The Devil Served Desire Read online

  "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....

  He forgot his native tongue. Hell, he forgot he even had a tongue.

  She tipped the lipstick up to point the bows of her lips with crimson. Her tongue darted out, sliding across the front of her teeth. He thought of his mouth on hers earlier, of the sweet yet hot taste of her, pulsing against him, igniting a roaring in his gut he hadn't felt in a long time. If ever.

  The blare of the car horn behind him jerked Dante's attention back to the road. Good thing, too, because he'd almost taken out a defenseless grandma pushing a metal cart filled with groceries.

  "Having a little trouble driving?" Maria asked.

  In the rearview mirror, Grandma flipped him the bird.

  He cleared his throat and focused on the road. "My mind wandered for a minute."

  "Uh-huh." She smirked as she slipped the lipstick and compact back into her purse.

  He banged a right on Prince Street. Only a couple more blocks until the restaurant came into view and Maria would slip out of his grasp. Again. She intrigued him, this woman who conducted business with the gustiness of a man yet had the vulnerability of a woman in her eyes. "Come to dinner with me."

  "I can't." Her stomach let out a rumble and she pressed a palm against it, as if trying to keep it under control. "I really can't."

  He couldn't let her go like that. She'd hooked him but good. She'd helped him, then refused to have anything else to do with him. He could see the want in her eyes, though she kept telling him something very different.

  That push-pull was sexy as hell. An Olympic challenge if ever he'd seen one.

  "Then I'll come to dinner with you. Name the night. Mamma told me I'm welcome anytime."

  Maria laughed. "Mamma's getting out her tape measure to fit you for a tux. If you know what's good for you, you'll get a restraining order against her."

  "Why? I like your mother." He'd reached the restaurant and parked in front of it, still hoping Maria would change her mind. "I happen to enjoy being fussed over, cooked for and appreciated."

  She let out a sigh that sounded a lot like disgust. "Most Italian men do."

  "Oh, is this some kind of he-man comment? Like maybe I should quadruple the hair on my chest and order you around from the Barcalounger?"

  "You wouldn't be the first to try."

  "Ooh, I sense bad relationships there."

  "I'm single, twenty-eight, and Italian. Bad relationships come with the DNA."

  "Mamma seems happily married. She said your grandparents had been together forever, too."

  She shrugged. "For some people, it works out."

  "But not for you?"

  Maria had her hand on the door handle. He'd pushed too hard. "Thanks for the ride," she said.

  "Come by the restaurant later and I'll treat you to a glass of wine." He put up a hand to head off her objections. "It's a glass of wine. Not a lifetime commitment."

  She considered him for a moment, then opened the door and stepped out of the car. "Maybe," she said softly before closing the door and crossing the street.

  He watched her go in his mirrors, with the swiveling stride of a woman who had hips and an innate sexuality. Damn. Even the way she walked was a promise.

  Mamma mia. If anticipation were a sin, he was heading straight to hell.

  Arnold's Spread-the-Love Mozzarella and Tomato Bruschetta

  3 loaves ciabatta, plenty for sharing

  1 cup sun-dried tomato paste

  Sliced low-calorie mozzarella, as much as you need for all your chums

  2 teaspoons dried oregano

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  Salt and pepper

  Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Cut the ciabatta on the diagonal into 12 to 15 slices. Discard the heels. No one needs those party poopers anyway.

  Spread the sun-dried tomato paste on one side of each slice. Arrange the mozzarella slices over the paste. If you want, use cookie cutters to personalize the mozzarella into appropriate animal shapes. Just remember, they'll get all melty in the oven and take on blob shapes. Don't do this with anyone who might be easily heartbroken to see their cat become a mat.

  Dispense hugs to all your chums, then put the toasts on baking sheets. Sprinkle delicately with oregano, salt and pepper if desired, then drizzle with oil. Bake for five minutes. Let the toasts settle a bit, while you chat and shore up your chums in their hour of need.

  Remember, eating together makes for friends in all weather. Hug a Chubby Chum today!

  Chapter Nine

  "Chubby Chum Maria! You came back!" Arnold opened his arms and strode toward Maria, welcoming her into the circle of his embrace.

  He moved so fast, Maria didn't stand a chance.

  "Couldn't make it on your own out there, huh?" asked one of the men standing by the coffee urn. His potbelly extended past his Boston Red Sox T-shirt, giving her a not-so-appetizing peek at flesh and belly button hair beneath the dark blue cotton. "It's a big freakin' world of food, isn't it?"

  "Now, Bert, that's not a very supportive statement," Stephanie said. The group's leader had on a bright pink "I'm proud to be a Chubby Chum!" T-shirt and matching ball cap. She was as perky as usual and zipping around the room, talking as she gave out welcoming air kisses like a human Pez dispenser. "Maria is here because she needs a shoulder, not a wagging finger."

