The Devil Served Tortellini Page 8

  "Because Dad left it to me."

  "That doesn't mean you have to keep it, you know. Your father left me with an ugly house in Dorchester and an El Dorado that ran like crap. I dumped that thing first chance I got and sold the house to some idiot who called it a great starter home. Yeah, a start and an end if you aren't careful."

  "Ma, Vita isn't a house. Or a car. It's a legacy."

  His mother's bitter laughter rippled across the phone line. She'd hated every day his father had spent at the restaurant, as if she'd resented the care and attention he'd put into the place. Sometimes, Dante wondered if maybe his mother had been jealous of Vita, the dining room another woman taking his father's attention away. She'd refused all those years to move closer to the North End, as if actually setting foot in the neighborhood would show tacit approval of his dream. So they'd lived outside of the city and Dante's father had made the trek in and out every day, multiplying his hours with traffic and commuters.

  "Some legacy," Carolina snorted. "I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. What happened to that?"

  "I help people with their legal issues." Bailing Vinny out and giving him a job counted. He'd never even made it to law school. His dad had gotten cancer during Dante's senior year and from that summer on, he'd made the daily commute from the house in Dorchester to Vita with his dad. At first, just to help, then later helming the restaurant.

  "Listen, Dante, I don't give you much advice because, well, that stopped being my job when you turned eighteen." She paused and he heard the sound of her taking a sip of the martini. "Listen to me on this one. Dump that albatross and live your own life. Come down to Florida. Buy a bingo hall. You'll be rich."

  "Ma, I don't care about being rich."

  "Did I dial the right number?" she said. "Who doesn't want to be rich? Money solves everything, believe me. That and a hefty life insurance policy." She laughed again, the sound deeper and throatier now that the martini was kicking in.

  Across the street, the door to the church opened and Maria came down the stairs, flanked by a skinny blonde on one side and a wildly gesturing apple-shaped redheaded man on the other.

  "Ma, I gotta go." He'd long ago given up the dream of having a connection with his mother.

  For just a moment, though, he longed for the family Maria had. A kitchen filled with warmth, jokes and laughter, not fights and resentment.

  "I'm talking to you, Dante."

  "I'll call you tomorrow. I promise." He started toward the street, his gaze never leaving Maria. She hadn't noticed him yet. The blonde woman had walked away from the group, leaving Maria and the man on the bottom step. Maria was laughing at something the redhead said and a flare of crazy jealousy went through him.

  "Sell that dive, Dante. While you're still young enough to have a life."

  "Bye, Ma. Have a good night."

  "Oh, all right. Have it your way. I'm heading out with the girls for singles night at the community center, anyway. Maybe I'll find a better ship to hitch my dinghy to." His mother let out another laugh, then disconnected.

  Dante slipped the phone back onto the clip on his waistband and then jogged across the street, stopping a few feet from Maria. When she saw him, she cut off her words mid-sentence.

  "Dante! I didn't expect to see you tonight."

  He grinned. "I'm only across the street."

  "I know."

  The redheaded guy looked from Dante to Maria, his brows jerking up and down like Groucho Marx. "I think I'll go home now, Maria. And leave the chinchilla to the fox." He gave her a little two-fingered wave. "Ta-tal"

  "Chinchilla? Fox?" Dante asked when they were alone again.

  "Don't ask." She bent over a little, buttoning up her knee-length chocolate brown leather coat.

  And hiding that glorious body. Damn.

  "So, you want to take me up on my offer?"

  "Nope. Got my motivation fix in there." She straightened and pointed a thumb toward the church.

  He stepped closer, fingering at the lapels of her jacket. The leather was butter soft, well worn. Almost like a second skin. "One glass of wine won't hurt you."

  She smirked, shaking her head, already saying no. "You sound like my kitchen cabinets."

  "What?"

  "Never mind."

  "I'll make it easy on you. You can drink ice water and I'll have the wine." His hand traveled up to touch her chin. "Maybe enough for both of us."

  She inhaled, her coat rising and falling, the air between them stilling with the suspense of waiting for her answer. "You're a bad influence on me."

