Just a Taste

by Deirdre Martin

  Dominica shook the doll in his face, impatient for an answer. “The doll’s nice, honey,” Anthony managed. Satisfied, she moved on to her next gift, tearing the wrapping paper with gusto.

  Anthony stole a glance at his brother and Theresa, both of whom looked as tired as he imagined himself to look. Baby Angelica was sitting on Theresa’s lap in the rocking chair, looking bright eyed and adorable in a little Santa’s hat. Little Ant was on the floor with his sister and father, his gift-opening much more deliberate than Dominica’s. So far, Dominica had opened three gifts to Little Ant’s one. Anthony could foresee her running out of presents to open before Little Ant was even halfway done with his, a scenario guaranteed to generate some resentment. He hoped his brother or sister-in-law would tell her to slow down.

  “Here, open this.” Michael stretched forward to pluck a gift from the far recesses beneath the tree, turning to wink at Anthony before handing it to his son. There was excitement on Little Ant’s face as his fingers tore at the wrapping, but his face fell when he opened the box.

  “New skates.” Michael was beaming as he tousled his son’s hair. “Whaddaya think, huh, kiddo? You’ll be lightning on the ice in those babies.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Little Ant replied glumly as he returned the skates to their box, pushing the gift far back under the tree. Theresa caught Anthony’s eye, shaking her head in silent disbelief at her husband’s utter cluelessness.

  Anthony decided to rescue the moment. “My turn,” he said, handing Little Ant one of the gifts he’d bought him.

  “What about me?” Dominica pouted.

  “I’ll give you yours in a minute,” Anthony promised, perching expectantly on the edge of the couch as Little Ant slowly opened his present. It was sad; thanks to his father, the kid seemed almost afraid to discover what was inside.

  “Look!” Little Ant gasped when all the paper had been torn away. “Cookbooks!” He held them up for his parents to see before jumping up to give Anthony a hug. “This is the best, Uncle Ant! Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome,” said Anthony, pleased to have done well. Last year he’d gotten Little Ant some stupid talking robot that fell apart after ten minutes. This year he’d scored ten out of ten, both with Little Ant and Vivi. Not bad.

  He turned to ask Michael a question and was taken aback. The look of resentment on his brother’s face was unmistakable. “I need to talk to you when we’re done here,” Michael murmured under his breath. Anthony nodded curtly. He could guess what was coming.

  “Look, you have to lay off with the cooking stuff.”

  Anthony watched as his brother halted in the middle of the kitchen floor, sloshing coffee over the rim of his mug. Theresa was still out in the living room with the kids, helping Dominica dress her new doll while listening to Little Ant read aloud the recipes he wanted to try. Baby Angelica sat on the floor beside her mother, shredding wrapping paper to her heart’s delight.

  “He liked the gift, Mike. He likes to cook. Those cookbooks are geared specifically to kids.”

  “I don’t care.” Michael’s expression was momentarily hostile; then he backed off. “I didn’t mean that. What I mean is, with school and all, Little Ant really only has time for one extracurricular activity, not two.”

  “And you want that activity to be hockey.”

  “Right.”

  “Have you ever thought of consulting Little Ant about that? Seems to me he’d rather be in the kitchen than on the ice.” Anthony went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of eggs. He’d scramble some up for everyone for breakfast.

  “He just needs a little more time to warm to it,” Michael insisted.

  “He’s been playing for what, four months now?” asked Anthony, grabbing a frying pan and throwing a healthy-sized chunk of butter into it.

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Don’t you think he knows by now whether he likes it?”

  “He’s a kid, Anthony. He changes his mind every thirty seconds.”

  “Except when it comes to wanting to cook,” Anthony pointed out, reveling in the aroma of the sizzling butter.

  “I want him to be part of a tradition,” Michael continued, seeming not to hear.

  “He is,” Anthony said sharply. “The cooking tradition. Dad, me, and now him. What, it has to be hockey?” He glared over his shoulder at his brother. “Cooking isn’t macho enough?”

