Racing the Sun

  I stare down at the glass. “Did you drug this?”

  He smiles. “No.”

  I squint at him. “Why are you smiling, then?”

  “I like to smile at you,” he says.

  I let out a dry laugh. “Right. No, Signor Larosa, you like to frown at me. Glower at me. Glare at me. Or just stare blankly at me like I’m not even there. But smiling at me? Not so much.”

  The smile slides right off his face. I raise my glass at him. “See, right there. Back to Mr. Angry Face.”

  “You really don’t think much of me, do you?” he asks. His voice is strained and a little rough around the edges.

  I take a small sip and suck on my top lip for a moment as it burns. “Actually, I think a lot of you.”

  “All bad.”

  “Didn’t you say the bad things were the good things?” I ask him.

  “Are you comparing me to a bad habit?”

  I cock my head, considering that. “Maybe I am. But I happen to like a lot of my bad habits.”

  “Like the drinking.”

  “Yes.”

  “The eating.”

  “Yes.”

  “The sex.”

  A small shiver runs through me as my lips twist into a smile. Even the word sex sounds amazing coming from his mouth. “Especially the sex. It’s the best bad habit of all.”

  He doesn’t smile at that—no surprise—but the intensity in his gaze deepens. His eyes burn me, and his look becomes smoldering. He’s making me feel like I’m standing in his office completely naked, not wearing the same billowy tank top and skinny jeans I was wearing earlier.

  “Stay right there,” he commands me in a hushed tone.

  My heart does a few solid thuds in my throat. I swallow uneasily. “Okay.”

  I know I’m staring at him with wide Bambi eyes, I can’t help it. I follow his every movement as he comes around the desk and walks toward me.

  He stops in front of me, so tall and large. I can see his pulse tick along his throat and the dark danger in his eyes as they peer at me through black lashes.

  I grip the glass of scotch hard, afraid of what’s going to happen next.

  Because something has to happen; something is happening.

  I’ve never been looked at this way before—stripped bare by a carnal gaze—and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

  He places both hands on either side of my face and I feel so small, so conquered, so . . . coveted. His skin is hot and rough to the touch and alights my entire body until I’m buzzing with fiery anticipation.

  “I need to kiss you,” he says, and it’s the smartest thing he’s said all day. “Please.”

  I try and say okay but it catches in my throat. I saw this coming—a man can’t stare at a woman like that without kissing her—but it still unwinds me like a spool of thread.

  He’s still staring at me, his brow furrowing, casting shadows down his perfect face. His lips are just out of reach. “I need to know if I can feel anything. I want to feel something.”

  There’s a quiet desperation in his voice. It makes me ache for him.

  Then he leans in and kisses me. His lips are soft, perhaps a little unsure as they press against mine, but then the pressure increases, our mouths yielding in unison and it feels like drinking and breathing and living. He tastes like the honey tones of scotch and of faded smoke and mint. It’s an elixir that flows down my throat and right between my legs, and his probing tongue stirs it further.

  My tongue teases his back as it slides into my mouth, stoking the wildfires. Our kiss deepens and his hands find their way into my hair. He lets out a low moan that reverberates through me and I gasp in response, the glass almost slipping from my hands. I want to pull him into me. I want more of this, all the time. My free hand slips around his back and presses into his firm, hard muscles. I’m so incredibly turned on that I’m seconds from just throwing the scotch across the room and dropping to my knees. I want to take him in my mouth and make him moan again—I want to make him feel something. I want to make him feel me. I want to know what he looks like when he comes, if it brings him some kind of peace.

  I want so much more than the hunger and desire he’s already giving me, our lips, tongue, mouth heating up, our kiss fueling our needs and our needs threatening to take over. I wonder if he’s afraid of this kiss because to me it feels a bit like drowning. But we’re not drowning alone. We’re clinging on to each other like a life raft.

  I’m so insatiable now, so greedy, that I almost whimper when he pulls away. He holds me, fisting my hair, and presses his forehead against mine, eyes pinched shut and breathing hard. I gulp in the air, unsure if we’re going to stop or if I need to refuel to go further. I could go all night and every night after that.

  My lips tingle now and a few beats pass.

  “Did you feel anything?” I ask softly, hopefully.

  He shakes his head ever so slightly, his forehead damp against mine. “No,” he murmurs. “I felt everything.”

  Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door and we both jump, breaking apart.

  “Derio?” Alfonso calls out from the outside. “Dove si trova Amber?”

  We exchange a look. Derio is flushed and has a rather obvious erection straining against his jeans. I know I look properly messed up.

  “I’m in here,” I yell through the door. “Be there in a second.”

  I look back at Derio but he’s walking slowly over to the windows, running a hand through his hair.

  “I’ll go see what he needs,” I tell him, going for the door.

  “Yes,” he says thickly. He clears his throat. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  All right, then. So I guess that’s the end of that.

  I’m too overwhelmed to even get riled up over it. I take in a deep breath and smooth down my hair before leaving the office.

  Alfonso is standing in his pajamas in the hall and the sight of him looking so small and vulnerable brings reality crashing down around me. I have to take care of these kids. Kissing their older brother isn’t part of the job.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask him.

