The Devil Served Desire (4 page)

"I'm not here to eat." Even as Whitman said the words, Maria saw his nose lifting toward the kitchen. He inhaled, then cleared his throat.

"Too bad," Maria said in a sweet, regretful voice. Dante stared at her, mouth agape, clearly not sure what she was doing or whether he should interrupt. Talk of lawsuits had stopped, though, and that was a good thing. "The garlic bread is incredible. Crispy, with just the right amount of crunch. And the cheese... Oh, Lord, it melts in your mouth."

Finklestein's stomach let out a growl. He flushed and pressed a hand to his abdomen, as if he could subdue the rumble with a steady palm. "Excuse me."

From the corner of her eye, Maria saw a young man's face peering out of the glass oval of the kitchen door. He was wearing a white chef hat, his eyes wide, brown, and worried. She was sure he was the aforementioned pyromaniac, Vinny. Dante caught her raised eyebrow and slid his gaze toward the doors.

He cursed under his breath.

"What'd you say, Del Rosso?" Whitman snapped.

Dante recovered quickly. "If there's anything I can do to make it up to—"

"You could stop jabbering and go get me some of that tortellini." Whitman motioned toward Finklestein's grumbling gut. "Make that two plates. And extra garlic bread."

"It will be my pleasure." Dante's whole body sprang into action, relief clear on his face. She had no idea who this Whitman guy was, why he was so important, or what Vinny had been thinking when he'd torched the guy's tie, but she could see this was important to Dante. Being in business herself, she could sympathize.

Franco stepped forward, extending his arm with a flourish. "Right this way, gentlemen. Best table in the house."

Maria headed back toward her antipasto, trying not to think about the tortellini. The sausage. The mortadella. The cheese on the garlic bread. If craving was a sin, she was definitely heading for hell.

"We'd like the pretty lady to join us," Whitman called after her.

Oh, no, don't tempt me
, Maria thought.
I'm a weak woman
. "I've got an antipasto here."

"If the tortellini is as good as you say it is, you should have some," he argued. In his voice, she heard the sound of doubt as if he suspected she'd lied. Dante was in the kitchen; Franco was busy filling water glasses.

With the manicotti at lunch, she was sure she'd already toppled her calorie count for the day. She'd also managed to not only flunk, but also ditch, her first support group meeting.

Her resolve wavered like a virgin in a room of Chippendale dancers.

Little black dress. Turning on the lights during sex. Mary Louise Zipparetto.

That settled it She'd have the—

"Chubby Chum Maria!" Arnold's high-pitched voice shrieked from the doorway. "You never told us your animal!"

Maria's Running-from-Your-Troubles Frittata

3 tablespoons olive oil

1/4 cup sliced green onions

1/4 cup diced ham or prosciutto

2 ounces chopped mushrooms

6 eggs

Salt

Freshly ground pepper

1/4 cup shredded mozzarella cheese

Heat the oil over medium heat in a large nonstick pan, avoiding all issues and any people who might want you to deal with issues. Stir in the green onions and mushrooms and cook for a few minutes, then add the ham, cooking until warmed through. This should buy you enough time to change the subject—or for the person who is interested in you to have moved on to another.

Beat eggs lightly in a bowl, then pour them into the pan. They're runny, just like your willpower. Season with salt and pepper, then mix the eggs quickly with the other ingredients.

Now, the hard part. Leave it all alone. I know, I know. Letting something sit is not part of your nature, but this time it will all be the better for your lack of input Let cook for five or six minutes, until it's puffy and golden brown.

Then, using a plate and some dexterity (this is not something to do when you've been drinking heavily, trust me), flip the frittata onto the plate, then slide it back into the pan to cook on the other side for three to four more minutes.

Sprinkle with cheese and place under the broiler until cheese is melted and gooey, like the personal life mess you are trying to avoid. By now, hopefully your problems have gone home—or back to his restaurant—and your frittata is a lot more solid than your resolve.

