traps that sucked in her heart and made her trust. Then, when she least expected it, she'd find another woman under the man who "loved" her because Maria hadn't been enough for him.

She put on her professional face, totaled up his order and raised her pen to the date section. "When would you like the first delivery?"

"As soon as you're available."

"Sorry. Not my department." She gave him a pleasant, noncommittal smile. "Rebecca is the ambassador of goodwill. And good cookies." Maria tore off the order sheet and handed it to Dante. "She'll take care of you."

He took the paper, folded it and put it in his shirt pocket without looking at it. "You wouldn't be avoiding me, would you?"

"Of course not." But even as she said the words, she knew they were a lie. She was in charge of sales. She could both assign and personally take over an account. Neither Candace nor Rebecca would care. She told herself it was easier this way. Distance herself from him now— before all the wine and linguine reeled her into the exact web her mother wanted to weave for her daughter.

He leaned in close, the look in his eyes half tease, half desire. And maybe, a flicker of disappointment, too. "Like I told you before, you're a really bad liar. And I intend to prove it to you."

Then he was gone. And Maria knew she was in trouble. Dante was as stubborn as her mother.

If Biba Pagliano and Dante Del Rosso ever joined forces, Maria would be a goner.

Nonna's Theory-of-Men Tri-Colored Fusilli with Vegetables

1 red onion, sliced

3 cloves garlic

Olive oil

1 big zucchini

Thyme

Marjoram

1 pound fusilli

Basil leaves

Salt and pepper

1 large red pepper

1 large yellow pepper

2 tomatoes, chopped

Fresh parsley

Grated Parmigiano Reggiano

Don't be asking me for measurements now. I cook the old way—throw it in by instinct. It's how you should choose a man, too. Trust your nose; it'll tell you if he's a good choice or if you should put him on the curb for the pigeons to crap on.

Dice your onions and garlic, then sauté them with the oil. Next, slice the zucchini into little sticks. Sauté it with some thyme and marjoram in the same pan. Dip a ladle in the pasta water, drop it into your pan, then cover and simmer your zucchini till it's as tender as a man's true heart. If he isn't nice to you, you don't need him. Life's too short for men with no manners for a lady.

Cook the fusilli until al dente. Meanwhile, add lots of basil, a bit of oil, some salt and pepper to your zucchini. Go with your instincts. They'll tell you the right choice to make. In life and in cooking.

Dice your peppers, sauté them for a bit in a separate pan, just to soften their hard shells (like a man who needs a swift kick from a woman to get his smart ass in gear), then add the chopped tomatoes. Salt as needed.

A little seasoning is always a good thing. Like a good fight adds spice to a marriage. Keeps him on his toes and doesn't let him get too comfortable in his damned chair.

Stir in the drained fusilli and zucchini, cover and cook for another minute or two. Serve with the Parmigiano on the side. That's the only thing your man should have on the side—a little cheese.

If it doesn't work out, then toss the whole thing and start again. It's just a meal, not a marriage. With a man, you need a bit more patience and a hell of a big sense of humor.

She had to go in there. It was either that or play subway sumo wrestling with the other five o'clock commuters to get over to Downtown Grossing and pray she could find something that fit—and she could afford— in twenty minutes, then hop back on the train for home.

Antonio was coming at seven. She didn't have enough time for T games.

Maria stood on the sidewalk outside her mother's house off of Hanover Street and debated. Inside was a killer black dress she'd stored in her old bedroom. The kind of dress guaranteed to make Antonio sweat.

But another very dangerous thing lurked inside. Her mother's quilting club.

She squared her shoulders and vowed to march in there, grab the dress out of the back bedroom and—

Sneak out the back door before those women could get their matchmaking paws on her.

She made it as far as the front hall. "Maria? Is that you?" her mother called from the dining room table. "Come, say hello."

"Mamma, I'm late. I need to grab a dress and—"

"You come in. Say hello." When her mother spoke in that tone, arguing with her was about as productive as trying to take a bone from a pit bull.

Maria poked her head into the dining room as little as possible. "Nice to see you, Mrs. Tamburo and Mrs. Benedetto. Hello, Nonna."

She didn't pull her head back fast enough. Rosa Benedetto was the first to put in her ante. "Maria, my Nicky is out on parole next week, you know."

"Great." Maria tried again to leave but Mamma came up beside her, blocking the way. She bent over, ostensibly looking for thread in the little sewing caddy beside the doorway.

"You always liked Nicky," Rosa said, arching a brow. "He has the eyes."

"What eyes? I never see no eyes," Lucia Tamburo said.

"The eyes. The kind women like," Rosa said.

"Women like eyes that stay at home. Not go roaming around the neighborhood like a tomcat in heat," Nonna said. She snipped the end of the thread on the pastel baby quilt she was making as a good luck charm for newlywed and as-yet-not-pregnant cousin Rosina. "He got eyes like that?"

"He's been in jail for three years. He's gonna look at his woman, believe me." Rosa put down her sewing and gave Maria a nod. "He always like you. Whenever I go see him at Cedar Junction, he say, 'Mamma, how's that Maria? She was a looker.' "

Mamma found a spool of black thread and straightened. "How he going to support my daughter with the jail on his record?"

"Mamma, I'm not marrying Nicky. I'm only here to borrow—"

"Are you saying my Nicky isn't good enough for your daughter?"

"Beggars can't be choosers," Lucia said with a shrug. "Not at her age."

