Racing the Sun

  I shake my head and make a face. I was traveling to escape my parents. “No way.”

  “Well, then that is the same case here. Alfonso and Annabella . . . already our roles are too twisted. Besides, it is easier to learn from a native English speaker. There is less chance to cheat. With you, they will have to learn English or not talk at all. I assume you are not a great speaker of Italian?”

  “I know some,” I tell him. And that’s true. It’s just hard to define what some is.

  “Yes, some, of course,” he says in his jackass condescending way. It rankles me and helps me ignore how pretty his eyes are. “So, Miss MacLean—”

  “You can call me Amber,” I interject.

  “Perhaps,” he says. Still no trace of a smile. “So, Miss MacLean, give me the right word to describe the twins. In English.”

  I sigh inwardly. “Do you want the truth, a lie, or a white lie?”

  For a moment he almost looks impressed. “Give me all three.”

  Here goes nothing.

  “From what I observed of them, Alfonso and Annabella seem very precocious.”

  “That is the white lie. Though also truth.”

  “They are bold and confident.”

  “Bold, yes, confident, no. What is the truth?”

  “They seem excitable.”

  “Still, this is not what your first thought was.”

  I’m not sure if he’s trying to get me to call them spoiled brats. That was one of my thoughts, but actually not the main one.

  “They seem to be troubled and are lashing out in anger,” I tell him sincerely.

  He nods. “Yes. That is the truth. You can see how your first choice, the word cute, wasn’t very honest.”

  “They are cute, though,” I say, picturing their features and then studying their brother’s in front of me. There are some key differences—the twins have lighter hair—that make me wonder if perhaps they are step or half siblings. But that’s just another question to add to the pile.

  “I suppose they are cute,” he says, as if the subject is weighing him down. For a moment he looks extremely tired but then it lifts away. “Now tell me, how do you think you would be able to teach English—something you have never done before—to these two troubled, angry children?”

  I swallow. I actually don’t have a good answer to that. I feel like I’ve been totally caught unaware and I’m not sure if I can bullshit my way out of this one like I have on other job interviews.

  I clear my throat and sit up straighter in my chair. “I don’t know, to be perfectly honest with you. I don’t really know the first thing about children. I know English but I’ve never taught it. The last thing I taught was how to use Excel and PowerPoint to the person who had taken over my job. Which I was fired from, by the way. I’m not even sure if I want to move to Capri to take this position, should it be offered to me, and I’m really not sure if this is the job for me, considering the children have issues, your housekeeper has issues, and I can guarantee that you have issues. No one has discussed money, or where I’m supposed to live, or even where the hell I’m supposed to sleep tonight. This house is borderline creepy and I won’t be surprised if you tell me it’s haunted. And I can’t make tiramisu worth shit.”

  His eyes brighten at that. It’s almost as if he wants to smile but can’t.

  “Then why are you here?” he asks slowly.

  “Because I don’t have any money. And I don’t want to go home.” I can’t even afford to go home, but I don’t tell him that part. “And even though this job sounds a lot like trial by fire, I really like a challenge. I think it would be good for me.” I raise my chin even higher. “We both don’t think I’m right for the job. I’d like to prove the both of us wrong.”

  He stares at me for a beat but his handsome face gives me nothing. I can’t tell if I’ve impressed him or bombed the hell out of this interview. Oh well, if anything, at least I got to see some charming, creepy villa on the cliffs of Capri up close and ogle a really hot Italian Stallion. That’s something to cross off my bucket list.

  He presses his lips together and nods at the door. “Miss MacLean, thank you. Would you mind telling Felisa to come in? I would like to speak to her now. Alone.”

  “Where should I go?” I ask.

  “You can wait in the kitchen. Feel free to help yourself to water.”

  Water. How generous.

  I give him a stiff smile and then quickly get out of my chair, glad for an easy exit. I open the door, just as heavy as it looks, and see Felisa standing across the hall, practically motionless.

