The Devil Served Desire (22 page)

It was worse. Envisioning what could be, rather than what was right there.

He moved a rook, without thinking of the consequences. Maria pounced on it with her queen and took the piece away. "Check," she said.

"Damn." The tables weren't just turned, they were spinning.

She grinned. "Your turn to strip."

"What do you want me to take off first?"

She perused him, her gaze teasing. "Oh, it's all good. You choose."

He began to unbutton his shirt but his fingers stumbled because he couldn't seem to redirect his gaze on anything but her.

Maria's chest heaved with her intake of breath. She swallowed, watching him. Then, in one graceful, feline movement, she got to her feet and came around to his side of the table. "Let me," she said, her voice deep and husky and full of everything that was churning within him, too.

Her fingers slid along the buttons, slipping them through the holes with a deftness that belied the desire surely coursing through her. If her hormones were operating at even one tenth the level of his, she'd barely be coherent, never mind able to work fastening products.

When she was done, she slid her hands across his chest, warmth against warmth, skin on skin, up and over his shoulders, releasing the cotton from his body in one fell double swoop that puddled it on the floor. She took a final step closer, joining their torsos, and kissed him, her mouth hot against his.

The lace of her bra awakened every nerve on the bare skin of his chest. She tilted her pelvis, her skirt pressing against his pants. Her mouth opened against his and her tongue darted in, taking from him and demanding everything he had to give.

He leaned forward and with one hand, swept the game to the floor, the pieces plinking against each other as they tumbled to the carpet. Then he scooped her up and onto the small gateleg table, fitting himself into the space between her legs, feeling her skirt ride up those hips, knowing she wore nothing underneath and wishing he were naked, too.

To hell with his idea. To hell with falling in love. To hell with everything but Maria and now and hot, passionate sex.

Their mouths were on fire against one another, teasing and nipping, pulling and giving. His hands reached up and tugged the silky straps of her bra down her shoulders, allowing her breasts to spill forward against his chest.

She leaned back and he paused in his kiss long enough to look at the glorious figure before him. "You are incredible," he said. "A perfect woman."

"I'm not—"

"Going to negate my compliment," he interrupted, a finger to her lips. "Everything about you is beautiful and perfect and pleasing. And if I don't make love to you right now, I think I will regret it for the rest of my life."

"If you don't make love to me right now, I'll make sure you regret it," she said with a grin.

Then she reached for his belt buckle.

And his brain turned to mush.

Maria's Too-Sweet-to-Be-Good-for-You Mascarpone and Berries

1 pound raspberries

1/4 cup confectioners' sugar

8 ounces mascarpone cheese

6 ounces plain yogurt

1 pound strawberries, hulled

Anything this delectable has to be bad for you. But it looks too good to resist, so why not make it better? Puree half the raspberries with the sugar and set aside. Mix the cheese and the yogurt until your willpower is completely gone and your conscience has fallen silent.

Spread the raspberry sauce on a plate, then top with a mini-mountain of mascarpone and a pile of strawberries. Be careful... this is the kind of indulgence that leads to many, many more.

Maria woke up to regrets and mascarpone cheese on toast, with plump, ripe strawberries on the side.

Dante stood beside her bed, a tray filled with the breakfast delight in his hands. "Good morning."

In the light of day, she should know better. He wasn't the kind of man she should involve herself with. For one, he was clearly domesticated. Domesticated men tended to like commitments, women who waited at home, with a smile on their faces and a dinner in the oven.

"Where'd this come from?" she asked, indicating the breakfast.

He lowered himself to the space beside her and she rolled a little to the side, clutching the sheet to her naked torso. Dante kicked off his shoes and laid his legs down the length of the bed. "Not from your kitchen," he said with a laugh. "You have the emptiest refrigerator I've ever seen."

"I’m on a diet."

He shook his head. "You're crazy. You were already perfect when I met you."

"So what'd you do? Call some strawberry delivery service?"

