The Devil Served Desire (25 page)

"Here, let me help you," Dante said, grabbing a second tray and putting half the plates on it.

Rochelle stopped what she was doing to cock a hip in his direction. "I can handle this. I'm no wimp like those new waitresses you hired. They cry if they have to carry more than one glass of wine."

Dante grinned. "No one is as good as you, Ro."

"You know it." She hefted her tray onto her shoulder, then directed a glance toward the tray in his hands, pretending she didn't care one way or the other if he helped. "If you insist on helping, you better keep up with me." She wagged a finger at him. "And no flirting with the women at table nine."

"I had no intentions—"

"Don't bullshit me. You never help carry out orders. A dozen pretty women come in and boom, you're busboy of the year. Just keep your eyes on the tray and head straight for twenty-eight."

He put up one hand, three fingers extended in the hand movement he'd learned back in grade school. "Scout's honor."

Rochelle snorted. "I saw you and Vin mooning over those women like a couple of mutts at the poodle show. And I could hear Franco concocting some matchmaking scheme all the way in the dining room." She headed toward the door, pushing it open with her hip in a practiced move that said she'd done it a hundred times before. "Table twenty-eight. No detours."

Dante chuckled. "I should make you manager. And give you a whip."

Rochelle grinned at him over her shoulder. "Now that just might make this job fun."

Dante followed behind her, laughing.

"Uh, Boss?" Franco said.

He pivoted back. "What?"

Franco patted his head.

His chef hat. Dante removed it and sent it sailing Franco's way. "You're in charge of the kitchen while I'm out there."

Franco beamed, then sobered and eyed Vinny. "You. No funny business with the matches or Franco will put you out."

"Boss! Don't leave me with him. Last time you did, he hosed me down—"

But Dante had already left.

Together, he and Rochelle placed the dinners before the customers at table twenty-eight. Dante introduced himself, staying a few minutes to chat then turned back toward the kitchen. Rochelle had already picked up the trays and the tray stands, disappearing back into the kitchen.

He had every intention of going back to work. The restaurant couldn't run itself, after all. But then, from across the room, he heard the throaty sound of Maria's laughter. And he stopped.

He pivoted and saw her, sitting at table nine in a red dress with a daring V-neck that set off her hair and made everything about her seem more vibrant.

God, he wanted to kiss her. To pull her to him and pick up where they'd left off, to taste the warmth of her skin, the hollows of her neck, the tender flesh along her belly. He wanted to smell the sweet perfume of her hair, feel the light caress of her hand against his skin.

He wanted, quite simply, as many parts of her as he could have. Again.

He should go over to table nine. Make sure everything was up to par. It was one of the tables one of the new waitresses was handling. She could be falling down on the job. Keeping the guests undersupplied with water. The last thing he wanted was to be a disappointment to—

The customers.

Yeah, that was it. He didn't want to go over there to see if he could turn—what had Vinny called it?—the butane flame in his gut from simmering to scorching.

And set off a four-alarm inside her, too. Once and for all.

Mary Louise's How-to-Be-the-Center-of-Attention Zabaglione

4 egg yolks

1/2 cup confectioners' sugar

1/2 cup dry Marsala wine

Biscotti or butter cookies, to serve

First, sit at the head of the table and wear a crown so everyone knows it's your party and you are queen for the day. Be sure you have had your diamond polished and your nails done. Wouldn't want anyone to miss the gleam of the new jewel.

Second, have someone working in the kitchen because you are far too busy with gifts and well wishes to do it yourself. Whoever the kitchen person is should whisk together the egg yolks and sugar. Then they need to carefully put the bowl over a saucepan of simmering water (but don't let the bowl touch the water or you'll get scrambled eggs instead and that will ruin everything). The kitchen person has to beat with a handheld mixer until the eggs and sugar are pale and creamy. Add the Marsala, and beat until it reaches 160 degrees. About the same temperature as everyone's jealousy that you are getting married and they are not.

Have the kitchen help bring out the zabaglione in one big bowl with little bowls and biscotti so you, as queen, can dispense to the others. It is, after all, your party. You must remain the focus of the gathering.

