The Devil Served Desire (10 page)

"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.

Heat oil in a heavy skillet. Brown chicken breasts, watching the pan, not looking in the dining room for a pair of sexy eyes and an even sexier pair of...

Well, you're
supposed
to be cooking.

Remove the chicken. Add the onion and pesto to the pan and cook until onion is softened. Then add the Chianti and water. Stir and bring to a boil, much like your blood already is with the thought of the hot woman waiting for you.

Don't lose your concentration now—you're almost done. Return the chicken to the pan. Reduce the heat (in the pan, not in you). Cover and simmer for 30 minutes or until chicken is cooked through.

If you have the patience of a saint, or of a man who just had a cold shower, transfer the chicken to a plate and keep warm. Simmer sauce until slightly thickened and reduced. Add grapes. Season with salt and pepper.

Serve by feeding bites to her, one succulent morsel at a time. Or if she isn't there, do the next best thing— fantasize.

Around nine, the dinner crowd petered out, giving Dante a little breathing room. "I'm heading outside," he told Vinny.

"You are?" Vinny's voice squeaked in surprise.

"Yeah. I need a break."

"But-but... you never take breaks."

"Well, I need one now." He headed out the back door before Vinny could ask more questions. He knew he was being grouchy, but better to be thought a grump than a man looking for a woman who likely wouldn't be out there looking for him.

Maria. Even the thought of her name caused a weird hitch in his chest. It wasn't just desire; it was something more. Some indefinable connection, as if he'd finally discovered what he'd been missing out on all these years—

Then lost it again.

He ducked around the corner of Vita, hoping like hell she'd be out there again, searching for a cab. The Chubby Chums were meeting again tonight, he knew, from the sign he'd seen outside the church on his way in to work. Would she be there? Inside, debating the merits of lettuce over linguine?

But the spot under the streetlight outside the church was empty. Dante sighed and leaned against the brick facade.

Against his hip, he felt the thrum of his cell phone. Dante undipped the Motorola, flipped it open and barked a hello into the mouthpiece.

"What kind of greeting is that for your mother?"

"Sorry, Ma. It's been a long day."

"It's Tuesday, you know. You didn't call."

"Whenever I call you, you're never home. I talk to your answering machine more than I do you." His mother had a better social life than he did, between the card club, bingo hall and horticultural society meetings.

"Well, still. A son should call his mother on a regular basis. Even if she isn't here to answer the phone."

Dante bit back a sigh. "Can't argue with that logic."

"Exactly. I'm always right, you know." On the other end of the phone, Dante could hear the swish of water. He could picture his mother, tanned and fit, sitting at the edge of her pool, dangling her feet in the water while she sipped a martini and chatted into the fitted earpiece that connected to her cordless phone.

"The restaurant's been busy. The
Globe
critic came out and gave it a four—"

"You're still holding on to that thing?" His mother sighed. "Why?"

"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 like 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-ta!"

"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)

1 egg yolk

1/2 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.

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.