The Devil Served Desire Read Free Page B

all, a small place, but she'd never been inside. Clearly, she'd missed a stop on her culinary journey through life.
    "Maria Pagliano, meet Franco Vaccaro, our maître d and"—Dante smiled—"the one person who keeps me from getting into too much trouble."
    "Ah, you not so much trouble," Franco said. "He has a temper, this one, and a head like a mule. But with a bella donna like you, he behave." Franco clapped Dante on the shoulder.
    "Hush, Franco. You'll scare her away."
    "Maybe, a good idea." Franco wagged a finger at him. "I know you when you were this high"—he raised his hand three feet off the ground. "Trouble, but with a smile that could charm the fishes out of the sea." Franco shook his head. "Even my Isabella, God rest her soul, she called him an angel."
    "That's because I am one."
    Franco's laughter was hearty and rich. "Ah, a devil more like. No, no angel here." Franco leaned closer to Maria and lowered his voice to a whisper. "He's a good boy, though. Like my own son. He treat you right."
    "Whoa!" Dante put up a hand. "Don't start your matchmaking again." Franco gave an innocent, who-me? shrug. Dante turned to Maria. "Franco won't be happy until he sees me married and saddled with a dozen kids."
    "He should meet my mother," Maria said. "She'd help fit you for the bridle."
    "Marriage, it's not so bad," Franco said. "Good for the head and the heart. You should—"
    Dante shook his head. "All I want is to get this pretty lady a meal."
    Franco smacked his forehead. "Ah, mio Dio , I forget myself. I see a beautiful woman, my mind, it is a hole." He cleared his throat then spoke again, his voice now as formal as his pose. "Your coat signora? "
    "Allow me," Dante said. Before she could move, his nimble fingers were at her nape, sliding the camel cashmere off her shoulders, down her arms and over her hands, smooth as a waterfall.
    He lingered behind her, his aftershave teasing at her senses. If she backed up one step, she'd be pressed to his pelvis.
    Now another part of her started shouting gimme, gimme, gimme.
    Franco took her coat from Dante's hands and the two men stepped over to the coat rack, talking quietly. She heard the name Vinny mentioned, but the conversation didn't interest her anywhere near as much as Dante's rear profile.
    He was wearing black jeans, and they fit him like the peel on a banana. Definitely a Grade-A rump. Maybe even A-plus, if there was such a thing.
    God, when was the last time she'd had sex? She had to think for a minute, which told her it had already been too long.
    January twenty-third. With Harvey Waite, the exterminator from Stoughton who her mother had introduced her to at Cousin Rosina's wedding reception. Foreplay had started at eleven p.m. and Harvey had finished at eleven-ten, leaving Maria still waiting at the starting line.
    Needless to say, she had not gone out with Hog-the-Orgasm Harvey again. Since then, she'd had a two-month—well, she didn't want to call it a dry spell—just a period of no acceptable men on the planet.
    This had caused her mother no end of worry and muttered impromptu prayers for the Lord to please give her daughter enough sense to settle down with a good Italian boy. After all, Maria was twenty-eight, and in her mother's mind, a hair's breadth away from her eggs drying up and her body falling all to hell, leaving her a lonely old maid who would never produce a grandchild to smother.
    Maria wasn't looking for marriage right now—hell, she had trouble sticking to a diet, never mind a relationship. But lately, she'd had this constant, aching need she couldn't identify, making her wonder if there was something missing in her life.
    Yeah, a good-looking man who didn't have sex by a stopwatch.
    There was Antonio, who'd made it clear he wanted to resurrect the past when he saw her again—and Lord, if she were lucky, he'd start with a repeat performance of prom night. But he lived in California and she wouldn't see him until the class reunion in May. Good thing,