No matter what it takes.

"Oh, look, here comes the chef," Mary Louise said.

Oh, no, not him
, Maria thought.
Not yet
.

"How do you know it's him?" Carla Romano asked. "He's not even wearing the pork chop hat."

"My father thoroughly checks out every eating establishment before we dine anywhere. Food poisoning and all that." Mary Louise said. "He downloaded all the past articles about Vita off the Internet. One of them had Dante Del Rosso's picture with it."

"I can see why." Carla sighed. "He's a hunk."

"Ladies," Dante said, arriving at the table, looking as good—no, better—than he had the last time she'd seen him. His blue button-down shirt and gray slacks were a perfect compliment to his dark brown hair and eyes. She busied herself with her Diet Coke instead of looking at him. "I hope you are enjoying your meal?"

"Oh, yes, very much," Angela Renaldi piped up from the corner seat.

"Even more so now," Mary Louise added. With a smile.

Maria noted Dante ignored the obvious flirt from Mary Louise. Instead, he turned all his attention on Maria. "It's nice to see you again, too."

She gave him a polite smile. "You, too."

"I've been trying to reach you."

Every woman at the table fell silent, watching the exchange between her and Dante. Mary Louise's mouth dropped open.

Apparently not everything about Dante could be found on the Internet.

"I've been ... busy."

"Busy? Or avoiding me?"

She swallowed. "Busy."

From the look in his eyes, it was clear he didn't believe her. "You look beautiful tonight."

The air hung between them, heavy and still. For a moment, Maria wanted to chuck her plan out the window and reach out, ending the agony of wanting and resisting Dante. She raised her hand to grasp his and—

"That's my Maria, always the prettiest one at the party." Antonio swooped into the area, laying a proprietary kiss on Maria's cheek. "Hello,
bignole
. Sorry I'm late. I-95 was a mess."

When she'd concocted this idea, it had seemed so smart. Meet Antonio here and kill two relationships with one bachelorette party stone—she'd finally send a clear message to Dante that she wasn't interested and broadcast to Mary Louise that twenty pounds didn't make a woman a hippo.

But when she glanced at Dante's face, she didn't see resignation. Or anger. Or giving up on her.

She saw hurt.

Oh, God. What had she done? All she wanted to do now was undo it. Take it back. Turn the clock around and erase that look in Dante's eyes. The regret inside her became a heavy, burdensome thing she couldn't seem to shake.

"Hi, Antonio," she said, because she knew she had to say something.

He reached behind him, stole a chair from a nearby table and pulled it up to sit beside Maria, draping his coat over it. Then he rested his arm over the back of her seat, clearly conveying possession. Antonio's gaze went to Dante's. Two wolves, squaring off over territory.

"I have a kitchen to run," Dante said. "I hope you enjoy your meal," he said to Maria. She got the feeling he hoped she'd choke. "Ladies, I'll be sure to whip up a special treat in honor of the bride." He sent a smile Mary Louise Zipparetto's way, then left.

Maria sat back in her chair. She needed some stuffed shells. Immediately.

So she could shove them in her mouth and stop herself from ever doing anything so stupid again.

Mary Louise had finally started on her gifts. This torture event would come to an end soon. Maria itched to be out of her seat, but with Antonio's arm over her shoulders, she was pinned to the cranberry cushion.

"Oh, thank you, Maria, for the... uh, what exactly is this?" Mary Louise said.

Maria smiled. "Edible underwear."

"Edible?" Mary Louise's eyes widened. "You...
eat
it?"

"I figured you, or Joey, might need a little sustenance on the honeymoon."

Mary Louise turned strawberry red, shoved the package of Popsicle-flavored panties under the table and reached for the next gift. Quick.

"I wanted to talk about that plan," Antonio said, his voice low so the oohing and ahhing Mary Louise Zipparetto Fan Club couldn't overhear. "We can talk business now and get down to a little 'other business' later." He nibbled at her neck.

