The Devil Served Desire (28 page)

Maria wrote caboose on the order form. Her hand stilled. She twirled the pen between her fingers. "Monica, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"How did you know Lester was the right one?"

Monica's smile softened everything about her face, as if the mere thought of her fiancé made her into a puddle of melted butter. "I didn't at first. It's hard for me. Every man I met always wanted me for Daddy's money. Like I was a bankbook and they only wanted to make withdrawals."

The admission caught Maria by surprise. Monica Thurgood, one of the wealthiest heiresses in Boston, had gone through some of the same dating dilemmas as an average girl from the North End. "I'm not from wealth, but I know what it's like to be wanted for everything but yourself."

Monica stroked Aphrodite's petite head. "Lester was very determined. He didn't quit on me. I quit on him once or twice, though."

"You did?"

Monica nodded. "Even told him I hated trains." She bit her lip. "Almost broke his little engineer's heart."

"But how did you know he was
the one?
"

Monica shooed Aphrodite off her lap and leaned forward on her elbows. "When I finally realized Lester didn't care one bit about Daddy's money. He likes simple things and never cared where we went, as long as he was with me. He's happy racing two H-O scales with me."

"H-O scales?"

Monica blushed under her flawless Estee Lauder. "It's a type of train. Lester has taught me a lot. About... well, everything." Her gaze went to some distant place of memories. "But really, I knew he was the conductor to my engine when I realized I was more me when I was with him. Less Thurgood and more Monica." She giggled. "If that makes sense."

Maria nodded, the pangs in her gut ten times stronger now. "It does. Perfect sense."

Maria's Twisted-Apologies Lover's Knots

1-1/4 cups flour

1/2 teaspoon baking powder

Pinch of salt

1/4 cup confectioners' sugar, divided, like your heart

1 egg, beaten, just like your emotions

1 tablespoon rum or brandy

Vegetable oil, for deep frying of pastries and of your conscience

Sift the flour, baking powder and salt, then stir in two tablespoons of the sugar. Incorporate egg with a fork, then add the rum until the dough draws together into one big lump, a lot like the one in your throat. Knead the dough on a lightly floured surface, working out your regrets and creating a good apology speech, until it's smooth. Separate dough into four pieces.

Roll each piece into a rectangle, about five inches long and three inches wide. Cut these into 1/2-inch wide strips and tie into knots similar to the ones tearing up your stomach with guilt.

Heat the oil in a fryer until it reaches 375 degrees. Fry the Lover's Knots for a couple of minutes, until crisp and golden. Drain on paper towels, then sprinkle with remaining sugar. Serve warm, to someone you want to reconcile with.

Be sure your apology is as sweet as your dessert and everything will be all right with your lover's world again.

"Your sweetheart is here. And she has a gift for you." Franco practically sang the words.

"Maria? She's here?"

The smirk on Franco's face was akin to a parent with a Power Wheels behind their back on Christmas Day.

"To see me?"

Franco nodded.

Dante stood, his desk chair rocketing across the tiled floor and sliding into the wall with a clang. He was out the door and into the main part of the restaurant in an instant.

Until he saw her. Then all movements ceased.

She was, as always, gorgeous. She stood there, holding a big cardboard box, wearing a pink T-shirt, dark snug jeans and black boots with little heels. Her hair was back in a clippie thing again, the tendrils determinedly slipping out of the sides, tickling down her neck.

He shouldn't care she was here. His heart shouldn't thud at the sight of her. But apparently his brain hadn't had time to lecture the rest of him since that night in the restaurant.

Either way, he wasn't going to let her see how he felt. He was done pursuing a woman who had chosen another.

"Hi," he said.

"Here's your—" Maria's mind went blank. On the trip over, she'd planned out a big speech. Twenty reasons why they shouldn't let their personal differences interfere with business. But then—

But then she'd seen Dante. And everything she'd thought about today, all the words she'd heard from Rebecca, Candace and Monica, came tumbling back.

Every word of her argument stopped making sense.

"I brought your—" she tried again. What the hell did she have in her hands, anyway?

