The Devil Served Desire

by Shirley Jump

  "I am, I am. We watch the game and drink to celebrate the victory."

  Nicky Benedetto cocked his head. "Hey, wait a minute. Who won? I think we drank to the wrong team."

  Nonno waved a hand in dismissal. "Doesn't matter. They win, we drink. Everybody happy."

  Guiseppe Santo looked at Maria. "You look happy, too. You drinking tonight?"

  "No, I was ... out."

  "With a man, I bet," Nicky said, elbowing Nonno.

  Nonno looked at Maria, his hazy eyes suddenly going clear. He had the vision of a hawk when he spotted a lie—or an impending romance. "Are you falling in love?"

  She let out a laugh. "Definitely not."

  "Ah, too bad. Love, she is sweeter than the first sip of wine."

  "Hey, if that's true, then why are we out drinking instead of home with our wives?" Nicky asked. He slumped against a lamppost and put the back of his hand against his forehead, pondering that question.

  "Because our wives drive us crazy," Guiseppe said. "And a man needs a little room off the leash to play in the yard."

  As much as she loved her grandfather and often laughed at the antics of his friends, this was exactly the kind of thing she wanted to avoid. Traditional men with traditional values that kept their wives behind an apron while they roamed the neighborhood. It was why she needed to avoid Dante Del Rosso, at all costs and all flavors.

  Maria took her grandfather's arm. "Come on, Nonno. We'll walk home together."

  "Be careful of that wife of yours," Nicky called after him as they walked away. "She might be mad at you."

  "Ah, she's always mad at me," Sal said, grinning. "But a little of the Pagliano music and she'll forgive me before the moon is full."

  Guiseppe snorted. "The wine has made you crazy, Sal. You're too old to last as long as the moon."

  "I'm lucky if I make it long enough to hear Leno tell a joke," Nicky said. He shoved off from the lamppost and shook his head. "You, Sal, you always see Leno. The whole show, too."

  "That's because I can last longer than the two of you put together," Sal called over his shoulder, then turned back to Maria, a laugh in his face. "See what you get to look forward to when you're old and gray?"

  Not if I'm lucky, she thought.

  The other two walked away in the opposite direction, muttering their envy about Sal's endurance. Maria gave her grandfather a suspicious look. "Since when have you ever stayed up past ten o'clock at night?"

  "Never." Nonno laughed and patted Maria's arm in the crook of his. "But those old fools don't know what I have up my sleeve."

  "What's that?"

  Sal leaned down and whispered in her ear. "A TiVo."

  Mamma Pagliano's My-Daughter-Is-Never-Going-to-Get-Married Italian Wedding Soup

  1/2 pound ground beef

  1/2 pound ground veal

  1/4 cup seasoned bread crumbs, sprinkled with hope

  1 egg, from a fertile chicken

  1 tablespoon parsley

  Salt and pepper to taste

  4 cups chicken broth, made by a married mother who cares

  2 cups spinach leaves, ripped into pieces like your no-grandchildren-yet heart

  1/4 cup grated Romano cheese

  Combine the ground meat, bread crumbs, egg, parsley, salt and pepper in a bowl. Mix with love, all the while begging the Lord to bring a man into your daughter's life, and soon. Form into tiny meatballs, then bake for 30 minutes at 350 degrees. Bless the stove with the sign of the cross, then bring the broth to a boil and add the spinach. Cover and boil for five minutes, muttering a prayer for a happy marriage with enough steam to bring lots of grandchildren into the world. Add the cooked meatballs, dropping each one in with a whispered mantra for upcoming nuptials.

  Stir in the cheese and serve to a good Italian boy who has marriage on his mind.

  Chapter Five

  "Sit, sit," Biba Pagliano said, gesturing wildly at Dante to get comfortable in her walnut kitchen chair. She laid a plate of toasted, cheese-encrusted bruschetta in front of him. "Mangio. You too thin. Eat."

  Dante chose a thin slice of the Italian bread and took a bite. He'd only been in this house for three minutes and already knew it would be in his best interests to do as he was told.

