The Devil Served Desire (6 page)

Dante moved forward, no longer maintaining his respectable distance. The scent of jasmine teased at his nostrils, drawing him in like a siren song. "Why are you avoiding me?"

"I’m not."

"Yes, you are." He reached up and captured one of those stray ringlets in his finger, twirling the velvet tendril in a leisurely, sensual movement. "Is it my antipasto?"

She blinked. "Your... your what?"

He smiled. She wasn't as immune to him as she thought. "The salad, remember? Was it so terrible you decided never to see me again?"

"No, not at all. It was... delicious." She gulped. "I've just been thinking since I met you Tuesday night and... I don't think getting involved with you is a good idea."

He took a half step closer, the cloud of his breath mingling with hers. He trailed his finger down her jawline, along soft, smooth skin that glided beneath his touch like silk. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. He'd never wanted to kiss anyone so damned bad in his life. "Who said anything about getting involved? Why can't we just have mind-blowing sex? A few hundred times or so?"

She laughed, a rich sound that flowed from her like wine from a bottle. "Only a guy would say something like that."

He cupped her chin, tracing her lower lip with his thumb, slowly. Tenderly. The way he'd do it if it were his tongue instead of his finger. "You aren't interested in mind-blowing sex?"

"I... I wouldn't say that," she breathed.

"Good." And then, he decided to hell with waiting. With arguing about whether she was interested in him or not. He lowered his head, taking her cranberry lips with his, teasing at first, then not teasing at all when she moaned and opened against him, her arms spreading wide and reaching for his back.

She fit against him like butter on bread, her body molding to his in perfect harmony. He roamed his hands down her back, feeling the slight bump of her bra strap through the fabric of her shirt. His mind skipped forward, imagining his fingers undoing the hooks, her breasts spilling forward, his mouth tasting them as thoroughly as he was tasting her right now.

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, demanding more. She pressed her pelvis against his, then away, the tease sending his brain into other stratospheres. She pressed, withdrew again.

She was as much of an aggressor as he. Lord, what fun that would be in bed.

"
Maria
. Oh, God, let's..." he whispered against her mouth, wanting to say much more. But he'd left his vocabulary somewhere between his fly and his brain.

With a start, she broke away from him, stepping back several paces and swinging his jacket off her shoulders. "I—I—I can't do this."

"What?" He wished like hell his body had an on/off switch. He definitely still felt on and it was damned hard to concentrate on anything but the memory of her body against his.

"I can't get involved with you." She handed him the coat and took another step back.

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't understand," she said. "It's complicated. I'm not even sure I can explain it to myself."

"Tell me." Hot desire still pulsed within him. He hoped she'd get to the explanation soon so he could show her the error of her argument and get her right back into his arms again.

"Well," she paused, then let the rest out in a rush. "Mary Louise Zipparetto, for one."

He raced through his mental little black book. "I don't know anyone named Mary Louise Zipparetto."

But she didn't hear him. She'd backed up another two steps, as if he were a chainsaw murderer about to carve her for dinner. "You smell like mozzarella," she said. "And you taste like lasagna. And...you haven't noticed a damned thing above my neck." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't."

Then she turned and dashed back into the house, leaving Dante in the cold, stunned. Now he knew how the heel end of a loaf of bread felt. Rejected and crummy.

Women had left him for other men. One for another woman. Most stopped dating him because he worked too much or didn't spend enough money or didn't drive a Lamborghini. Those were reasons he could understand.

But now, he'd been dumped because he
tasted
too good. What the hell had Mamma put in that soup?

Rebecca's Avoid-the-Subject Penne with Pancetta

1 pound dried penne

4 tablespoons butter

1 onion, diced

1/2 pound frozen peas, thawed

1-1/2 cloves garlic, crushed

6 ounces pancetta slices, rinds removed, cut into bite-size strips, truth-tempting size

5 egg yolks

3/4 cup heavy cream, the richer the better for eliciting all the details

1-1/3 cups Parmigiano Reggiano, grated

Pepper

1/2 teaspoon saffron pistils, the color of a friend trying too hard to bluff that she isn't happy about meeting someone new

Salt and pepper to taste

Cook the penne in salted boiling water until al dente (about ten minutes, just enough time to start pumping a good friend for details about a new man in her life). Meanwhile, melt the butter. Sauté onion and cook until softened. Add peas, garlic and pancetta, cooking until pancetta is done but not crisp. Remove pan from heat and set aside.

