Racing the Sun(10)

Then there’s his hair. I’ve seen this cut on so many men since I’ve set foot in Italy, but so far he wears it best. Short sideburns, close-cut on the sides, and then a swoop of long hair on top. It’s thick and dark and almost rockabilly. I kind of want to run my hands through it and give his strands a tug.

But of course that would be entirely inappropriate since he’s staring at me like he wants to toss me off the side of a cliff. Man, can this guy glower. I’m not sure whether to be scared or turned on. Or both.

“Signor Larosa,” Felisa says, her hands still clasped in front of her. She treats him so demurely and respectfully for someone who has probably been working at this house since he was in diapers. “This is Amber MacLean. She is one of the first applicants for the tutor position.”

I try not to look at her in surprise. There were more applicants? How stupid of me to think there was no competition for this job, that I was the only one who applied.

Signor Larosa is studying me. Nothing moves except for his eyes, which are roving all over my face and body like he’s trying to figure me out. If he likes what he sees, he doesn’t show it. He’s still got the brooding-meter turned up to the max.

“I would like to speak to Miss MacLean alone,” he says to Felisa in perfect, albeit accented, English. He doesn’t look at her.

Felisa isn’t all that surprised but when she nods at him and turns to leave, she gives me a look that says good luck. She actually looks anxious for me. I remember all the things she had said about him before we boarded the ferry.

The door closes behind her and it feels like I’ve been sealed inside a vault. Suddenly the library seems darker than before and my whole body is aware that I’m alone in this place with this smoldering, stupidly hot man.

“Please, take a seat,” he says, nodding slightly. I look behind me to see another desk against the wall, an even bigger stack of papers on top of it, as well as an Underwood typewriter. Thick dust has settled everywhere, and the desk looks like it hasn’t been touched in years. I walk over and pull a leather chair from it, and as I do my eyes briefly rest on a stack of paperbacks. They’re all the same book, Villa dei Limoni Tristi. I try to make out the author but the spines are hidden by the typewriter.

“If you please,” Signor Larosa says harshly, and I nearly jump where I’m standing. I shoot him an apologetic smile and immediately feel my face go red as I pull the chair to rest across the desk from him. I make a point of not sitting too close. I want to be able to run if I need to.

I sit down quickly, folding my hands in my lap and crossing my feet at the ankles. I can see now why Felisa’s brash demeanor changed when she knocked on the door. Suddenly, she seems like a ray of sunshine.

“I must tell you,” Signor Larosa says, pulling out a piece of paper from the desk. It’s a printed copy of my résumé and he already has a red pen in hand, as if he’s going to cross the whole thing out and tell me everything about my life is wrong. “I don’t think you are right for this job.”

Well, that’s encouraging.

I raise my brow. “And why is that?”

He gives me a sharper look. That is to say, he gives me an even sharper look. His eyes slice into mine like razor blades, but I refuse to look away. Telling me that I’m not right for the job is a surefire way to bring out all of my Taurus tendencies.

“I had asked Felisa to make sure the applicants were older and more mature. You seem very young.” His eyes trail down my body again and back up to my face. I try not to show the fact that my hairs are standing on end.

“I’m twenty-four,” I tell him.

“But you have no experience with children or teaching English,” he countered smoothly, his face a mask.

“I have a degree in English,” I say, raising my chin a little, “so I know more than most people do. I’ve been told I’m a natural teacher. And I have experience with children. There are many in my neighborhood.” Sometimes I yell at them to get off my lawn.

He glances at the résumé. “In San Jose, California?”

“That’s right. Have you ever been there?” I ask, hoping to enliven the conversation.

“No,” he says simply, looking over my résumé again. “I don’t want to have to trust Felisa on this one, though she hasn’t let me down before.”

I chip away at my neon yellow nail polish, not really sure what to say to that. I have a million questions and this man is going to be even more difficult to get answers from than Felisa was. Still, I have a feeling I should wait for him to say something.