"Cookies?" Dante supplied.

"Oh, yeah. Cookies."

"Thank you." He took the box from her. No smile. No expression. A man conducting business, nothing more. "I thought you weren't dealing with my account."

"Rebecca was a little under the weather so I offered to make the delivery."

"Well." He cleared his throat. "If you need payment now—"

"There's an invoice in the box. Standard thirty-day terms."

"Good." He shifted the box into one arm, as if it weighed no more than a paper clip. "Do you need anything else?"

"No. Nothing." She bit back the question on the tip of her tongue. "Nothing at all."

His face hardened. "That's what I thought."

Maria pivoted and turned to go, disappointment weighing as heavy as a ten-pound block of provolone in her gut. What had she expected? That he'd be friendly and happy to see her? That he'd go on chasing after her indefinitely?

She'd
been the one to ignore him after their night together, as if pretending it hadn't happened would make it go away.

She'd
been the one who had invited Antonio to pick her up at Vita.

She'd
been the one to turn dating into an S&M ritual where everyone got hurt.

Two months ago, she'd had a plan. Lose twenty-five pounds, astound her old boyfriend and then go on with business as usual. Staying single. And happy.

But now, her life was as twisted and sticky as a pot of overcooked spaghetti. And she wasn't happy at all.

The pangs in her stomach intensified with every step toward the door. She must be hungry. And yet... never had she felt this kind of want for a food.

As she neared the exit, Maria realized the pain in her gut wasn't from hunger. It was misery. Loneliness. Maybe even... a bit of love... all jumbled into one. Before she could do something really stupid—like leave—she circled back toward him.

Dante hadn't moved. He stood in the same place, still holding the box, watching her.

His eyes held no expression, no clue to how he was feeling. Or if he still felt anything at all for her.

She'd screwed up. A lot worse than when she'd eaten all the Twinkies and an entire margherita pie in one sitting. She'd chosen Door Number Two and gotten the jackass.

When the real hero—with the heart of gold—was right there all the time, waiting for her to wake up. She had, finally, but...

Maybe too late.

"I was wrong," she said.

"If you can wait a second, I'll grab the checkbook and—"

"Not about the payment." She took a step closer. The dark intimacy of Vita surrounded them like a blanket. Beside her, a wall sconce flickered. "I was wrong about us."

He took in a breath. "Wrong how?"

"I was afraid. Hell, I still am. Afraid of commitment of being hurt. Afraid of love." She smiled at him, a tentative smile, searching for a response. Something flickered in his eyes and she plunged forward. "And most of all, afraid of you."

This time, he moved closer to her. "Afraid of me? Why?"

"I told you. You smell too good."

"Always the diet huh?"

"My mission in life is to get out of the double digits of dress sizes."

"Why are you so unhappy with the way you look?"

She shrugged, as if the answer was a small thing, but he could see it mattered more than that. "I don't look like other women."

"You
aren’t
other women, that's the point. You're already perfect the way you are."

Maria shook her head, a refusal forming on her lips.

"Don't say it. Because I'll just disagree. And I have a lot of disagreements ready." Dante put out his hand, ticking off the reasons. "You're funny. You're smart. You're strong." He raised his hand, pressed it lightly to her heart. "In here, where it counts. When you love, you love with everything in you. I've seen it with your family. And when you hurt, you hurt deeply. Everything about you, Maria, is real and true."

She caught his hand with her own. "I've never met a man who noticed those kinds of things about me."

He reached up, catching a tendril of that misbehaving hair between his fingers. "That's because I've been treading water in the deep end for a long damned time, waiting for you."

The smile on her face wavered, her eyes now misty as a foggy day. "Dante, I—"

"Don't say it. Just say, 'Okay.'" He cupped her chin and tipped her face towards his.

"Okay." She smiled, then sighed. "This is too much right now. I..." She took in a breath, let it go. "I don't know where I want to go from here yet. Where
we
should go."

"Simple answer." He grinned. "The kitchen."

"The kitchen?"

"It's lunchtime. Stay and eat with me."

"I thought you weren't open for lunch."