  “I had a bad dream. I can’t sleep,” he mumbles.

  “Bad dreams are just your mind trying to tell you bad stories. They can’t hurt you.” I take his hand and lead him up the stairs to his bed, where I read to him for half an hour—but no Harry Potter this time since he confessed that his bad dream included Professor Snape. Instead, I read to him from an Italian children’s book, and though he giggles at my pronunciation through most of it, soon he’s fast asleep.

  I leave his room and as I head to my own, I catch a glimpse through the windows of Derio standing on the patio, watching the black sea, smoking his cigarette. Alone.

  I don’t have any bad dreams that night. In fact, I barely sleep at all. I keep reliving that kiss over and over again until it’s more than just a memory.

  Drunk or not, Derio kissed me. He felt something. I felt something.

  And I have no idea what any of this means.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Saturday mornings usually mean you get to sleep in, but not in this household. I’m up at the crack of dawn and running around the house trying to get ready for the day. I tackle the kitchen first, cleaning and scrubbing it from top to bottom, then prepare an American-style feast for the kids with what I have on hand. They don’t have bacon in the house so I fry up the cold cuts and slices of pork instead, then fry eggs with some salsa type of sauce. Sliced-up sweet potatoes go in the oven in place of hash browns.

  The twins seem especially excited about this when they wake up—I think it makes them feel all exotic and grown-up to experience something different. The truth is I’m taking on the extra work because I want to keep busy. I haven’t seen Derio yet and I’m afraid of what will happen when I do. What if he tells me it was all a mistake, that he shouldn’t be doing this with me, that he shouldn’t be romantically or physically involved with a woman on his payroll? What if it doesn’t m
ean anything to him in the stark light of day?

  As it turns out, I don’t see Derio at all that morning. I ask the kids what they want to do and they tell me it’s too hot to play outside—it’s well into the high eighties—so I tell them to do what they like around the house, and if they’re bored and dying by the end of the day, I’ll take them to the free beach by Marina Grande. It’s days like these that I wish they had some good friends they could go play with, but both of them seem to be quiet loners. I know a lot of twins are like that but I think Annabella and Alfonso are even more closed off because of the accident. I make a mental note to hang around after I drop them off at school sometime and get to know the other parents. Perhaps if they knew what was going on¸ they would encourage their own kids to be more inclusive.

  I laugh a little at those thoughts. I’m starting to sound an awful lot like a parent. I have to remind myself that I’m not the kids’ real nanny. Any day now we’ll find one and then I’ll be off the hook. I can go back to having a little bit of a life again, although the longer I’m a nanny, the faster I can earn the money to get home.

  If I even want to go home anymore.

  I sigh and then finish cleaning up the kitchen after the kids scatter throughout the house. I make myself a latte from the espresso machine and take it and an English mystery novel I found in town out onto the patio. I’m only out there for a few minutes before I start to roast and sweat pours down the back of my strapless sundress. I stare longingly at the indigo sea and the boats that ply through the intensely gorgeous waters. Every day there are more boats and less sea visible from the patio. I have to wonder how many tourists Capri can handle; it’s starting to feel at capacity. I can understand now why Derio prefers the winters here. I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance to experience it myself.

  Finally, I’ve had enough of the heat. I take the remains of my latte and book and go to the shady side patio outside of Derio’s office. It’s cooler here and I make myself comfortable at the small iron table next to the disused fountain. It would be beautiful if it were repainted and turned on; the charming antique, with its intricate carvings, looks too valuable to go to waste. I wonder if I can turn that into a side project of sorts.

  Then I notice that the French door leading into Derio’s office is open a touch. I sit there, wondering if he’s inside—it’s hard to tell from this angle and I can only see a reflection of myself in the glass.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see a black shape slinking over the sun-bleached gravel—Nero. The cat pauses at the door, tail twitching, and without a glance in my direction he goes into Derio’s office.

  Oh no you don’t. If Derio’s not in there, he’s going to lose his mind. If I’m not allowed in there, the damn feral feline isn’t allowed in there either.

  “Hey,” I whisper harshly to it but it’s already inside. I get out of my chair and hurry over to the door.

  The office is empty. I see the cat has jumped up onto the desk.

  “Get away from there!” I yell at the cat, trying to shoo him away. The cat looks at me with disdain and then jumps off, knocking over a stack of papers that were lying on the desk. They scatter across the tiles and the cat runs for the bookshelves.

  I swear under my breath and am about to pick up the papers when something on the desk catches my eye. It’s a printed manuscript, about two inches thick and held together in the corner by a heavy-duty binder clip. The typewritten pages are marked up with red pencil; I can see scrawled handwriting in the margins and between the double-spaced sentences. The header says Correre il Sole—Sophie Larosa.

  Don’t snoop, I tell myself, though it seems to me like Derio is editing something of his late mother’s, or at least reading something she may have edited herself.

  I tear my eyes away from it, putting a stop to my curiosity, and then stoop down to pick up the papers. I try not to look at them either to protect his privacy.

  But these aren’t related to his mother’s books.