  Arnold stepped back, finally releasing Maria. "I know what animal you are! I figured it out just this second!"

  "And what animal is that?"

  He cupped a hand under his red goatee. "A chinchilla!"

  "A-a—what?"

  "Chinchilla. You know, elegant fur on the outside and a sweet heart on the inside." Arnold drew her close to him again, murmuring something about chinchillas and teddy bears being great cave companions.

  No one had ever described her like that. It didn't sound so
bad, come to think of it.

  Sort of.

  "Well, thank you, Arnold," Maria said, extracting herself for a second time, "I think," she added under her breath.

  He beamed. "You're welcome." He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. "Now you're part of the Chubby Chum family, for sure."

  "All right group, let's get started." Stephanie clapped her hands together. "We have a lot of calories to atone for."

  The Chubby Chums shuffled into the basement room, each taking a seat in the circle. As soon as they were seated, Stephanie led them in the group's version of the serenity prayer.

  This time, Maria managed to squeak out "the wisdom to check the fat grams before I open my mouth."

  As she said the words in concert with the others, she had to admit it felt a little like when she'd gone to Girl Scout camp as a kid. Included. Warm and fuzzy. Except without the sticky mess on her fingers from the s'mores she'd stuffed in her pocket for late night devouring.

  "Now, let's talk about our food issues for this week," Stephanie said. "Arnold, why don't you start?"

  He heaved a sigh, then pressed a palm over his mouth and choked back a half-sob. "I wasn't strong enough, gang," he said. "The Twinkies beat me. I could hear them calling me: 'Arnold, you want us. We're so light and fluffy. Arnold, have one. Just get to the cream filling and we'll leave you alone.' " He slumped a bit in his chair, dropping his face into his palms. I caved. I-I-I ate one—"

  "Oh, now, Arnold. One isn't so bad," Stephanie said.

  "One economy-size box from the wholesale club."

  And then he was really sobbing, his shoulders shaking, his head going back and forth in his hands like a palm tree caught in a summer storm.

  "Oh." The leader pursed her lips, then forced them into an encouraging smile. "Well, today is a new day, right?"

  He sniffled. "Yeah. I guess so."

  "Arnold, be strong. You can do it." Stephanie turned to the group. "Does anyone have anything to say to help Arnold?"

  "Yeah, don't buy the fuckin' Twinkies," Bert muttered.

  "I know!" Audrey said, shooting up a hand and speaking at the same time. "You could eat an apple at the same time as the Twinkies. Take a bite of apple, then a bite of Twinkie, then a bite of apple. That way, it's not so bad."

  "A way to get your cake and eat it, too?" Stephanie asked.

  "Oh, that's so clever! Yes, exactly." Audrey nodded her head, then took out a small notebook and pencil from her purse. "I've got to write that down."

  "Audrey, it may not be the best way to diet. What we want to do is avoid those bad foods altogether."

  Audrey's face fell. "Well, can I still do the apples part of my idea?" She held up her notebook. "I already wrote that part down."

  "Certainly. Group, what do we say about fruit?"

  "Fruit's the secret to fitting in your skinny suit!" several people shouted.

  Maria put her hand up a few inches, not really committing to giving input, half hoping no one would notice.

  Stephanie had the eyes of a hawk, though. "Maria, did you have advice for Arnold?"

  "Probably knows some Twinkie holiday in the Czech Republic," Bert grumbled.

  Maria gave him a glare, then cleared her throat. "I just wanted to say I know how Arnold felt. I had a hard time throwing out my box of Twinkies today. But I did it. I stuffed them into the garbage and left the apartment."

  "Have you been back yet?" Bert draped his arm over the empty chair beside him. His belly protruded a little bit more, as if introducing itself into the conversation.

  "Well, no."

  He snorted. "That's the real test. Show me a full box of Twinkies on garbage day and then I'll believe you're on a freakin' diet."

  Stephanie gave him a sour look. "Bert, that's not very supportive."

  He shrugged. "I'm not in a supportive mood."

  "A bad mood leads to too much food." She wagged a finger to emphasize the point.

  "You gotta have the right attitude to get rid of your fat-i-tude," someone piped up.

  "Chubby Chums make you forget the Yum Yums!" another person shouted.

  The platitudes were flying like pudding cups in a food fight. But oddly, this time, instead of driving Maria crazy, they felt almost...

  Comforting.

  She could almost see the appeal of this group. As quirky as they were, they were sort of like a family. Granted, the dysfunctional kind you only let out of the closet on major holidays, but a family all the same.

  And, they seemed to understand what she was going through. If she could cut through the rhymes and get some real diet advice, then she might be able to stick to this thing and get the weight off before Antonio could say "skinny dipping" again.

  Or before Dante came over for Sunday dinner.