"No. I woke up before you, got dressed and ran down to the corner market. It's not much, but I figured you wouldn't be all that hungry.'' He grinned. "Yet."

"It looks delicious. But... I shouldn't."

"There you go again, resisting me."

"You're the type of man I should resist."

"And why is that?"

"Because you want everything I don't want."

"Oh, yeah?" He leaned closer, a strawberry in his hands, inches from her mouth. "And how do you know what you really want unless you've tried everything on the menu?"

She swallowed the breath in her throat. "I've done the sampler platter. That's enough for me."

"Ah, you must have had a bad chef."

"The worst."

"Maybe one who can actually cook would change your mind."

She shook her head. "I'm pretty stubborn."

"Last night didn't sway you at all?"

"Last night was... last night. It's morning now and—"

"That changes nothing. Except... it's time for replenishment." He grinned and swiped the strawberry in his hands across the mascarpone, then dangled the cheese-dipped treat over her mouth. "Try this."

She put up a hand. "Oh, no."

"Why not?"

"It's too good."

He arched a brow. "Too good?"

"I eat one bite of that and before I know it, I'm standing in Guido's, devouring the entire counter."

"Kind of like when you got one look at my chest, huh?"

"You are too full of yourself."

"You weren't too full of me last night." He teased along her lip with the strawberry. "Not the first time. Or the second time."

"The third time was all your idea."

His laughter came from deep in his gut. "So it was. Well, after all that, you need some sustenance."

The mascarpone smelled heavenly. She licked her lips and caught a dab on her tongue. Oh... it tasted like sweet paradise. One bite wouldn't kill her. And strawberries
were
healthy. She opened her mouth and took a nibble.

Then another. Then a third. And with that the succulent berry was gone.

It was always like this when she was around Dante. One bite led to a second and before she could stop herself, she was in too deep.

"Wasn't that good?" he asked, and before she could respond, he had another berry at her mouth.

"Uh-huh," she said. "I hear, though, that eating alone is what ruins diets."

"Oh, I didn't plan on you dining alone." Dante put the tray on the nightstand, stood and pulled off his shirt. Damn. He looked good topless. She'd barely noticed yesterday. The minute her hands had met his chest every neuron in her brain began firing on high, like a machine gun stuck on obliterate.

He unbuttoned his pants and tossed them onto the armchair. Damn. He looked good bottomless too, but before she could drink it all in, he'd climbed under the sheet with her. His body against hers was warm and comforting, like a blanket she'd had for years.

And yet there was something else, something intensely sexual that built in intensity the minute his skin touched hers.

"You know," Dante said, nuzzling at her neck. "I like nice, round numbers."

Maria tipped her head back, giving him better access to her neck. Well... if she was going to do something bad for her, she might as well do it right She'd think about all the reasons why he was wrong for her later. Much, much later.

"Me, too," she murmured. "And four is a nice, even number."

"It is, indeed. You have a little—" He leaned forward and kissed the cheese off her lips.

By the time she came up for air again, she and Dante had eaten all of the mascarpone and tasted every inch of each other.

She'd managed to blow every resolution she'd made in the last few weeks in a thirty-minute time span. But for once, she wasn't as worried about the calories as she was about what Dante was doing to her heart.

Rebecca's Get-Yourself-Out-of-a-Jam Cookies

4 ounces bittersweet chocolate, sort of like those morning-after thoughts

3 cups flour

1/2 teaspoon baking soda

1/2 teaspoon salt

2/3 cup butter, softened

2/3 cup sugar

2 eggs

2 teaspoons vanilla

Raspberry jam to taste

Whatever you've done, the best way to forget it is with cookies. They are amazing in helping you block out memories of bad choices. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees. Now you're ready to melt the chocolate in a saucepan, then combine the flour, baking soda and salt in another bowl.

In another bowl (don't worry about the mess; that's what dishwashers—or hunky men who like to wash— are for), beat the butter and sugar. Get it fluffy, like your thoughts will be once you clear your conscience.