She'd managed to escape without having to classify herself as either a mammal or crustacean, thank God and all the saints. Maria slipped her arms into her coat, ignored the growling in her belly that told her she should have at least taken the time to eat before she made her mad dash from Arnold, and picked up the pace. At home, there was a fork waiting for her. And in her hands, her leftovers.

Who needed men when she had that combination in her kitchen?

"Maria, wait!"

That was
not
Arnold's voice—it was Dante's. She'd do well to keep on walking and not turn around. That man had "linguine in bed" written all over him.

Well... maybe stopping was a better idea than trying to outrun him. She was, after all, in heels. And linguine in bed wasn't
always
a bad idea.

Maria spun around, the Styrofoam to-go box from Vita in her hand. "I'm on my way home."

"I gathered that. But I couldn't let you leave, not yet."

"Don't you have a customer to attend to?"

"He's eating. I have a few minutes. Besides, if I stayed in the restaurant, I'd hover over the guy and if there's anything that's sure to piss him off again, it's a hovering chef."

She laughed. "I bet you're right."

"So why don't you help me pass the time?"

Damn, he had nice eyes. The kind that seemed to bore into a woman and read every thought she'd ever had. He'd be the type—she knew—to anticipate what she wanted in bed, just by reading the signals in her gaze.

The volcano in her pelvis began to stir.

Dante took a step forward, his gaze never leaving hers. "I'm sure we could find
something
to while away the minutes."

Antonio
was the man she was supposed to be focused on. Antonio was the man she was starving herself half to death for. Antonio was expecting her to be ready and waiting, pom-poms in hand, when he arrived for the reunion.

But right now, she couldn't even remember what Antonio looked like.

From somewhere beside them, violin music began to play, an old Italian love song Maria had heard her grandfather sing to Nonna after a few too many grappas.

"See? They're even setting the mood for us."

She smirked. "I bet you planned that"

"Wish I could take the credit, but it's Crazy Carlo. He opens his window, year-round, and practices his violin. Damned good thing he's got some talent or I think the neighbors would kill him."

"Why the open window?"

"He says it lets in his creativity." Dante shrugged. "I think he just likes to put on a performance, whether it's eighty degrees out or eight."

Maria shivered in the chilly March night air and drew her coat closer around her body. "Dedicated, or insane."

Dante laughed. "Maybe a little of both. Most people with a passion for something usually are." He took a second step closer, bringing him within inches of touching her. His eyes met hers, connecting across the short divide between them, increasing the heat in the small space. "Don't you agree?"

"Yes," she said, exhaling the word more than speaking it.

What were the objections she'd had to Dante again? Something about another man? A man far, far away, who was probably out with another woman right now, not even giving her a second thought. Then there'd been something about a diet.

Well, hell, she was holding an antipasto. She'd covered the diet thing. And Dante
did
need to take his mind off the difficult day he'd had. She'd be doing him a favor.

Yeah, that was it.

The violin music continued, the melody carrying along the air like hummingbirds around them. The vibrations of the sound intensified everything stirring within Maria.

"Dance with me, Maria," Dante said, his voice low and intimate.

"Here? In the middle of the sidewalk?"

"It's late, there aren't any cars. I can't think of a better place." He took her hands in his. He had a large, strong grip, firm around her own, as if he could hold her up, no matter the storm. "Or a prettier partner."

"I'm not very good."

"I'm not going to care." With his other hand, he took the Styrofoam container and put it on a stoop beside them, then wrapped his arm around her waist.

Had she really objected to his touch? She had to have been crazy. Thinking with a half-starved brain. Because Dante felt good. No, he felt
damned
good.

Crazy Carlo segued smoothly into an aria Maria had heard before. Veracini was the composer, she thought absently, then wondered why she even cared about the detail when Dante was right there gazing so intently at her.

He stepped to the right and Maria moved with him, their bodies pressing together with the movement. The volcano in her gut began to erupt into hot, molten arousal. The music, deep and heartfelt, swirled around them, like an ancient rhythm of desire. She tried to step to the left, to pull him with her, but he insistently moved again in the same direction as before, completing a circle.