  Now where the hell had that thought come from? Dante was so not her type. He was Mamma's type, i.e., available, Italian, Catholic and breathing. Maria's standards were a little more exacting. For one, she didn't want a man who made a living with food. It was hard enough working in the gift basket shop all day. Temptation ran rampant in the boxes of truffles and delicate handmade chocolates.

  Being with a man who could actually cook would be her undoing. Then she'd have him at her disposal three meals a day. And snacks.

  She could just see the scale, the arrow waving between her goal weight and cow weight like a seesaw with two chunky kids battling for control.

  The Chubby Chums continued tossing advice and rhymes at each other. An impromptu group hug sprung up, encircling Arnold with lots of Chubby Chum love. Only Maria and Bert refrained.

  "You all are the best friends a teddy bear could ever have," Arnold said.

  "Oh, we love you, too, Arnold," the crowd said in unison.

  Love. That was Maria's whole problem. Too many people telling her she needed to fall in love, like a relationship would bring world peace and predictability to her Friday nights.

  She shifted in her seat and realized what the biggest problem was with Dante. He made her feel off-kilter. Out of control. Maria Pagliano was a woman who always had the upper hand when it came to men and relationships.

  She called the shots. She tossed them out when they were jerks, like Commodus with his downward thumb at the gladiator fights. That way, her heart remained unbroken.

  She'd learned that particular lesson from David the Gyno, thank-that-bastard-very-much. When she'd caught him with Bambi the Stripper on their dining room table— the one she'd sweated over, sanding and polyurethaning it for three straight days while David babbled on and on about their future as a couple—she'd felt her heart shatter like ice falling off a roof.

  Never again. No man would get that close, or get his butt near her eating area again.

  "Okay, group, let's talk about our goals," Stephanie said, dispersing the group hug like a cop kicking the pigeons on Boston Common out of his way. "Remember, make them realistic. If you put the moon too high in the sky—"

  "You'll only end up chomping pie," the group chanted back.

  Stephanie put up a thumb. "That's right. Now, let's share our visions for the week ahead. Close your eyes, picture yourself and tell the group where you'll be in a week."

  If miracles were possible, Maria would be in a size eight and swimming au naturel with Antonio.

  "I've got it!" Arnold said. "I've got my vision!"

  "Go ahead and share, Arnold."

  "In a week, I see myself surrounded by all my friends here, feeling the love." He clutched his chest for emphasis.

  "Yeah and still feeling like a damned whale," Bert muttered. "Love don't make anybody skinny."

  Damn straight, Bert, Maria wanted to say, but didn't. Arnold was, after all, having an emotional moment.

  Arnold cast Bert a little look of horror, then shrugged off the comment. "Words don't have any calories, so they can't hurt me," he said. "Or my waistline."

  She'd have to remember that one. Finally, a tip she could use. Audrey was busy writing it down,
her pencil scratching across her notepad fester than Paul Pierce blazing down the Team Green court.

  "Bert, what's your goal for next week?" Stephanie asked.

  "To buy some freakin' Twinkies." He got to his feet and scratched at his belly. "You got me cravin' them now. Anyone want to make a run to Cumberland Farms with me?"

  Audrey was on her feet in a second, joined by three other Chubby Chum diet defectors. "Do they sell apples there, too?" she asked, tucking her notepad away.

  "Dunno. I never make it past the snack foods." Bert loped off toward the door, the others following behind like a gaggle of hungry baby geese.

  "This is a support group!" Stephanie cried. "You can't walk out in the middle of a meeting."

  "Sure we can," Bert said. "We're supporting each other's need for some freakin' junk food." And with that he was gone, his mutiny leaving only a few lost souls, Maria included, clinging to their chairs with the steadfastness of women riders on the T clutching their handbags.

  "Well," Arnold said, straightening his shoulders and letting out a dramatic breath, "I'd say Bert's animal is a jackass."

  Dante's Mind-on-One-Thing Chicken Breasts with Chianti

  4 boneless chicken breasts, skinned

  1/4 teaspoon salt

  Dash pepper

  3 tablespoons olive oil

  2 ounces sausage, casing removed, meat crumbled

  1/4 cup fresh bread crumbs

  1/2 cup grated Parmigiano Reggiano

  1/2 shallot, minced

  1 egg

  1 tablespoon chopped fresh parsley

  1 teaspoon chopped fresh thyme

  1 medium red onion, sliced in rings

  2 tablespoons pesto (red or green)

  1-1/4 cups Chianti

  1-1/4 cups water

  4 ounces red grapes, halved and seeded

  Mix first nine ingredients in a bowl, keeping your mind on your task, not the woman who has got you preoccupied lately. Slice a pocket in each chicken breast and spoon in two tablespoons of filling. Tie with kitchen string to hold together. Season with salt and pepper.