  “He wants to speak with you alone,” I tell her.

  She’s trying to read my face but I’m not sure what it’s giving her. She walks into the library and shuts the door behind her.

  I collapse against the white wall and let my body sink to the cold tiles. I breathe out a sigh of relief that it’s over, though my nerves are still hissing with adrenaline.

  Now, I wait.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Felisa and Signor Larosa are taking a long time in the library. I don’t know why. Either you hire someone or you don’t. Then again, I guess teaching two troubled children requires more thought than the average job, and I certainly didn’t sell myself. I basically told him I needed the job because I needed money. Oh, and that I wanted to prove us both wrong, which was true, but mainly that I wanted to prove him wrong since he seemed to have made up his mind about me. Not exactly the most compelling reasons to hire someone.

  Tired of sitting on the tiles like some reject, I get up and wander into the kitchen. It’s twice the size of my parents’ kitchen. (My mother was so proud when we got the house all those years ago because she could finally bake her heart out.) This kitchen is part modern with gleaming chrome, and part rustic—thick marble countertops and vibrant pottery. I think about having a glass of water after all when I hear feet on the staircase. I turn to see Alfonso standing at the entryway of the kitchen, staring at me with his hands on his hips.

  Ah shit.

  The little boy rattles something off in Italian and it strikes me that he still has his uniform on. Hasn’t he ever head of playtime? And just what the hell is he saying?

  “Hi,” I say to him, trying to smile as big as I can. “I’m Amber.” I point to myself. I point to him. “You’re Alfonso.”

  He frowns, and he’s the spitting image of his brother. He’s going to grow up to be one brooding, glowering model dude himself.

  “I know,” he says in the cutest, angriest, most heavily accented English ever. “You are to teach us English.”

  I cock my head at him and keep smiling. “Well, I hope so.”

  “Where you from? America?”

  “Yes, I am. From California. Do you know where that is?”

  “You are a movie star?”

  Now my smile is genuine. I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”

  “Is it because your face is too small?”

  I can’t help putting my hand on my cheek. I do have a small face.

  The little jerk has a smug smile on his face. I’m trying to think of an appropriate insult to hurl back at a seven-year-old when I hear the door to Signor Larosa’s office open. A second later, Felisa is looking at us with a wry expression on her face. She says something in a warning tone to Alfonso that makes him run away and then beckons me with her finger to follow her. I feel like I’m going to the principal’s office.

  Back in the library, Signor Larosa stands at the French doors at the front of the room, staring at the sea. Felisa and I stand by his desk but don’t say anything. I wonder if maybe I should clear my throat or something when he speaks.

  “Do you really think you can handle this job, Miss MacLean?” he asks without turning around, his voice low and foreboding. I can tell he wants me to say no, but as difficult as it sounds, it’s also not rocket science.

  “Yes, I do,” I tell him.

  He sighs and then turns around. Now that he’s standing up I have a much clea
rer view of him. I know why my first thought was that he was a model: He’s dressed impeccably. Fashion in men isn’t something I really notice, unless it’s a hipster who’s trying too hard, but Signor Larosa’s style looks elegant and effortless and just plain cool. He’s wearing a blue blazer with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows and a white dress shirt. A thin orange-and-blue-printed silk scarf is knotted around his neck, just visible beneath his collar. I’d been focusing too much on his face before to even notice. His long legs are clad in stone-colored, slim-cut denim and his shoes are blue Converse to match his jacket. Like most men here, he seems to eschew socks.

  He’s also taller than I thought, maybe six feet, with a slim but athletic build. His pants hug his hips just enough to outline a bit of a visible bulge. Or maybe it’s just the lighting in here. Or maybe I’m just a pervert.

  And again, I’m aware that I’m gawking at him. Was I supposed to say something else? How much time has just passed? Am I being really obvious? I jerk my eyes upward.

