The Devil Served Desire (8 page)

"Isn't Medicaid picking up the increase?"

Rochelle turned and gave him a face that told Dante exactly what she thought of Medicaid. "Hell, no. It don't pay to get old. Soon as I hit sixty-five, I'm jumping off the Tobin Bridge to celebrate my retirement. Toot a damned horn the whole way down." She raised the heavy tray to her shoulder. "Three hours I argued with Medicaid today. It was like trying to get a nut out of a squirrel. Far as I'm concerned, they can kiss my black—"

"Before you go pissing off the federal health plan," Dante began, reaching into his back pocket and withdrawing his wallet, "how about you let me give you a hand?"

Rochelle's smile wavered for an instant, the only emotion she'd betray. She was a tough woman, his head waitress, and she rarely let down her guard. "Now you know I can't take that, honey. You already paid for that nurse when the damned hospital sent Ma home three days after her hip operation. You've done enough, and then a bag of chips."

Dante shrugged. "It was nothing."

"I told you not to do it. And you did it anyway."

"Can't have my best waitress worrying all the time." He cleared his throat. "It's bad for business." He thrust five twenties at her. "Here, take these. It'll help tide you over for a few days."

She was already shaking her head. "Boss, I can't."

"Consider it a tip." He tucked the money into the pocket of her apron before she could refuse. "Bring me a glass of water later and we'll call it even."

"But—"

"Now get those dinners out there before you ruin my four-star rating and I have to fire you."

"You've never fired anyone in your life." Rochelle tossed him a tender, fleeting grin, then shifted the tray on her shoulder and turned toward the door. "You're a damned softie," she said. But her words lacked their usual punch.

For the rest of the night, Dante busied himself with keeping the diners happy. He barely had a second to breathe, and when he did, his thoughts strayed to Maria. Then back to the restaurant. How could he even think of dating her? He already had enough on his plate.

Dante had responsibilities. Too many of them to take time out for his own needs.

He'd have to settle for dreaming about Maria instead. And drooling in his sleep.

Maria's Talking-Margherita Pizza

1 pound peeled plum tomatoes

1 pizza dough, rolled out

1 pound fresh mozzarella, sliced thinly

10 to 12 basil leaves, torn into strips

4 tablespoons grated Parmigiano Reggiano

Salt and pepper

Extra virgin olive oil

Preheat the oven to 475 degrees. Puree the plum tomatoes to make an extra fresh sauce, then spread the tomatoes onto the prepared dough, just to the edge. Don't want it bubbling over and burning, spoiling the whole thing. Layer mozzarella in a tempting, overlapping circle around the pizza. The more the better is always a good philosophy. Scatter basil here and there. No need to make this into a piece of art—listen to the cheeses calling to your taste buds. They're getting impatient, so get a move on.

Sprinkle the pie with Parmigiano, salt and pepper. Drizzle with oil. Ah, a culinary Mecca all on one baking sheet.

Put the pizza in the oven and bake for 15 to 20 minutes or until the crust is golden brown, the cheeses are bubbling and you are at the absolute end of your waiting rope.

If you can't stand to wait that long for a pizza, mug someone else's delivery guy in the hall and abscond with their order.

Moisture pooled in Maria's mouth, heavy on her tongue, urging her to open up and just taste one itty, bitty bite. A morsel. A mouse nibble.

The food was, after all, in her own kitchen cabinets. That made it practically kin.

She'd had two diet shakes, one low-fat snack bar that might as well have been dog kibble, and nothing else today. After working all day at the shop, surrounded by cookies, chocolates and candies, she was damned near suicidal with hunger by the time she left for home at five.

Stupid diet, anyway. All it did was make her want to cheat.

Look at the yummy treats in those kitchen cabinets. One won't hurt. You've been so good today. Give in. Just this once...

She jerked a hand forward and reached into the cabinet to retrieve something forbidden and very, very illegal in the weight loss rulebook—Twinkies. Bliss in a box.

The phone rang. Maria jumped away from the cabinet, clutching the box to her chest. She picked up the cordless, pressed "Talk" and uttered a greeting.

"Maria," Antonio breathed into the phone, "are you decent?"