  Maria's mother was a formidable woman—not in size, but in presence. She didn't seem the type he should argue with. And well, hell, he enjoyed the attention. His own mother had gone to live in Florida after his father's death, starting up a new life of endless bingo games and horticultural club meetings. She'd forgotten everything from her life in Boston, including his birthday most years. He told himself it didn't matter. She'd never been the kind of mother who worried much about him, anyway.

  Sitting in the warm Pagliano kitchen on a quiet Monday afternoon and being fussed over like a prodigal son was something Dante could get used to. He'd taken a chance, calling the first Pagliano he came across in the phone book. Maria hadn't been listed, but he'd bet one of the dozen or so families in the white pages would know how to find her. He'd struck gold by dialing her mother's house. As soon as she'd discerned it was an eligible male looking for her daughter, Biba had insisted he come right over, telling him Maria would be there that evening.

  Biba bustled around the kitchen, her generous figure wrapped in a red-and-white-checkered apron, her gray hair tucked into a tight bun, her voice as lyrical as Mozart. She was a hummingbird, darting from this to that, back and forth from stove to guest, seasoning, tasting, arranging and then clucking over him like a hen with a straggling chick.

  "I make you soup," she said, placing a glass of milk before him. "You feel better."

  "I'm not sick, Mrs. Pagliano."

  "Mamma." She pressed a hand to her bosom. "You are my Maria's friend. Please, call me Mamma." She turned back to the stove and her meatballs, now that she'd settled the issue of her name.

  "Well, I wouldn't call us friends. Exactly."

  Mamma Pagliano whirled around, a spatula in her hand. "No?"

  "We don't know each other very well." Or at least not yet, Dante thought. He fully intended to change that.

  In the last few days, he'd liquefied a batch of spaghetti by overcooking it and then forgotten to add the cheese to a lasagna. Instead of focusing on recipes, his mind teased him with images of her. With the feel of her in his arms, the sound of her laughter, the smell of her perfume.

  "You know her well enough to come to my house, with flowers." Her gaze narrowed. "You like my Maria?"

  "Yes, very much."

  "Ah, good." She smiled. "Then I make a special soup. Just for you." She hurried over to a cabinet and started hauling out ingredients and a large stainless steel pot.

  "O sole mio, Sta 'nfronte a te." A slightly slurred voice belted out the Italian love song, the tenor coming closer with each syllable. A second later, a large old man in a fedora burst through the back door. "Ada? Where are you, my beauty?" The old man lurched into the kitchen. "Ciao, Biba! My little bird."

  "Oh, you. Drunk again." Biba swatted him with a dish towel. "She will be mad."

  The old man grinned. "No matter. She loves me." He turned and noticed Dante. "Are you here to steal my woman?" He shook a bony fist at him.

  "I'm here to see Maria."

  The stern look transformed into a wide smile. "Welcome! I'm Sal. Her grandfather. You sit, Biba cooks. We all wait for Maria. I, however, sing for my love." And he launched into his song again.

  The swinging door into the kitchen bumped open and a white-haired woman leaned in, her face pinched and annoyed. "Shush, old man. You'll scare the cat."

  "Oh, the cat loves my voice. She knows I sing to my angel." He gave a flourish with his hand, indicating his heavenly match in the doorway.

  The cat in question, a well-fed orange tiger, weaved past his legs and scooted out the cat door, wisely avoiding the scene.

  Sal's wife waved a hand at him in dismissal. "You just want me to scratch your back."

  "That and much more, my love." He winked at her.

>   "Go putter in your garden. I'm too busy for you now."

  The older man crossed to the doorway, pausing by his diminutive wife. He placed a quick, smacking kiss on the back of her neck. She flashed him a look of irritation but Dante saw her smile when she turned away, "You crazy old man."

  "Crazy for you, mia bella." He tipped an imaginary hat, then the two of them exited the kitchen, leaving Dante alone with Maria's mother again.

  "My husband's parents," she explained. "Still in love. But they fight like two lions over one zebra." She laid the pan on the stove and started to light the burner, then stopped and turned back around. "Why you not at work?"

  "That's exactly what I was going to ask."