His kiss felt like the overzealous welcome of a sloppy uncle. What had happened? He used to set her skin on fire. She couldn't blame her lack of reaction on a wineglass because this time, she hadn't been drinking.

It had to be the built-in audience. Mary Louise and her friends, all talking about the gifts and her upcoming marriage and in between, how cute Dante was. She knew they were all speculating about her and just salivating for an opening so they could grill her for more information. After all, a gorgeous man had shown up and was now nuzzling at her neck, right after the owner of the hippest restaurant in the North End had made it clear he had a little unfinished business of his own with her.

Maria forced herself back to Antonio, drawing her neck out of kissing range. "So, what's this plan?"

Maybe if they talked, she'd rekindle the flame from high school again. Because it sure as hell seemed to have gone out since that dinner.

"I might have told you, I work for a securities firm in California?''

"Yes, you mentioned it."

'Well, there's this great opportunity that I came across. Remember those tan-through swimsuits that were on the market years ago?"

"Yeah. They were practically transparent." And tiny enough that only a mouse could wear them.

"Well, I've found someone who has an idea for tan-through Speedos. It's the wave of the future for men's beachwear. No more white butt cracks on your plumber."

Maria blinked. "Tan-through
Speedos?
" She didn't even want to try to wrap her mind around
that
mental image.

Antonio nodded, his eyes full of excitement. "It's brilliant. And I want in. In fact I don't just want in, I want to own the company."

"That sounds... great."

"But here's where I need a little help." He toyed with the back of her hand, trailing a finger down, slow and easy. "The banks, they're picky. You know how they are."

"Yeah. I've been in business with Rebecca and Candace for a few years. We deal with banks all the time."

"And they want all these papers." Antonio let out a gust. "A mountain of them."

"It's a necessary part of getting financing. I'm sure you deal with that all the time, working in the securities industry."

"Well, I'm more an adviser than a pencil pusher. But you"—he pointed at her—"you really seem to know about this stuff."

She nodded, sipping at her Diet Coke. "I did the paperwork for Gift Baskets when we first went into business and handled most of the financials. Rebecca and Candace and I each have our own strengths and mine is in the business end of it."

"You were always so smart," Antonio said, smiling at her. "Smarter than me."

"I got better grades than you, that's all."

"You gave me almost every grade I ever got." He started up on her hand again, his gaze watching his index finger tracing a slow circle around her knuckles. "So I thought, since you were so smart, you could help me."

"I'd be glad to give you some advice."

"I don't really need advice," the finger traced a smaller circle, "more... help."

Maria shifted in her chair. "What kind of help are you talking about?"

"Well, yours, of course."

"You're hedging. Why don't you spell it out?"

"I need a business plan. And I know you're the
perfect
one to write it for me." His smile was wide and full of good orthodontia.

"A business plan?" Maria eyed him. "Do you have any idea how much work goes into one of those?"

"Well, yes. That's why I'm asking you." He covered her hand with his own. "I'm so busy. I don't have time to do it."

"You want to buy the business. You should be able to find the time to do this yourself. It's part of being an entrepreneur, Antonio."

He squeezed her hand. "I just want to be an owner of a good thing. Get in on something that's going to make me millions."

"In other words, you don't want to do any of the hard work."

He grinned. "Not if I can help it."

She yanked her hand away from his. "I'm not going to do this for you."

"Why not? It's a chance to help me and in turn, I can make you very happy." His voice was deep and full of innuendo.

Innuendos that no longer held any appeal whatsoever. "I don't think so, Antonio."

"What, don't you want to be my cheerleader anymore?"

"No, I don't. And frankly, I think you're an asshole."

He drew back. "What? Why?"

"Because you're lazy and you're using me. And those two things aren't worth half an orgasm. Even on that, you cheated me back on prom night."

His gaze turned steely. "Well, maybe I'd have been more inclined to work harder if you looked a little more like my ideal woman."

Maria got to her feet, her chair teetering for a minute before falling back into place. The women swiveled to look at her and eavesdrop, but she didn't care. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you are a little"—his gaze roamed over her form—"pudgy. Not my type at all."