  He purses his lips, his brows drawn together. I stare at him dead-on, keeping my face as attentive as possible. I can feel Felisa’s eyes looking between the two of us.

  Signor Larosa walks toward us, surprisingly light on his feet for such a moody man, hands behind his back. He stops behind his desk and gives me an exaggerated nod.

  Please don’t look at his junk, please don’t look at his junk, I beg myself. My eyes have been known to have a mind of their own around the male species, especially when tight-ish pants and/or big appendages are involved.

  “Congratulations, Miss MacLean,” he says. “You have the position if you so wish to receive it.”

  His statement begs for innuendo but I’m too much in shock to really notice.

  So I say, “Seriously?” Because he does seem like the type of man to mess with you for his own enjoyment. Not that I could imagine him enjoying anything.

  “I am very serious,” he says, unnecessarily. His long fingers wrap around the back of his chair and he leans against it slightly, still watching me. “I would like you to start tomorrow. You are more than welcome to stay the night. Felisa will make up your room.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” I say, and he raises his brows at me. I blunder on. “I’m happy that I have the job but I’m not accepting it until I know a few more things. For one, what are the hours? Are room and board part of the deal, and if not, will I make enough money to rent a place here on Capri? Is there even a hostel or a cheap backpackers in the area?”

  Felisa snorts beside me. Signor Larosa looks at me like I’m the child who needs lessons of some sort.

  “There are no such places on Capri, not for the prices I am sure you’re looking for,” he says. “If you have the option of another place, you are free to take it, however it would be best if you stayed here. We have the extra room. That way you would be a part of the children’s lives outside of their lessons.”

  “Like a nanny?” I ask, and I know I sound horrified. I’m already wrapping the ends of my curls around my fingers in anxiety.

  “Felisa is the nanny,” he says. “Your job is to teach the children English for two hours every evening. On occasional Saturday afternoons, Felisa may ask you to watch them while she does errands. That will be worked out ahead of time. Your room and your meals will be included, if you so wish. Though perhaps with Felisa’s cooking, you may want to make your own.”

  Oh my God. Did he just crack a joke? I look at Felisa, who doesn’t look impressed. Not that that’s anything new.

  He goes on. “There will be an extra allowance of one hundred euros per week for you to use for whatever you wish.”

  I do quick calculations in my head. Legally, I have to be out of the country in two months. I spent two weeks in the UK, which doesn’t count toward the European Union’s tourist visa, but I’d already spent one month in Holland, Germany, and France, plus other parts of Italy. Which means I can only save up eight hundred dollars for a plane ticket at this rate, and that is not going to be enough to get me home.

  Still, my instincts tell me to take what I can get. With free room and board, there’s still a chance I might find a part-time gig when the kids are at school. This is as good of an opportunity as I’m going to get.

  “What about beyond the two months?” I ask him.

  He looks at me curiously. “Two months?”

  “Well, the whole Shenanigan Visa thingy.”

  “You mean the Schengen Visa?”

  I nod. “Yes, that’s what I said. I’ve been in Europe for a month already, which leaves me two months to stay here legally. Is there any way I can stay beyond that? I mean, unless you only wanted me to stay here for a short while.”

  He frowns. He clearly hadn’t thought of this little predicament. “We’ll take it as it comes. That is the saying in your country, is it not?”

  I nod. All righty. Well, as long as he’s okay with it then I’m okay with it. “Sounds good,” I say as I feel all the pieces fall into place. I can do this. I can live here and tutor a pair of brats under the watchful eye of a deliciously grumpy Italian dude and an old spinster housekeeper. I can save up money. Then I can go home. I don’t like the idea of returning to reality and responsibilities and my parents, but I’m sure in two months I will be dying to get out of this place.

  I smile brightly at Signor Larosa and Felisa. “So, who is going to give me the grand tour?”

  They exchange a look.

  “I will,” Felisa says, unable to hide her sigh.

  I keep my eyes on Signor Larosa and offer my hand. “This will make it official.”