  Dante spun around in the chair. Maria stood in the doorway of the back entrance. She had her dark, full hair tucked into a comb-type thing that didn't quite grasp it all, leaving a few ends dangling and curling along her neck. She wore dark jeans and high-heeled boots, making her legs look like they reached all the way to her shoulders. A V-necked, deep turquoise sweater strained against her breasts, as if daring him to touch them. "Hi," he managed.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "Waiting for you." He got to his feet and crossed to her, stopping a respectable distance away.

  She brushed past him and sat down at the table. "I can see that. Why?"

  He'd anticipated her resistance. Fortunately, he'd come prepared. Dante reached past her and grabbed the bouquet of sterling roses he'd bought. "First, these ..."

  A shadow of a smile appeared on her face. She took the flowers and inhaled their soft, sweet fragrance. His gut gave a funny little twist.

  "For this," he finished, handing her a copy of the Thursday morning paper. The page had been folded back to show the headline for the food section: La Vita Deliziosa: A Four-Star Culinary Mecca. "I wanted to thank you for your help the other night."

  She looked up from the paper. "What did I do?"

  "Convinced Boston's harshest food critic to give my restaurant a second chance. You're amazing. A true miracle worker." He smiled at her. "I should have brought you three hundred roses."

  "Marry him," Maria's mother whispered in her ear. "He's a gentleman."

  Dante's mind produced the image of a bridle and saddle. No way was he going to tell Franco about Mamma Pagliano. There'd be a conspiracy brewing between the two of them faster than he could change his socks.

  Maria didn't respond to her mother's matchmaking. "That's who that guy was? George Whitman?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "And Vinny lit his tie on fire?"

  Dante nodded. "Yeah, unfortunately."

  She paused, reading over the critic's account. "Wow. 'Masterful meal.' True Italian atmosphere.' 'Chef with a magic touch.' " Her deep brown eyes met his and the twisting in his gut amplified. He found himself wishing Mamma would leave the kitchen and let him and Maria get some steam brewing between them, preferably with her on the counter. "Too bad all I got to try was the antipasto, huh?"

  "Then let me introduce you to the rest of the menu," he said, meaning everything but food.

  She shook her head, laying the paper on the table. "I-I—"

  "Buon appetito!" Mamma Pagliano laid two stoneware bowls on the table before them.

  Meatballs swam with bits of spinach in a clear, fragrant chicken broth. A sprinkling of Romano cheese decorated the top. "It looks delicious," Dante said, retaking his seat. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank her and don't eat it." Maria said, pointing a finger at him. "Mamma, it isn't going to work."

  "Hush." Mamma waved a hand at her and gave her a stern look. "It worked for Norma. And your cousin Rosina. And for me. It's a good recipe."

  Dante spooned up a bite, ignoring Maria's admonition. Eating the soup would put him on Mamma's good side, which could only help his cause with Maria. "It's delicious. What do you call it?"

  "Wedding soup," Maria answered with a roll of her eyes and a frustrated sigh that told Dante she'd been down this soup road before. "My mother is convinced that if you eat her special recipe, you'll fall madly in love."

  "Oh." Dante glanced at the innocuous-looking meatballs and spinach. "Really?"

  "Look at Cousin Rosina." Mamma threw up her hands. "Married, and so happy. Soon, there'll be babies. The soup, it works." She motioned to Dante and Maria. "Mangia."

  It was only soup, Dante told himself, polishing off the bowl. He was a chef. He knew a bunch of shaped meat and fresh greens couldn't make anyone fall in love. He was eating it because he was hungry and because it tasted damned good with the bruschetta.

  Maria left her bowl untouched in silent defiance. Mamma shot her a glare and pursed her lips in disapproval.

  When he finished, Mamma's hands waved him out of his seat. "You and my Maria. Go outside. Talk. Maybe .. . kiss?" She smiled.

  "Mamma!" Maria shook her head. "I'm not coming for dinner ever again."

  Her mother ignored her and turned to the sink, humming "Here Comes the Bride."

  Maria let out a chuff of frustration, then took Dante's hand and led him out the back door to the patch of grass that served as a yard in the crowded neighborhood. "Sorry about that. My mother—"

  "Loves you very much, I can see." Dante shrugged. "I didn't mind. It's kind of nice to have someone fuss over me. All men love a woman who does that."