  They’re résumés. All in Italian. All dated within the last few weeks. I see the words bambini and bambinaia in bold letters. I flip through them and then realize there are a lot more in the trash can beside his desk.

  I start picking them out, poring over them. Even with my limited Italian, it’s pretty obvious what they’re all applying for.

  “What are you doing?”

  I jerk my head up to see Derio standing in the doorway, shock and anger rippling across his features. But I don’t even remember that I shouldn’t be in here.

  I stand up and wave the papers at him as he strides toward me. “What are these? Résumés? Are these résumés for the nanny position?”

  “I told you not to come in here,” he spits out, looming over me.

  “No,” I tell him, shoving the résumés into his chest. “Felisa told me to never come in here. You know, the woman you said you can’t replace for a job you said no one has applied for. Well, what the fuck is all of this? You lied to me!”

  His nostrils flare and he closes his eyes. “It’s not like that.”

  “Then explain it.”

  He tears the résumés from my hand and flings them into the garbage. “They are no good.”

  “You said no one applied. Why did you lie?”

  “Because what is the point? They are not good enough for the position.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re good enough. And they aren’t as good as you.”

  My mouth drops open. “What? What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying . . .” he says and then growls in frustration, turning away. But I don’t want him to turn away anymore. I’m sick of him disappearing when things get rough.

  I reach out and grab his arm, my fingers digging into his flesh. I’m surprised at how angry I am. I pull him toward me, not afraid.

  “What are you saying?” I repeat. “You know this isn’t my job. This wasn’t what I was hired for.”

  “I know,” he says through gritted teeth. “You make that perfectly clear.”

  “Because it isn’t!” I yell. “I’m not cut out for this. I came here to teach the kids English, not become a substitute mother.”

  “Even though they need you?” he asks, his voice lowering. He’s breathing hard, his jaw set in a stubborn line.

  “They don’t need me,” I tell him. “They need someone who can really take care of them, someone who knows what they’re doing.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. He licks his lips and a look of sincerity washes across his face. “What if I need you?”

  I blink at him, afraid to think about what he means. “You can easily find someone who will fill those needs.”

  “Those aren’t the needs I’m talking about,” he says, turning in to me and sliding an arm around my waist. He cups my face with the other hand and runs his rough thumb across my lips. He gazes down at me through hooded lids, simmering with lust. “Mia leonessa. Ti voglio, voglio far l’amore con te, voglio la tua dolce bocca. Baciami.”

  He kisses me hard, hurriedly. I have no idea what he just said but I’m agreeing to all of it and melting in his hands. I’m still angry at being somewhat deceived but a different fire burns brighter now, hotter, stoked by his desperate tongue and greedy lips.

  He pushes me back until my ass is pressed up against the edge of the desk and I can feel his urgency. His mouth is on my neck, on my shoulder, his lips wanting and searching, and I’m not sure what to do with my hands. I want to grab him, feel him, every beautiful inch. I want to do more than we did last night.

  Of course, somewhere in the back of my head, amid the heat from his body and the haze of summer and the dreamy lust, I wonder if this is a good idea. I’m the nanny. More than that, it seems like he’s intent on keeping me as his nanny. I should be mad about that. I should be cautious. I should realize that having sex with Derio is a big, big step, and I’m not sure if I’m ready for it.

  But he’s beginning to make animalistic sounds again
st my skin and I’m starting to crave his body, his masculine power, his raw desire for me. I want him. On this desk, if need be, in this room that has been as forbidden to me as he has.

  He brings his face up to mine, his breath heavy. He teases my lips with his and runs his hands through my hair.

  “I need you,” he says, his voice low and gruff.

  The passion in his eyes burns and I am swept up in it, untethered. I place my hands behind his neck. I am more than ready.

  “Then have me.”

  He grins and reaches down beneath my thighs and lifts me up, placing me on the desk. He hikes my dress up around my waist and I wrap my legs around him. He tugs down the front of my dress, exposing my breasts, and runs his tongue over the soft swells. I can’t help throwing my head back, trying to give him greater access. His mouth and hands ravage me like I’m a cold drink on this hot, hot day.

  “Are you . . . on . . . a pill?” he asks, pausing between biting my nipples.

  I nod. “Yes.”

  “I haven’t been with anyone since my wife,” he says huskily. “I am clean.”

  I tell him I am, too, which is true—tested and clean—and I have no reason not to believe him. And then it hits me. Derio hasn’t had sex in a year. Suddenly, I feel a lot of pressure to make this memorable for him.

  But from the way he’s touching me, kissing me, staring at me, I think I’m already halfway there. With his tongue on my breasts, he slips one hand between my legs, where I’m wet, and strokes me softly. I let out a breathless moan, overcome by his touch, and he slips my underwear to the side while he quickly unzips his fly. The sound of his zipper cuts through the room and it revs another part of me, turning me on and on and on.

  Now his mouth is back on mine and my hands grip his waist as he guides his cock into me. I can’t help sneaking a glance and my eyes widen at the sight as he pushes his hard, thick length in one slow stroke. It’s a fucking hot sight and an even better feeling, even though I do experience the initial pinch as he slides inside of me. I take a deep breath.