The Devil Served Desire Page 6

  "You really need to meet Maria's mother. You two could create your own marriage mafia."

  Franco's eyes widened. He pressed a hand to his heart. "Mio Dio! I thought you were scared to speak that word."

  "What word? 'Mafia'? Oh, come on. It's not the twenties."

  Franco scoffed. "You think I worry Jimmy Hoffa is going to come through our door? No, not that word. The 'marriage' word."

  "What's wrong with it?"

  "My mamma, God rest her soul, she had the sight. She tell me, 'Franco, those who speak of marriage, they want it. They say the word and it happens. Just like that.' " He snapped his fingers and a chill ran down Dante's spine. "Say it and before you know it you are a Mister."

  "I'm already a Mister," he told Franco, hedging at a real answer. Dante did want to get married someday. Not to replicate the nightmare marriage his parents had had, but to find the traditional life that had always eluded him. A wife, a couple kids, a home.

  For now, though, that dream would have to stay on a shelf. Vita was his family.

  "You need to find your beautiful butterfly and introduce her to your flower," Franco said. He did a little dance with his shoulders to punctuate the sentence.

  "Franco!"

  "You think I got to be an old man by living the life of a monk? I know about amore"—he winked—"if you know what Franco means."

  "There are people waiting to be seated."

  Franco sighed. "And each day, your heart, she grows more lonely. Someday she shrivel up like a rotten tomato. Die in a dark place. Alone."

  "I have to get back to the kitchen. Vinny shouldn't be left unattended."

  "When you end up pushing your own wheelchair around, don't come crying to Franco."

  "Gee, thanks for the pretty picture of my future." Dante left and headed into the kitchen.

  Dante would never admit Franco was right. Doing so would open up an entire can of matchmaking worms. If he knew Franco, the man would be camped out on Maria's doorstep, chatting up Dante's assets until she caved and agreed to date him. In another life, Franco would have made a hell of a hostage negotiator.

  Today, he had the restaurant to worry about. All this good fortune could be gone tomorrow. Another place in town could get a better review, take the limelight off Vita and leave him struggling once again. Too many people depended on Dante for him to direct his attention anywhere but within these two thousand square feet.

  "I didn't touch the oven once," Vinny said when Dante entered the kitchen. Behind him, the swinging door slapped softly back and forth, slowly coming to a stop. "I didn't even look at the flames. I swear."

  "Good. Did you get the veal braised?"

  "As even as Pamela Anderson's tan."

  "Risotto started?"

  "Simmering like an August day." Vinny gestured toward the plates lined up along the stainless steel counter. "And I've got ten orders up, ready to go."

  "Great." Dante slipped on his chef hat and tied his apron around his waist. "I'm counting on you, Vinny. Don't screw up."

  "I won't." He toed at the floor. "I just want to say—" and he started to sniffle.

  "Don't start, Vinny. Come on, we've got work to do." Dante gave him a light jab in the shoulder. "Buck up."

  "I gotta say it, Boss. Please." More sniffles.

  Vinny had an emotion control problem. He felt everything in extremes. He didn't laugh, he guffawed. He didn't get angry, he blew up. And he didn't sympathize, he broke down into sobbing. "Go ahead, but don't get yourself all worked up."

  The sous chef nodded and swallowed hard. "Thanks for-for-for—" and he dissolved into tears, draping his head and arms across Dante's shoulders.

  Dante patted at the younger man's back. "Vin, you're gonna make the rice salty. Don't cry."

  "You're the only one who would give me a job," he mumbled through the tears, "and after all I did, you let me keep my job, and my kid needs shoes and now, she's gonna have them." And then he was off again, tears racing down his face.

  "Vin. Vin. Vin!" Dante waited until Vinny had lifted his head and met his gaze. "It's all right. I forgave the fire thing—well, let's say I got over it. You concentrate on cooking. You're a good chef; stick with that."

  "Yeah, Boss. I will." Vinny swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "You ever need anything, though, a car, a new stereo, a TV, you come to the Vin-man."

  "You promised me," Dante said, pointing at Vinny's chest "you'd give up that life when you came to work for me."

  "I did! I got friends who have friends, you know. And I'll take care of you, the way you took care of me."

  "Then stir the risotto before it sticks to the pan."

  The kitchen door swung open and Rochelle, his head waitress, bustled in, an empty tray balanced in her hand. "Shit it's busy out there. My ass is burning." She shoved her hip against a counter and heaved a deep breath, running a hand over her tight nearly shaved black hair.

  "Hey, Rochelle," Vinny asked from his position by the risotto. "How's that TV working that my cousin got you?"

  "The remote eats batteries like they're candy, but it's good. My ma says she never knew the people on General Hospital came in colors other than green."

  "Good. You need a stereo, you come to me. I'll—" He cast a quick glance at Dante. "I'll, ah, get my cousin to hook you up."

  "Yeah, sure, Vin." Rochelle stretched a kink out of her back, then reached for the plates of food and began covering them with silver warming covers. "What the hell happened to this place? I like busy, but this is ridiculous."

  "Enjoy it while it lasts," Dante said. "George Whitman could find another 'delight' tomorrow."

  "Well, he better not do it too soon. Ma's meds went up again. Damn doctors prescribe things like money grows on the freaking moon. They must think I got some unlimited trust fund." She shoved herself upright again and started loading the covered plates onto her tray. "Honey, I ain't even got trust for my man, never mind no fund."

  With the risotto back under control, Vinny discreetly headed off to the storage closet to replenish some of the spices. Dante could hear him still sniffling a little in the back room.

  "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.

  Chapter Eight

  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.