  She let go of his hand abruptly, as if she'd just realized she'd been holding it. She wrapped her arms around herself. "It's cold out."

  It reminded him of their late-night dance when she'd been cold, but felt hot as hell in his arms.

  "That's March in Boston for you." He shrugged out of his leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

  "Thanks. But won't you be cold?" Even as she said the words, she snuggled a bit into his coat. The action thrust her breasts forward, and before he could think better of it, he was drawing the jacket shut across her front, the backs of his knuckles grazing her chest.

  "I'm not cold right now. At all." He released his grip on the coat before he gave in to the urge to rip it and everything else she was wearing right off that delicious body and then show her a warmth of a very different kind against the brick wall.

  "Thank you for the flowers."

  "You probably saved my business Tuesday night, you know. The review came out Thursday morning and we've been hopping ever since."

  "That's wonderful. Good for you." She stepped back as if she were about to say good-bye and go into the house.

  Dante moved forward, no longer maintaining his respectable distance. The scent of jasmine teased at his nostrils, drawing him in like a siren song. "Why are you avoiding me?"

  "I’m not."

  "Yes, you are." He reached up and captured one of those stray ringlets in his finger, twirling the velvet tendril in a leisurely, sensual movement. "Is it my antipasto?"

  She blinked. "Your... your what?"

  He smiled. She wasn't as immune to him as she thought. "The salad, remember? Was it so terrible you decided never to see me again?"

  "No, not at all. It was... delicious." She gulped. "I've just been thinking since I met you Tuesday night and... I don't think getting involved with you is a good idea."

  He took a half step closer, the cloud of his breath mingling with hers. He trailed his finger down her jawline, along soft, smooth skin that glided beneath his touch like silk. Her eyes widened, her lips parted. He'd never wanted to kiss anyone so damned bad in his life. "Who said anything about getting involved? Why can't we just have mind-blowing sex? A few hundred times or so?"

  She laughed, a rich sound that flowed from her like wine from a bottle. "Only a guy would say something like that."

  He cupped her chin, tracing her lower lip with his thumb, slowly. Tenderly. The way he'd do it if it were his tongue instead of his finger. "You aren't interested in mind-blowing sex?"

  "I... I wouldn't say that," she breathed.

  "Good." And then, he decided to hell with waiting. With arguing about whether she was interested
in him or not. He lowered his head, taking her cranberry lips with his, teasing at first, then not teasing at all when she moaned and opened against him, her arms spreading wide and reaching for his back.

  She fit against him like butter on bread, her body molding to his in perfect harmony. He roamed his hands down her back, feeling the slight bump of her bra strap through the fabric of her shirt. His mind skipped forward, imagining his fingers undoing the hooks, her breasts spilling forward, his mouth tasting them as thoroughly as he was tasting her right now.

  Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, demanding more. She pressed her pelvis against his, then away, the tease sending his brain into other stratospheres. She pressed, withdrew again.

  She was as much of an aggressor as he. Lord, what fun that would be in bed.

  "Maria. Oh, God, let's..." he whispered against her mouth, wanting to say much more. But he'd left his vocabulary somewhere between his fly and his brain.

  With a start, she broke away from him, stepping back several paces and swinging his jacket off her shoulders. "I—I—I can't do this."

  "What?" He wished like hell his body had an on/off switch. He definitely still felt on and it was damned hard to concentrate on anything but the memory of her body against his.

  "I can't get involved with you." She handed him the coat and took another step back.

  "Why not?"

  "You wouldn't understand," she said. "It's complicated. I'm not even sure I can explain it to myself."

  "Tell me." Hot desire still pulsed within him. He hoped she'd get to the explanation soon so he could show her the error of her argument and get her right back into his arms again.

  "Well," she paused, then let the rest out in a rush. "Mary Louise Zipparetto, for one."

  He raced through his mental little black book. "I don't know anyone named Mary Louise Zipparetto."

  But she didn't hear him. She'd backed up another two steps, as if he were a chainsaw murderer about to carve her for dinner. "You smell like mozzarella," she said. "And you taste like lasagna. And...you haven't noticed a damned thing above my neck." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I can't."