Every sense in her body went on high alert, as if his voice had pressed a magic button in her vagina. The box of Twinkies tumbled out of her hands and onto the counter.

"Depends on the day of the week," she managed.

He chuckled. "I'm going to be in town next weekend. How about a sneak preview before the reunion?"

Her loins cried yes, but her hips reminded her they had a long way to go before they'd look like an hourglass instead of a goblet.

Damned Twinkies. She grabbed the box off the counter and threw it into the trash.

"I wish I could, but..." Oh, why couldn't she have started her diet earlier? Like two years ago? That way she'd be ready anytime Antonio said "bed." "I'll be out of town. Uh ... catering convention."

"They have those?"

"Oh, yeah. All the time."
Whenever I conveniently need one.

"Well, I hope you think of me when you're looking at all those pastries and pans."

She glanced at her trash can and gave the Twinkies a silent wave good-bye. "Oh, I will. More than you know."

"I'm heading into a meeting so I'll catch up with you later," he said. "But before I go, tell me one thing."

"What?"

"Do you still like skinny dipping?" He chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that echoed naked and raw in her ear, then he clicked off the line.

It was all she could do to hang up the phone. Maria crossed to the trash, drove a fist through the box of Twinkies and stood there, watching the flap swing back and forth, feeling great satisfaction.

She did have willpower. Really.

Then she caught a glimpse of her kitchen cabinet, still open from her earlier snack foraging. Pop-Tarts, Doritos, Cheez Whiz in a jar, Ritz Crackers and a box of Italian cookies stared back at her.

Eat us. You know you want to.

"No. I'm sticking to this diet."

Oh, come on. One won't hurt. Just a bite.

Her mouth watered, her stomach growled.
Traitors
. She spun on her heel and dove for the refrigerator. Maybe there was a salad or an orange in there.

Uh, no. Big mistake.

Inside was an entire block of Fontina cheese, the still-leftover manicotti from Guido's, a lone ricotta-stuffed cannoli that she'd resisted as dessert at Mamma's the other day but had not been able to escape the house without, a stack of rum balls she'd brought home from the shop-She slammed the door shut The fridge rattled in place, clearly annoyed that she'd peeked and run.

That's what she should do—go for a jog. Exercise instead of eat. Burn off the calories rather than shoving them into her mouth. Yeah, except well, she hated to exercise. Hated it more than her annual gyno checkup, hated it more than getting her legs waxed, and hated it more than listening to her mother bemoan the lack of grandchildren in the Pagliano family.

The smell of pizza wafted down the hall of her apartment building, tickling at Maria's senses, urging her to dash into the corridor, yank the pie out of the delivery boy's hands and eat it before he recovered from shock. Those damned shakes hadn't filled her up. She might as well have had two hundred calories of air.

Maria had her hand on the doorknob when the bell rang. Could he be delivering the pizza to her? Some kind of psychic pizza service that sent over a margherita pie to the truly desperate and starving?

Oh, God, please let it be so.

But standing on the other side of her door was the exact opposite of the man she wanted to see.

And worse, he didn't even have any food in his hands.

"Hello, Dante." She leaned against the jamb and inhaled the retreating scent of tomato sauce, cheese and basil. "How'd you find out where I live? No, wait. Let me guess. Mamma thought you could use my address."

"She gave it to me when I left. Rather... forcefully." He smiled and for a second, Maria forgot about the pizza.

"That's my mother. Always willing to go to great lengths to see the continuation of the family line."

Dante chuckled. "I stopped by to apologize."

"For what?"

"For showing up like that. I shouldn't have gone to your mother's and ambushed you."

"That's okay, you made Mamma's day. Gave her hope that she won't die without grandchildren."

He grinned. "Has she set a date?"

"Knowing Mamma, the church is already booked and the priest has been paid in advance." She straightened, crossing her arms over her chest. Dante's gaze went with the movement. Clearly, apologies weren't the only thing on his mind. "Tell me you aren't here to propose."

"No." He put up both hands, warding off the words. "
Definitely
not."