  He grinned. "I'm trying my damnedest."

  She bit her lip, considering, and he held his breath, hoping. "I can't go into the restaurant. I'm not that strong yet."

  To him, she seemed very strong. Maybe the strongest woman he'd ever met. Certainly with the guts of a guy, given the way she'd handled Whitman. But if she didn't want to go into Vita, he wasn't going to push the issue. She had, after all, just left the Chubby Chums and was probably doing her best to stick to the diet she clearly didn't need. "Then name the place. And I'll be there with my best Chianti."

  "Aren't you forgetting something?"

  "What?"

  "Your restaurant. You don't close for another, what, two hours?"

  He chuckled softly, his gaze connecting with hers. "Every time I look at you, I forget where I'm supposed to be."

  Her eyes widened, twin dark pools reflecting the amber light above. "Damn, you're good at this."

  "What?"

  "Bullshitting a girl."

  He cupped her chin, lowering his mouth within kissing distance. The scent of her perfume teased at his senses. "You're wrong," he murmured. "This isn't bullshit at all."

  Then he closed the distance between them and captured her mouth with his. She tasted of coffee and sweetener, like a specially brewed cappuccino. A surge of want erupted within him and he had to hold himself back from pressing her down to the stairs and taking this a hell of a lot further than kissing.

  She reached up and cupped the back of his head, long, delicate fingers pressing at nerve endings that seemed to lead straight to his groin. Her lips moved against his with the kiss of an expert, as if she knew him, knew what would feel perfect, knew exactly how to add fuel to a fire already roaring.

  And then her tongue, curling in against his, teasing him into compliance, begging his to come out and dance. He groaned and ran his hands up her back, pressing her chest to his, inhaling her, tasting her, wanting everything that came with Maria.

  She tore away from him, her velvet soft cheek against his, her breath coming hard and fast. "Be at my apartment as soon as you're done at the restaurant. And don't bother with the damned wine."

  Then she was gone, striding away fast in the dark night, as if she might change her mind if she stayed there a second longer.

  Holy shit. He should take breaks more often.

  Mamma's If-Wishes-Were-Son-in-Laws Lady's Kisses

  10 tablespoons butter, softened like your wrinkled, still-waiting hopes

  1/2 cup confectioners' sugar, sweet as you'd be to your grandchildren (if you had some)

  I egg yolk

  teaspoon almond extract

  1 cup ground almonds

  1 1/2 cups flour

  Filling

  1/2 cup almonds, finely ground

  1 tablespoon almond paste

  1 cup chocolate chips

  Cream butter and sugar with an electric mixer until it's as light and fluffy as your long, drawn out, continued hopes for a marriage in the family. Beat in the egg yolk, almond extract, ground almonds and flour. Chill for two hours, until as firm and cold as your daughter's dateless heart.

  Preheat the oven to 325 degrees. Line baking sheets with parchment paper. Break off small pieces of the dough and roll into 40 petite balls, making a wish over each one for happily ever after. Place the balls on the baking sheets, spacing two inches apart. Bake for twenty minutes.

  In a food processor, grind almonds
and almond paste for filling until they are as fine as your daughter's character. Melt chocolate chips and spread on cooled cookies, then dip halves into almond mixture, and press two cookies together to make a sweet sandwich. They're a beautiful creation, almost a work of art.

  Mate the two halves like a perfectly matched couple. Serve as a hint to a solo daughter with space in her heart for a good man.

  CHAPTER 11

  She didn't need a diet. She needed psychiatric help. A one-on-one with Dr. Freud. Maybe the economy-size bottle of Prozac and a little electroshock therapy would help her figure out why she'd invited Dante over.

  Maria smoothed her skirt over her knees and paused at the hall mirror to fix lipstick that didn't need fixing. There was no need for analysis. Her Dante-driven reasoning-or lack thereof-had been fueled entirely by her hormones.

  She wanted him. And like the Twinkies, Maria saw, grabbed and consumed.