  “You know that’s not it.”

  “Then what’s your problem?” Anthony broke six eggs into a bowl and began whisking them with a fork. “Why can’t you just let him be who he wants?”

  “You sound like Theresa.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe we’re on to something here. Go put up some toast.”

  “You think I’m being an asshole, don’t you?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.” Anthony poured the eggs into the pan, pausing as they hissed and sputtered in the pool of melted butter.

  Michael put four slices of bread in the toaster and sank down in a kitchen chair. For a few seconds, the only sound filling the kitchen was that of the eggs frying. “All right, I’ll see how it goes. If he seems totally miserable playing the second half of the year, then maybe—maybe—I’ll let him drop out. I just hate the thought of my kid being a quitter.”

  “There’s a difference between being a quitter and giving up an activity that makes you completely miserable!”

  Anthony sensed movement in the kitchen doorway. He looked. Little Ant was standing there, holding both the cookbooks he’d given him, a big smile on his face.

  “What’s up, sport?” Michael asked in a strained voice.

  “Can Uncle Anthony and I pick out a recipe for me to cook sometime during the Christmas vacation?”

  Anthony’s eyes shot to his brother’s. You gonna break his heart on Christmas morning or what?

  “Sure,” said Michael. “I’m going to go help Mommy with stuff in the living room. You two chefs work it out.”

  He picked up his coffee mug and walked out of the kitchen.

  Chapter 18

  “A Euro for your thoughts, Vivi.”

  Vivi lifted her head from the book she was pretending to read, surprised to hear Natalie try to use this foreign idiom. Over the holidays, she’d devoured the books Anthony had given her and now felt she had a firmer grasp on American slang, finding it fascinating. She especially loved the phrases “hit the sack” and “open a can of whoop-ass,” though she couldn’t imagine a situation where she’d ever get to use the latter, which made her sad.

  “It’s penny, not Euro, but how do you know that expression?”

  “I know lots of things,” said Natalie. “Like the fact that you’re extremely distracted. You’ve been reading the same page for at least an hour.”

  Vivi sighed, closing her book. Ever since their flight left Paris earlier in the day, alternating moods of melancholy, trepidation, and anticipation had plagued Vivi. She was sad at having to say good-bye to her mother. They’d had a wonderful two weeks together cooking, laughing, and gossiping like two old friends. But she couldn’t wait to see Anthony. He’d been on her mind day and night. She was like some lovesick schoolgirl, wondering what he was doing at any given moment of any given day. She almost telephoned him Christmas Day, but decided not to. She’d agreed to give him two weeks to sort his feelings out; calling might make her look desperate.

  Her newfound certainty made Vivi even more anxious to get back to Bensonhurst to discover what he’d decided. Suppose he thought it better they stay friends? Or that he needed still more time to sort things out? Vivi tried to block out anything other than the outcome she wanted—the one with the two of them together.

  She turned to Natalie, who’d insisted on the window seat as soon as they’d entered the plane. Vivi was sad they hadn’t managed to get together over the holidays, but at least it enabled her to spend lots of time with her mother. Now that they’d be back in the States, she and Natalie could see each other anytime. Theoretically.

  “I
was daydreaming,” Vivi admitted. She was surprised Natalie had noticed; she’d spent most of the flight listening to music on her iPod, lost in her own world.

  “The bistro?”

  “Yes.” She was tempted to again remind Natalie of the importance of contacting Theresa Dante about PR as soon as they got back to New York, but refrained. Better for both of them to reacclimate for a few days, and then get down to business.

  “Is that all?”

  “No.” Vivi saw no point in lying. “I was thinking about Anthony Dante.”

  Natalie shook her head, drawing the flimsy airplane blanket tighter around her legs. “I worry about you, Vivi. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  Vivi thought Natalie’s worry had more to do with Natalie’s own doomed romance of the year before than it did with Anthony. Vivi decided to gently probe the issue. “Did you see Thierry when you were in Paris?”