  He eyes my hand, then eyes me. I swear he squints a little. Then he shakes my hand. His grip is strong, hot, and I swear to God I feel a tiny zing of electricity from his palm to mine. I know it’s dry and staticky in here, but still. His handshake is as impressive as he is.

  He lets go of my hand first and I quickly withdraw mine. His face gives me nothing but handsome lines.

  “Come,” Felisa says, grabbing my elbow. “I will show you.”

  I’m escorted out of his office and back into the hall. She shuts the heavy door behind us and then gives me a stern look. “Now that you are hired, you will learn the rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “There are many rules of the house,” she says and jerks her pointy chin at the door. “You are never to disturb Signor Larosa when he is in his office.”

  “What if I need him for something? Like, important?”

  “Then you find me.”

  “What if I can’t find you?”

  She eyes me with impatience. “You will find me. But if you don’t, knock once. If he doesn’t answer, don’t knock again.”

  “What does he do in there?”

  “That is his business,” she says and motions for me to come along. But now I’m staring at the wooden door to his office with even more curiosity. “And,” she adds, “the room is off-limits if Signor Larosa is not home. You are never to go in there.”

  My eyes widen. This is starting to sound like Beauty and the Beast. Oh my God, am I Belle? Is he an Italian Beast? Did I just stumble into the best scenario ever? My inner nerd is having heart palpitations.

  “Never,” she repeats, probably recognizing the dreamy look in my eyes. “He is a very private man. And in that way, don’t be hurt if he doesn’t want to talk with you. He keeps to himself. He’s good and just but he . . . It is best if you concentrate on the children and stay out of his way.”

  “You must know him very well,” I say. I want more info on my new boss and I want it bad.

  She looks me square in the eye. “I was practically his second mother. But even mothers don’t know their boys all that well. Now, come on. There are more rules.”

  More rules?

  While she shows me the downstairs guest bathroom (complete with Jacuzzi tub, because you know, your guest may want to take a dip after dinner), her room and en suite, the laundry room, the breakfast nook, the living and dining rooms, the exer
cise room, family room, and kitchen—the tile and gold practically give me a headache—she rattles off more rules.

  She is not to be disturbed between the hours of eleven p.m. and six a.m.

  I am not to disturb Signor Larosa when he is in his bedroom, at any time.

  I am not to disturb the children between nine p.m. and seven a.m.

  If the phone rings and someone asks for Signor Larosa, the call is to be passed to her. If she is not home, I am to take a message. I don’t bother pointing out that it would be impossible for me to write in Italian but I think that’s the point.

  If someone comes to the door, they are not allowed in the house unless she is there to authorize it. So really, don’t answer the door, ever.

  I am not to have guests over without asking permission first. The way she says that one makes me think she wants to add, No boys in your room either.

  The children are not allowed to leave the property unsupervised.

  I have a curfew of one a.m.

  And if I hear funny noises or screaming in the house, I am to ignore it.

  “Wait, what?” I ask as we climb up the stairs to the second floor. “Screaming?”

  She swallows hard, looking uneasy. “It is nothing to worry about. Sometimes . . . sometimes Signor Larosa has nightmares.”

  My hand flies to my chest. “About what? Has he seen a doctor about them?” Because, uh, that’s not normal.

  She nods but doesn’t say anything until she takes me down the upper hallway and gestures toward the door in front of us. It’s situated right above Signor Larosa’s office and I’m guessing it’s just as big. “This is the master suite. It was his parents’ room, before they passed. It is his now. You will have his old room. It’s at the other end, so it shouldn’t be a problem for you. Here.”

  She grabs my elbow again and leads me to a room next to Signor Larosa’s. The door is partly open so she pushes it the rest of the way. It’s a large room, with blue-edged tile and a big indigo rug in the middle. There’s a desk in the corner, a few bookcases, and a small bed with a cartoon shark-print bedspread. That’s the only sign that this is a child’s room.