  Unlike the Twinkies, the desire for him couldn't be shoved in the garbage can and forgotten beneath the plastic lid. When she'd looked at him, and long after she'd walked away, she'd only felt this searing flame of want. And when he'd kissed her

  At that moment, nothing else mattered but having Dante. The sooner the better.

  Maria paced the small kitchen of her apartment. She wouldn't have to wait long. It was nearing midnight and before she knew it, he'd be on her doorstep, wanting to resume where they'd left off.

  Oh, yes. Oh, no.

  Her doorbell rang. She stopped mid-step and wheeled around. He was here. And damned if her heart didn't react like a jackrabbit in heat.

  Just before she opened the door, Maria straightened her back and took a deep breath. No way was he going to see her as the eager one. She opened the door, flashed him a calm, I-don't-need-to-have-you-in-my-bed-morethan-I-need-to-breathe smile and said, "Hi."

  He stood there, in dark jeans and a white shirt unbuttoned at the neck, that lopsided grin on his face, and her composure slipped to the floor like a pair of panty hose that had lost their elasticity.

  Damn. All she wanted to do was tear off his clothes and drag him off to her queen-size.

  "Hi, yourself," he said.

  "Uh . . . " The words she meant to say went right out of her head.

  His grin widened. "I'm sure the hall's available for socializing, but your apartment might be a bit more private."

  "The hall?" She blinked, then the connections in her brain began clicking, neurons fizzing and popping like crazy. "Oh, oh, yeah, of course. Come in."

  "I thought you'd never ask." He entered the apartment and made the room seem too small. He wasn't a large man, but he had a presence that filled her space.

  It said there was a man in her apartment. Not any man. Dante.

  He withdrew his arm from behind his back. "I brought a bottle of Chianti Classico, anyway. I didn't want to be rude and show up empty handed."

  " You could have shown up with nothing and I would have been fine with that." She took the bottle from him, cradling the cool glass in one arm.

  "Nothing?" He arched a brow.

  She couldn't resist. "The neighbors might have a problem with a naked man in the hall, but personally, I think every building should have one."

  He smirked. "Depends on the man."

  She allowed her gaze to roam over his toned V - shape. "And how he looks naked."

  "True. "

  She laughed. Her heart hadn't resumed anything resembling a normal pace, but at least the teasing had eased the tension between them. And ratcheted the temperature up a few thousand degrees with all those thoughts of naked and Dante. Two words that when put together, did really funny things to her gut. She turned away from his gaze and headed toward the kitchen. "Let me get some wineglasses."

  He followed her into the kitchen, making her damned glad she'd kept on the skirt. She could feel his eyes on her legs, watching the swish of her skirt against the bare skin. Her slides clicked against the tile, followed by the answering clack of his shoes. She paused at the counter and reached into the cabinet, withdrawing two delicate gold-rimmed wineglasses.

  When she pivoted, he was there. So very much there. Her gaze went straight to the warm, golden skin exposed by the open buttons on his shirt. A simple triangle, nothing more, but it hinted at the ridges and planes that lay below.

  And stirred a whole other appetite within her.

  Who needed Twinkies with something like that in her kitchen?

  "Corkscrew?"

  "Please," she murmured.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Oh, you meant the wine."

  "That's usually what that tool is used for, yes."

  Maria pivoted on her heel and flung open a kitchen drawer, rummaging in it for the wine opener. For a second, she couldn't even remember what it looked like.

  This was never going to work. Never had she been so discombobulated by a man.

  "Isn't this what you want?" Dante reached past her and pulled the wine opener out of the drawer.

  "Oh, yeah. I just, ah, have something in my eye"blink, blink-"and missed it."

  "Uh-huh." He smirked as he inserted the corkscrew into the top of the bottle, screwed it down and popped off the top. The wine let out a soft pop when the cork was released and the scent of Chianti filled the air between them.

  With an easy, practiced hand, Dante reached for a glass and poured, twisting the bottle at the end before tipping it upright, never spilling a drop. "For you," he said, handing her a glass.

  When she took the goblet, their fingers brushed and the simmering tension between them perked into a steady boil. "Thank you."

  "My pleasure."