Gee, he sure knew how to make a girl feel wanted. Not that she'd wanted him to propose, but still, it would be nice if he did. Then she could reject him and add a notch to her ego. The battle with the Twinkies and Antonio's skinny dipping question had pretty much destroyed any self-esteem she'd had when she'd woken up this morning.

"Shouldn't you be at your restaurant right now?" Maria asked.

"I have an hour and a half until it starts getting busy. I left Vinny in charge."

"You did? But I thought—"

"Don't worry. Franco's in the kitchen with him, a fire extinguisher at the ready. If Vinny gets the slightest bit overzealous with the pilot lights, Franco will foam him down."

She laughed at the image of Franco hovering over the pyromaniac sous chef. "So you came all the way over here, right before your dinner hour, merely to apologize?"

He took a step forward, his dark gaze connecting with hers, teasing at her senses. If Hostess could bottle the look in Dante's eyes, they'd have world dominance over the snack food market

Maria reminded herself to breathe.

"I want more," he said.

"More?" She swallowed. "What kind of more?"

"Dinner. At my restaurant you and me." His grin arched up on one side, exposing a dimple that made her knees weak. She'd always been a sucker for a man with a dimple in his grin. "No critics, no one else. Just a meal to remember."

Oh, damn. And she'd thought the Twinkies had been tempting. They had nothing over this offer. He was handing her an entire meal. Probably with him as the appetizer
and
the dessert.

He'd caught her at her weakest. Her willpower had fallen and wouldn't get back up. She wanted the Twinkies. She wanted the Cheez Whiz.

She wanted Dante.

In the back of her mind, she could still hear the foods in the cabinet
Eat us. One quick bite. Do the diet tomorrow. Eat—

"Actually, you could give me a ride," Maria said quickly. "I'm going that way and could save some walking."

"You want to go to Vita? Now?"

"No! Not now." Twenty pounds from now... maybe. She cast another glance at the smorgasbord of color in her kitchen—

Maria, we're here. Waiting in the cupboards—

"I... I have another place to go," she said, grabbing her coat off the hook, then scooping up her keys and purse from the hall table. Before she could change her mind and make a headlong dash for Doritos, Maria stepped out of the apartment and shut the door. Firmly. "Let's go."

"Where?"

The pizza guy came striding back down the hall, his bag now empty, but still holding the scent of its earlier cheesy gift.

"Away from temptation," Maria said. "Far, far away."

Then she glanced over at Dante's profile and realized she'd just exchanged one temptation for another.

Oh, shit.

Dante hadn't intended to go to Maria's apartment tonight He should be kicking himself for leaving the restaurant when he should be cooking.

But the slip of paper Mamma had given him with Maria's address on it had been burning a hole in his pocket all day. Whenever he'd had a second, he'd slipped his hand into the gabardine trousers and touched the edges of the note, as if he could touch Maria by fingering her street address.

Clearly, he needed mental help. Or a hobby.

"I didn't picture you as the Honda type," Maria said, interrupting his thoughts.

"Oh, yeah? What type am I?"

"Ferrari. Lamborghini. Porsche. Something that screams 'man on the road.' "

"Man on the road?" He glanced at her, eyebrow arched. "Is that how you see me? Some beer swilling, horn honking, guy on a power trip behind the wheel?"

She considered him. "Well, maybe not the beer swilling part."

They came to a stoplight and he turned slightly in his seat, feeing her, their gazes connecting across the short divide of the car's interior. "I own a Honda because it's good on gas, easy to park and gives me more money to put back into the restaurant. I like wines, not beer, and will go to great lengths to taste an excellent merlot. I hardly ever honk my horn because the city is noisy enough. And my power trips are all over my linguine, not the size of my engine."

She cocked a grin at him, a tease in her eye. "Is that because you only have a four-cylinder under your hood?"

"I have enough horsepower, trust me."

"Yeah, well, it's not about how many horses you're running. It's about what you do with them." She reached in her bag and pulled out a compact and a lipstick tube. "And in my experience, most men are good at mechanics but suck at finesse."

He should have had a witty rejoinder. Some kind of sardonic remark that would put him back in charge of the conversation. But when she swiveled the cranberry color up from the gold tube and slid it slowly along her bottom lip, pouting it out ever so slightly....