"I am not that—"

"Rosa, you know trouble hangs around Nicky like pigeons around a bakery." Mamma took a seat across from Rosa and picked up her wedding ring pattern quilt.

Rosa thrust a fist onto her hip. "Nicky is not trouble."

"Then why is he in jail?" Nonna asked. "Three years is no vacation."

"He didn't take that car. He borrowed it. How you expect him to get to work with no car?"

Mamma waved a hand and let out a mutter of disagreement.

"God gave him two legs," Nonna said. "And a subway system."

"Nicky can't ride the T." Rosa heaved a sigh. "He's color blind."

"Maria should date my grandson," Lucia piped up. "He's very good with color. You should see how he decorated the ladies' bathroom at the Sons of Italy hall. The boy knows his pinks." She emphasized the point with a needle.

Maria knew the only way to end this. Offer herself up for sacrifice. "Actually, I have a date tonight."

The heads of all four women in the room swiveled faster than a lazy Susan on a power drill. "You do?" they said in concert.

"Yes. That's why I need the dress. I don't want to be late."

Mamma jumped to her feet. "We get the dress."

"I can get it myself. It's in my old closet."

"I help you; make sure you get the right one." Mamma was fast on Maria's heels now, her hand at her daughter's back, lest she escape without providing details. They headed up the stairs to Maria's old room. "Who is this boy? What does he do?"

"Mamma..." Maria warned. "It's just a date. Nothing more."

"Do I know his family?" Her mother put a finger to her chin. "Is it Angie Giovanni's boy? He's no good, you know. Never calls his mother."

"It's not him." They had reached the top of the stairs. The door to Maria's old bedroom was three feet to the left. "Mamma, I can get my own dress."

Her mother didn't take a hint well. She opened the door for her daughter and entered the room, taking a seat on the old twin bed with the pink ruffled comforter. "Where is he taking you? Somewhere nice?"

"I don't know. We didn't talk about it yet."

Her mother tsk-tsked. "Not a good sign. A man should warn a woman. Let her be ready."

Maria opened the closet door and rummaged past the size sixes. Shoved the size eights aside. Took a longing glance at the tens before digging past them and finding the black dress she was looking for. Long, sleek, shiny.

And best of all, with a ten percent Lycra count.

"Make sure he opens the door." Mamma reached back and fluffed the two pillows, even though they had gone unused for the better part of eight years. "He treat you nice, or he answer to your papa."

"Mamma—" Maria bit her tongue. She could stand here and argue chivalrous conduct for an hour or just nod her head and escape unscathed. "He'll hold the door. Or he'll answer to me first."

Mamma rose and crossed to her daughter. She patted Maria's cheek. "That's my girl. So strong."

"Thanks, Mamma."

Her mother's face took on a stern look. "But don't be so strong you act like a man. Ask for help with the car, the sink." She nodded. "Men, they like that."

"I'm not some damsel in distress who needs a man to help me out of the castle." Maria shifted the dress in her arms. "I can change my own oil, fix my own faucet, even pay bills without any help. I don't need a man to fix anything.''

Mamma's soft brown eyes met hers. "Ah, but you do,
cara
." Her palm rested again on Maria's cheek, but this time in a quiet, gentle touch. "To fix your heart."

Antonio's Tempting-Maria Wine-St
u
ffed Apples

1/2 cup golden raisins

1/2 cup dried cherries

1 cinnamon stick

1/2 cup sugar

Pinch of grated nutmeg

Grated lemon zest

3/4 cup water

3/4 cup Marsala wine

6 tart apples

3 tablespoons butter

Ah, apples. The fruit of temptation. Start by combining everything but the butter and the apples. Let this spicy stuffing sit for an hour while you whisper the sweet words she wants to hear.

Preheat the oven to 375 degrees while she's getting hot, from the magic of your touch and your words. Wash and core the apples, being sure not to cut through the bottoms. Wouldn't want your stuffing to leak out too soon, now would you? Divide the delectable mixture between the apples, filling the hollowed cores just as you'll fill the empty void in her Friday night.

Arrange the apples in a buttered dish. Pour the remaining wine mixture around them, then top each with a little pat of butter for additional richness.

Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, basting with the wine mixture every few minutes. Serve hot, with a dish of cold ice cream on the side. The mixture of sensations is guaranteed to set her palate on fire while the wine will sweeten the way for you.

And she'll be putty in your hands once again.

Maria heard Antonio before she saw him. The red Ferrari came zooming down her street, breaking the speed limit three times over. When he stopped outside her building, the tires squealed in protest.

She headed downstairs to greet him. He stood outside the car, holding the passenger's side door open with all the flourish of one of Bob Barker's girls.

"Maria,'' he said in a dark, deep tone that made her name sound like the title of a really good porno.

And all comparisons to game show help disappeared.

Antonio's black hair was slicked back from his head, emphasizing his dark eyes. He wore a white collarless shirt open at the neck and tapered black dress pants that showed off his trim, tight abs.

Oh, Mamma.

She came around the car to his side. "Hi."

A long, slow smile stole across his features. "You haven't seen me in years. Can't you come up with a better greeting?" Then he leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers.

The Fourth of July fireworks over the Esplanade had nothing over a kiss from Antonio. He was good. No, he was damned good. And she remembered all over again why she'd offered to be his love slave back in high school.

'There," he said, ending the kiss, "that's how you say hello to an old friend."

"I can't wait to see how we say good-bye."

He chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, easing her into the car. "Patience,
bignole
, patience," he said, calling her "cream puff," just as he had all those years ago.