  The way he said it made her think of pleasures far beyond the wine. Oh, this was wrong. In too many ways to name.

  He poured his own glass, then raised it to hers. "To a taste of something delicious."

  Their glasses clinked. He smiled and sipped. "And I'm talking about the alcohol. Of course."

  She took a sip. The wine was divine. But damned if his smile wasn't better.

  Not to mention the scent of him. Every Italian delicacy tinder the sun seemed to emanate from his skin, his clothes, his hair. He was like a buffet waiting to be sampled. A nibble here, a nibble there, and before she knew it ...

  She should get rid of him. Just as she had the Hostess snack foods. Any dieter knew the first cardinal rule: eliminate the temptation. Otherwise, her willpower didn't stand a chance.

  Hell, she'd already lost that battle. The minute Dante's lips had met hers, Maria's willpower had deserted her for a vacation in the Bahamas. For a moment there, he'd had her thinking commitment maybe even marriage-wouldn't be such a bad idea if it meant being with a man like him every day.

  That he was a man who could be trusted. Who'd stay true to the words that came out of his mouth and not undermine them behind her back.

  Crazy thoughts. She'd been down that road once before with a man who had pled a damned good case, then perjured himself at the same place setting where she'd served him gnocchi.

  She reached forward, setting her wineglass on the counter. "Listen, about what happened earlier . . . " she began.

  "Don't tell me you're already regretting that kiss?" His voice was deep and teasing.

  "Well ... yes."

  "Why?"

  She sighed. "Because you're the kind of man my mother likes. Not the kind I like."

  He seemed surprised. `Just because I ate her soup?"

  "No. Because you're responsible. And nice. And mature. And Italian."

  He shook his head. "And that makes me a bad man ... why?"

  "Because you're the kind of guy a woman falls in love with. She gets all wrapped up in him. Her every thought centers around what he's doing. Where he is. Who he's with."

  "Yeah? So?"

  "And then it turns out to be a big, fat, one-sided lie."

  "Whoa!" He put a hand up. "Am I sensing some left over baggage you're dumping off at Dante National Airport?"

  "It's not baggage. I
t's reality." She leaned forward, into his space, connecting her gaze with his, telling him in no uncertain words she was looking for truth. "Do you want to get married right now?"

  "Are you asking me? Or just talking hypothetically?"

  "I don't have a white gown in my closet. Nor do I have any kind of urge to hitch myself to someone who's going to tell me when to be home and how much to spend at the Stop & Shop. So, no, I'm not asking. It's entirely hypothetical."

  His gaze traveled up and down her frame. A flush ran through her body that had nothing to do with the alcohol. "You'd look good in white."

  "That's not what we're talking about."

  "Why not? That could be my new favorite subject. Maybe even make it a category on jeopardy. Ways to Describe Maria Dressed and Naked."

  "I bet you'd knock yourself out on the video clues."

  Once again, his gaze slid over every inch of her like a heated visual caress. Damn. It had suddenly become August in her apartment. "I might need CPR from Alex Trebek," he said.

  "Now that would be something I'd watch."

  "Gee, glad to know my getting mouth-to-mouth from a game show host would interest you." He leaned toward her. "A guy's gotta take some pretty desperate measures to get your attention, I take it?"

  "No. Not at all. He just has to be the opposite of Mamma's Dream Date."

  "Well, for your information, I don't want to get married this minute."

  'Well, good."

  "But I do someday," he said, moving closer, his words soft, as if he were sharing a secret. "I want a house and a bunch of kids and a wife who smiles when I walk through the door."

  "One of those traditional lives, huh?"

  "What's wrong with that?"

  She looked away. "Everything."

  A woman lost her identity, her self in that kind of life. She'd seen it in generation after generation of Pagliano women. That particular buck stopped here. With her.

  "You seem scared of marriage, which surprises me," he said.

  "Surprises you?"

  "You stood up to George Whitman and his lawyer. Not many men would do that, never mind women. And yet, the mere mention of a little gold ring has you running for the Berkshires."

  She took a sip from her glass. "I'm not scared of anything."