Try again for more information. If she still won't talk, start in on the sauce. Put egg yolks in a bowl, add cream and Parmigiano Reggiano. Grind in plenty of black pepper. Beat well to mix, hoping the action will distract said friend and get her to do a little kiss and tell. After all, she needs a happy ending of her own and you can't help her if you don't have details. Right?

This is a mercy mission, not just a meal.

Drain penne, pour into pan and toss over medium heat until everything is evenly mixed. Add saffron, season with salt and pepper if needed. Remove from heat, add cream sauce and toss well.

Serve immediately. Makes a good dish for a friend who is trying to keep her mouth full so she can't talk about the sexy chef who has turned her world upside down.

It was Tuesday morning and Maria had been awake for one hour, ten minutes and twenty-five seconds. Not once had she cheated on her diet. A miracle, too, considering her dreams had been about a sexy chef wrapped in nothing but linguine.

Her subconscious had better come up with a different image. Dante was off her list of acceptable men to date, whether he had good orgasm potential or not. Everything about the man was too tempting. From the way he smiled to the scent of his cologne—a mix of man and fresh tomato sauce—Dante was all wrong for her. Undoubtedly, he'd not just want to date her—he'd want to feed her, and next thing she knew, they'd be sharing lasagna in bed.

While Mary Louise Zipparetto was being fed celery sticks by a naked Mr. America.

Yesterday's kiss in her mother's backyard had been a momentary lapse of sensory judgment. Never again.

She got ready, then walked the few blocks to work, dodging the commuters speedwalking along Atlantic Avenue and the tourists creating pedestrian traffic snarls every time they paused to gape at the Big Dig transformation or to note how lost they were.

Finally, she walked into Gift Baskets to Die For. The little shop off of Atlantic Avenue had become a pretty successful venture, maintaining both the friendship of the three owners—herself, Candace Woodrow and Rebecca Hamilton—and a steady stream of work. Maria did sales and marketing, Candace kept the books and Rebecca was in charge of design. All of them had a hand in the cooking, though Rebecca was clearly the best at it. If there was one thing the trio had in common, it was a love for anything high in calories and fat.

Friendships based on food tended to last. The only disagreements the three of them had sprung up when the cookie jar got low.

"Something happened last night. I can tell," Rebecca said from her perch in the window as soon as Maria walked in the door. Rebecca had tape in one hand and spring decorations in the other, all designed to encourage the purchase of Easter Bunny bounty. She tore off a piece of tape and slapped it on the glass. "Come on, dish."

Maria sipped at her diet shake, staying silent.

Candace came around the counter, all thin and blonde, the complete opposite of Maria. If they hadn't been best friends, Maria would have had to hate Candace for being blessed with a metabolism that actually seemed to speed up with the consumption of chocolate. "Where'd you go Saturday night? You missed our standing movie date. Russell Crowe wasn't the same without you oohhing and ahhing in the background."

Maria hung her coat on the rack by the door and took her time putting her purse behind the counter. "Sorry. I, ah, had somewhere else to go."

Rebecca waggled a paper egg at her. "You met a guy, didn't you? I swear, you're like some kind of magnet. If there's a Y chromosome within fifty feet, he zones in on you."

"It's the hips," Candace said, gesturing at her slim khaki-clad figure. "I wish I had some. I have the figure of a salamander."

Maria snorted. "Are you kidding me? I'm rhino woman.''

"Hey, have a kid and then complain to me." Rebecca gestured to her stomach. "It's like there's a permanent airship under there."

Maria had no intention of discussing her hips with her friends. The grass was always greener on the other side of the dressing room door.

She'd gotten on the scale this morning, naked and sure her linguine resistance on Saturday had made a difference. It hadn't. Her weight was exactly the same as yesterday, not even an ounce of change. Hence the diet shake, which tasted about as appetizing as a jar of school glue but promised less than two hundred calories of nutrition.