"I am for very special customers." He touched the twin peaks of her upper lip. "You're the most special customer I have."

"But aren't you usually busy right now, getting ready for dinner?"

They hadn't been busy all week. If he told her Whitman's latest review had sent the customers in the opposite direction from Vita, she'd leave now and he wouldn't get a chance to say what he wanted to say. He didn't really need the cookies from Gift Baskets anymore.

But he sure as hell needed her.

"Right this minute the only thing I'm busy with is convincing you to try my tortellini."

"I’m not hungry."

He reached up and trailed a finger along her cheek. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Just held the gaze, her eyes wide and luminous in the half light of Vita. "Liar."

"I have a shop to get back to."

"Stay, Maria. Not because I'm asking you to, but because you want to." He rubbed his thumb against her mouth. "Because you want
me
."

"I do want you. All the time." She shook her head. "And everything you touch. That's the problem."

"A little of a good thing isn't bad, you know. You never tasted the tortellini that Whitman raved about. How did you describe it?"

"Heaven on a plate." The words came out soft, almost reverent.

"Seems a shame to have such passion for a food you've never tasted." He lowered his hand to take hers. "Come, have just a bite."

"Time..." she murmured vaguely, as if she couldn't quite get her mind around the excuse.

He took two steps forward, her hand in his. His heart leapt when she moved with him. "It's already made. An early supper for the staff."

"Just a few bites, no more."

"If that's all you want." He kept moving. And she kept following. When they reached the swinging door to the kitchen, he lowered his mouth to her ear, inhaling the warm, fresh fragrance of her. "But if you want seconds, it will be my pleasure."

Franco was the first to step forward, arms wide, welcoming her into the kitchen like an old friend. "Miss Maria, how nice to see you again. You return for my Dante, no?"

"This is Maria?" said the skinny guy who had peeked through the window that first night. "No wonder you stare so hard at her, boss.

"Shut up, Vinny," Dante said. He turned toward the rest of the kitchen staff. "You all need to get back to work." Vinny made a halfhearted attempt at returning to kitchen chores, but it was clear his attention was more on Maria and Dante than chopping onions and marinating beef.

Dante went to the stove, filled two plates with the tortellini. He returned to the small table in the corner of the kitchen and placed both plates before them on the table.

Maria already knew how good it would be. She'd made the sales job herself. Read the review. Knew it had sold the harshest critic in town. The aroma rose from the pasta and teased at her senses.

"Try it."

It was a normal serving of tortellini. Nothing over the top. No bingeing involved. Thousands of people ate like this every day and didn't turn into Goodyear blimps. Surely she could find a way to balance her favorite foods—her traditions, really—with her figure. "All right," she said, and dipped her fork into the meal before her.

"Do you know the legend about tortellini?" he asked.

She shook her head.

Dante folded his arms. A contented smile filled his face. "When Venus was sleeping naked near the sea of Bologna, a chef saw her and fell in love."

"That's why she was the goddess of love and beauty," Maria pointed out. "Makes it hard for us mortal women to compete."

He grinned. "You have nothing to worry about. Anyway, the chef's favorite part of Venus was her..."

"Oh, let me guess." Maria held up a circular tortellini. "Belly button?"

Dante nodded. "He was easily pleased."

"He didn't get far with Venus, did he?"

"Not all the way to the strawberries and mascarpone."

Maria swallowed the bite on her fork. Those words brought up a memory a lot steamier than the ancient tale. "So what'd he do?"

"He went back to his kitchen and created this pasta as a way to always remember her."

Maria took another bite. Delicious. "There are definitely worse ways to be immortalized."

"Then I'll have to get out my pasta machine and set to work creating a memorial to you."

She thrust her chest forward, knowing exactly which part of her he'd choose to pasta-size. "I don't think your creation would be bite-size."

He chuckled. "My father must have told me that tortellini story a hundred times when I was growing up. He said when he met my mother, she reminded him of Venus and every time he went to work, he thought of her." Dante toyed with the edge of his plate. "They grew apart after he opened Vita, but my father always loved her in his own way. He was a romantic. She ... is not."