His hand drifted down to the small of her back, pressing against the valley just above her buttocks. A nerve existed there, and he'd hit it, igniting something within her that Harry hadn't even been able to get a smolder on, despite his ten-minute effort at starting a fire with his stick and no kindling.

Dancing in the street in the middle of March was an insane idea. And yet, it was the exact kind of thing Maria knew her friends wouldn't be surprised to see her doing. She, of all people, was the least conventional, the one voted Most Likely to Do Something Unexpected.

This was about as unexpected and unconventional as a woman could get while staying fully clothed.

"It's a game, isn't it?" Dante murmured against her ear.

"What do you mean?"

"Dancing. I can feel you, vying for control at the same time I'm trying to lead, like the gentleman I am."

"You are not a gentleman."

"How do you know? You haven't given me a chance to prove it to you."

"I can feel it, right here." She pressed a hand against his chest, above his heart. His eyes widened and she knew who was leading whom right now. "You, Mr. Del Rosso, have ulterior motives."

He grinned. "I'd be a fool if I didn't."

"Spoken like a true gentleman." She smiled.

He leaned forward, his mouth against her ear. "Let me lead, Maria. And allow yourself to be traditional." The violin feathered up and down the notes, providing an undertow of emotion and sensuality to his words.

"I don't like tradition," she replied, trying to resist the melody and him.

"There's a reason traditions have been around forever," he whispered. "Because they work."

Then he took the lead anyway, circling her around a lamppost into the deserted street. The classical refrain brought them together, then apart as Dante showed her the steps he was creating, mirroring the message of Crazy Carlo's passionate playing.

Dante swung her to the right, bringing his pelvis back against hers. Watch out Pompeii—Maria's hormones were about to overtake the city and drown all reasonable doubts.

"You're not a bad dancer," she admitted.

He grinned. "And here I thought you only wanted me for my pasta."

She spun away from him, but his grip on her was firm and he twirled Maria back into his arms, her back against his chest, her buttocks against a volcano of Dante's own.

Whoa... she needed a cold shower. Quick. "I can get pasta anywhere," she said.

Dante bent down and nuzzled against her neck. "Mine is special."

Hoo-boy. She'd bet it was. She was in trouble now. What had started as an innocent game, a flirtation in his arms, had become something much, much hotter— and with higher stakes than a bowl of spaghetti. "All men say that."

Dante twirled her out to face him again. They stepped to the side, swishing against each other beneath the quarter moon. "I’m not most men, Maria."

Crazy Carlo ended his song. The violin fell silent. The screech of a window being pulled down cut across the quiet of the neighborhood.

The moment was over, the spell between them broken. Pompeii retreated from an impending natural disaster to a simmering lava mass. Dante was still a linguine-in-bed guy and she was still a woman who had just left a diet support group. Trying his pasta, as he'd said, was about as smart as paying full retail when her credit card was already maxed out.

"You have a customer waiting for you." She stepped away from him and retrieved her food. "I think he's more interested in your pasta than I am."

Liar, liar, hormones on fire.

Maria left as fast as she could, before she made any other stupid mistakes where Dante was concerned. She'd rounded the corner and was a block from home when she heard the voices. This time a trio of male voices. Drunk male voices, singing an off-key and mostly jumbled version of an Italian love song.

She knew that pickled barbershop triplet. Her grandfather and his friends.

"Maria!" Sal Pagliano called when he spied her on the corner. "Come, sing with us."

"I'm on my way home, Nonno. You should be, too."

"I am, I am. We watch the game and drink to celebrate the victory."

Nicky Benedetto cocked his head. "Hey, wait a minute. Who won? I think we drank to the wrong team."

Nonno waved a hand in dismissal. "Doesn't matter. They win, we drink. Everybody happy."

Guiseppe Santo looked at Maria. "You look happy, too. You drinking tonight?"

"No, I was ... out."

"With a man, I bet," Nicky said, elbowing Nonno.

Nonno looked at Maria, his hazy eyes suddenly going clear. He had the vision of a hawk when he spotted a lie—or an impending romance. "Are you falling in love?"