Racing the Sun(12)

“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 clearer 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.