Add the eggs, one at a time, then the vanilla and chocolate. Beat until blended or until you've worked that man out of your system.

Divide dough, wrap in plastic wrap and refrigerate for two hours. Just long enough for a shopping trip or a good confession among close friends.

When the dough is ready, roll it out to a quarter-inch thickness on a lightly floured surface and cut into two-inch circles. Cut center circles out of half of them. Bake the cookies for nine or ten minutes.

When the cookies are cool, assemble them. A full cookie on the bottom, topped with jam, then a cut-out cookie on top. Let the jam peek out and tempt those who might want to taste.

These work wonders—just ask Candace. But be careful. They can be used against you, if they fall into the hands of a man with commitment on his mind.

When Dante came into work humming on Thursday afternoon, Franco jumped on him like a cockroach on a sugar crystal.

"Oh, you got it bad, Boss," Franco said. "Someone has your heart."

Dante smiled. "Maybe."

"The woman, she is the one, isn't she?" Franco practically hopped with joy at the thought of being right.

"Maybe."

He cupped a hand over his ears. "I hear the bells of the church. They are ringing for you."

"Don't go renting a tux yet, Franco. We're just dating." Dante went back to his song, heading into his office, Franco trailing along, nipping at his heels.

"I know true love. And this is true love." He nodded. "You marry this girl. Fast. Before another man does."

He'd been having exactly the same thought ever since number four with the strawberries. But he wasn't about to tell Franco that.

"I'm not rushing into anything. Besides, she's not interested in marriage."

"Yet," Franco said.

"Yet," Dante agreed.

"And you," Franco indicated Dante with a flourish of his hand, "you change her mind?"

"With a little help from some mascarpone." He grinned.

"That's what I tell you." Franco wagged a finger at him. "You win her heart with your cooking. You such a good cook. Always know the right foods. A woman, she likes a man who can make magic in a kitchen ..."

Only half listening to Franco, Dante picked up Thursday's
Globe
and turned the page to the restaurant review section.

And there, staring back at him, was the headline he'd hoped he'd never see ... but knew would come eventually. NEW RISTORANTE IS DIVINE, screamed the top of the section in forty-eight-point bold type.

Followed by five gold stars.

Five stars. The impossible. Achieved by the new kid in the North End.

Dante slammed the section down on the table, startling Franco into silence. "Did you see the paper today?"

"No,
perche?
"

"Seems we have some competition." Dante slid the review over to Franco. "This isn't good. Not good at all."

"The phone, it has been quiet today," Franco said, scanning the review. "Now I see why. This baby place," he jabbed at the paper, "they steal our people."

Dante ran a hand through his hair. "Reservations are down?"

"Vita will be okay," Franco said, laying a hand on Dante's shoulder. "She is a survivor."

"I don't want okay. Okay is what we've had for two generations." Dante shook his head. "I want more than that."

He shook his head, then took in a breath. Franco was right. Vita had dealt with competition before and survived. The new customers wouldn't desert them that quickly. "Well, it's only Thursday. It's always slow on weeknights. By the end of the weekend, people will forget this new place exists."

Everything else in his life had finally slipped into place. The restaurant was doing well. He'd found a woman he could love. And he actually had a life outside of Vita.

He wasn't going to let anything change that. Not over his fresh fettuccini.

It had gotten pretty ugly in the past thirty-six hours. The dalliance with Dante had sent her flying off the deep end.

She hadn't stopped with the mascarpone. Or the strawberries. Or the Sicilian ricotta cake he'd left behind and they'd forgotten to eat between orgasms. She'd moved from one indulgence to the next, ordering in pizza after he left. A
large
pizza. With every topping offered by the pizzeria.

Then she'd eaten the cannoli in her fridge. And the Cheez Whiz in the cabinet. Moved on to polish off the chips, the lone package of snack cakes she'd found in the back of the cabinet.

And if that hadn't been enough—and it hadn't—she'd headed down to Krispy Kreme for three cream-filled doughnuts and an extra-large cappuccino.