  “No.” Natalie looked sad, but resolute. “I wanted to, but it was too masochistic a thing to do. Better to move on.”

  Vivi squeezed her hand. “I’m so relieved to hear you say that.”

  “Why? So you can keep pushing me toward that Quinn character?”

  Vivi rolled her eyes. “He’s a nice man, Natalie.”

  “You’ve met him twice in your life, Vivi, for five minutes each. He could be a monster for all you know.”

  “Well, he seems nice,” Vivi insisted.

  “Hitler loved dogs. Just remember that.”

  Vivi laughed. “Papa used to say that, didn’t he?”

  Natalie smiled. “Yes.” She seemed to relax for just a moment before sadness overtook her face again. “It felt strange, not having him around for the holidays.”

  Vivi clutched the book on her lap. “Yes.”

  “How is your mother?” Natalie asked politely.

  “Very well. And yours?”

  “The usual: a pain in the neck.”

  “Was your Christmas awful?” Vivi asked, semidreading the answer.

  “Awful. I should have accepted your invitation and come to Avignon.”

  Vivi squeezed her hand, touched. “Next year, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps. If we’re not bankrupt by then.”

  Vivi knew Natalie meant it as a joke, but her flippancy made Vivi uneasy. Still holding Natalie’s hand, she said, “Promise me something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Promise that you’ll always tell me the truth.”

  “Of course,” Natalie murmured, glancing out the window. “What an odd thing to request.”

  “Not really. You’re my only family in America, Natalie. I need to know I can count on you.”

  “If you don’t know that by now, then I don’t know what,” Natalie replied huffily, pulling her hand away from Vivi’s.

  Vivi recoiled, confused. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you or imply—”

  “You didn’t.” Natalie briskly wound the cord of her earphones around her index finger and shoved it into the carry-on bag between her feet. “It’s me. I had a very stressful time with my mother, and I’m just feeling a little fraught. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.” She cupped Vivi’s cheek. “Go back to your daydreams, cherie. And whatever they are, I hope they come true.”

  “A new year, a new lease on life. That’s how Anthony saw it, anyway. He’d had two weeks to think about Vivi, two weeks to miss her, and since he wasn’t a complete idiota, he had to conclude that he was ready for a relationship. Vivi could be a royal pain in the ass in the kitchen, but that just meant she was spirited, with brains and balls and a steely determination to succeed that sometimes left him speechless with admiration. Plus, she was gorgeous. And that accent—Jesus, talk about sexy. Just imagining her whispering in his ear in French made the heat rise in his body.

  He knew she was back in Brooklyn. Driving to his brother’s for a Mikey-sanctioned cooking date with Little Ant, he’d seen a light burning in her apartment window. He sensed she was going to come see him tonight when the restaurant closed, which was why he remained there, waiting. It was a feeling he’d had all day, an intuition. His cousin Gemma, the stregh, claimed all the Dantes had inherited some of “the sight” from their late grandmother, Nonna Maria. Anthony usually thought the idea was nuts. But today was different. The air around him felt charged the way it did before an impending storm. So when Vivi finally did walk through the swinging doors of the kitchen, he could have sworn he heard a crack of thunder overhead.

  “Hello,” she said softly, walking toward him. “I had a feeling you’d be here.”

  I had a feeling you’d come. She was so much more beautiful in person than the image he’d been holding of her in his mind’s eye. Her long gold hair was loose around her shoulders, not braided behind her head as usual. She was smiling at him beguilingly.

  Without any hesitation, she kissed him hard on the mouth. Anthony fought the urge to crush her roughly to him and claim her on the spot. Instead he returned the kiss.

  “It’s good to see you,” he murmured, priding himself on being a master of understatement.

  “You, too.” Vivi put her hands on her hips. “So, have you decided?”

  Anthony looked at her, then burst out laughing. “You don’t believe in beating around the bush, do you?”

  Vivi’s eyes lit up. “That expression was in one of the books you gave me! I know what it means!”

  “Yeah? Do you know what this means?”