"So, what's on the plan for today?" Maria said, changing the subject and reaching for the planner on the front counter. "Great! We have a few more of those hospital baskets to do." Last year, they'd teamed up with an ad agency to send gift baskets to all the new moms in Boston. The program had been so successful, it was being tested in other nearby cities, too.

Rebecca climbed out of the window and put the extra decorations into a box by the kitchen door. "Vogler Advertising's campaign with that formula manufacturer has really turned out to be a great year-round thing for our shop." She straightened, pressing a hand to her back. "Or it will be, as long as Candace keeps making Michael Vogler happy."

"Oh, he's happy." Candace sighed, one of those contented sounds that said Michael wasn't the only one getting his needs met. "Very, very happy."

"Wait till you get married and have kids," Rebecca said, emphasizing her point with a shake of some purple Easter grass, like a cheerleader for the losing side. "I can't remember the last time I had more than six minutes for sex." She covered her mouth and stifled a yawn. "Or the energy for more than four. Damn, I'm so tired."

"And then at three this afternoon—" Maria said, running her finger down the page.

Rebecca yanked the book out of Maria's hands and thrust it behind her back. "Oh, no, you don't. You'll have to get up earlier than eight to fool me. You're changing the subject. And I won't quit till I find out why. Where'd you go last night?"

Candace grabbed the glass dome off the cake platter on the counter and removed a glazed doughnut from the dish. "We have ways of making you talk," she said, waving the pastry in front of Maria's nose like a hypnotist's watch.

Maria shook her head. "Nope. Won't work. I'm on a diet."

Rebecca raised an eyebrow.

"I'm sticking to it this time. I have incentive."

"Incentive?" Rebecca asked. "What incentive?"

"Antonio."

Candace replaced the doughnut under its glass shrine. "Is that who you met last night?"

"No." Maria paused, fiddling with the top of her can. "That was Dante."

"Ah! I knew it!" Rebecca pounced forward. "You have that look."

"What look?"

"Like a cat with a chubby chipmunk."

"I do not." She took a sip of her shake and forced herself not to gag on the taste. "Besides, Dante is totally wrong for me."

"Why? Does he have a criminal background?" Rebecca asked.

"No."

"A wife?"

"No."

"A husband?"

Maria laughed. "No, definitely not that."

"Then what?"

Maria let out a sigh. "He's a chef."

"Perfect!"

Maria danced her unsatisfying, bland, low-calorie shake back and forth. "Maybe in twenty-five pounds, but I can't date a guy who smells like Alfredo sauce. I'll end up cheating just by kissing him."

"What's so bad about that?" Rebecca asked. "I think you look great exactly the way you are."

"That's what Dante said. I disagree." She finished the can and tossed it into the trash. "I'm really sticking to my diet this time. I joined..." she paused, then lurched the words out "a support group."

"That's great!" Candace said. "One of our customers was just talking about a group like that. She said Mary Louise Zipparetto—"

"I know all about Mary Louise," Maria said. "She had great success with the Chubby Chums."

"Chubby Chums?" Rebecca bit back a laugh.

Maria nodded. "The group is more than a little strange, and they say these stupid phrases all the time, but I think it might help to have people to report in to, know what I mean?" Maria plopped onto one of the stools behind the counter and rested her chin on her hands. "And they seem to really care, in a weird kind of way."

"Are we talking tender group hugs here?" Candace asked.

"I haven't had that pleasure yet." Maria laughed.

Rebecca's eyes narrowed. "So where did you meet Dante?"

"After the meeting. He talked me into an antipasto at his restaurant. You know me, I'm a weak woman when it comes to Italian food. I left, though, before things got too crazy. Well, except for a quick dance in the street with him.
Then
I left." For now, she left out the details about his visit to her mother's house yesterday.

Rebecca shook her head. "You got it bad, girl."

"What do you mean?"

"I have never seen you run away from a man before."

"I didn't run away. I..." Maria thought then realized she'd done exactly that. "Okay, maybe I did leave too fast But—" She cut herself off when she noticed the perfectly matched Chanel getting out of a limo parked along the sidewalk outside the shop. "Oh-oh. It's Monica."