  Eyes pinpointing hers, Anthony stepped into the small space separating them and took her in his arms. Her scent, her soft skin, the surprised intake of breath when his mouth greedily sought hers—all conspired to rob him of coherence. He could feel Vivi’s heart beating against his chest, a captive bird longing to break free of its cage and soar. He would be her liberator. Her liberator and captor both.

  Vivi dragged her mouth from his. “Say it,” she commanded. “Tell me your decision.”

  “I want you, Vivi.”

  It was what she wanted to hear. She kissed him, nipping at his lips with her teeth like a hungry animal.

  “C’mon,” Anthony murmured in her ear, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Let’s go back to my house.”

  “No.” Vivi’s voice was resolute, the blue of her eyes glinting like sapphires. “Right here.” Her hands reached for the front of his shirt, her fingers nimbly undoing the buttons. “Have you ever made love in your kitchen before?” she asked mischievously.

  “What—no.”

  Vivi smiled at him saucily. Shirt now open, her hands slid up and down the skin of his chest. A low moan escaped Anthony’s lips. Just who was the captive here? He put his hands firmly on her small, slim hips to steady himself, then dipped down to savage her throat and mouth, greed for her pumping through him. Aroused, Vivi groaned. It was a sound Anthony could almost taste, sweet and drugging. He wanted more.

  “Since we’re in a kitchen, let’s make use of what’s available to us,” he murmured into her ear, nipping at her lobe before breaking away and walking over to one of the kitchen’s industrial-sized refrigerators. He pulled out some chocolate syrup he used to drizzle over profiteroles, as well as a small bowl of caramel left over from tonight’s crème caramel.

  Vivi’s eyes were glued to the bowls in his hands as he detoured to a microwave to heat them up. By the time he came back to her and put the bowls down on the table, there was no denying the longing in her eyes, the hot flush of desire on her cheeks.

  He watched to see her reaction as he placed his hands at the neck of her blouse and violently tore, the small white buttons clattering to the tile floor like scattered pearls. Vivi swallowed and swooned, her hand coming up to softly touch the skin of her own throat, as if checking to see if she were still alive. “Yes,” he heard her whisper. Need reared up in him, unrelenting and strong. He grabbed her by her shoulders and pushed her roughly up against the long, stainless steel table.

  Vivi gasped in surprise, but the fire in her eyes belied the shock of his action. She was as hungry a
s he was. Tugging off her shirt, Anthony pushed her bra up and then dipped his fingers into the bowl of deliciously warm caramel. Vivi’s breath held, shuddered, as he spread the caramel on her nipples with the care of an artist before he carefully began licking it off. God, the sweetness, the firmness of her breasts. He wanted to gorge himself on her.

  “Anthony…Anthony…”

  Vivi was breathlessly chanting his name, her body trembling as he continued to use teeth and tongue to pleasure her. Fevered, he lifted her hips slightly so she sat on the lip of the table, dark lightning crashing through him. He lifted his head to look at her. The sweat blooming on her face added to the feeling of delirium rising within him. He returned to suckling her, Vivi’s hands fisting in his hair as she breathed hard, the staccato rise and fall of her rib cage the metronome counting out the beats of her desire. She was arching against him, her body daring him to take her here, now. Anthony’s eyes stole back to hers. Vivi looked back at him, bold yet needy at the same time, pausing for only a second before reaching down to rub her hand back and forth against the front of his jeans, bringing him to fullness.

  The pleasure of it was too much. Blood spinning through his veins, Anthony reached for the zipper of her pants, tugging madly. Vivi gave a small, teasing laugh, but didn’t hesitate in accommodating him, shedding her jeans and panties with surprising quickness. She lay back on the table, wrapping her legs around him. But Anthony wasn’t ready for the plunge. He wanted to play some more. Tease some more.

  “Patience, mademoiselle,” he whispered to her with a devilish chuckle. Lifting his lips from her body, he reached for the bowl of chocolate syrup, and holding it above her bare belly, began pouring it in a slow, steady stream from her rib cage to her slightly opened legs.