Racing the Sun(47)

“Later today we can talk.” He finishes his glass and sits back in his chair, his fingers resting on his lips. “Would you like to go for a ride? While the twins are at school?”

“On your bike?”

He nods. “Yes. I can show you the rest of the island.”

There go those butterflies again, wings tangled with my nerves. I’ve never been on a motorbike before and just the image of hanging on to Derio is making me feel flushed from head to toe.

“All right,” I tell him, getting up before I say something drunk and stupid. “I would like that.”

“Be ready by ten a.m.”

“I’ll be ready at six thirty, remember?”

He smiles at that, as if laughing at the fact I have to get up so early now. Jerk.

“Thanks for the scotch,” I tell him and then I go upstairs, the moonlight guiding my way through the dark. I get into bed and close my eyes. Even though I have to get up in a few hours, I’ve never been so excited to start a new day.



* * *



“Um, don’t I need a helmet?” I ask Derio as we stand just outside of the shed where he keeps his bike. It’s a big, dangerous-looking Ducati. Definitely sexy but still a bit scary for a bike noob like me.

He grins at me, his eyes squinting. “You’ll be safe with me, don’t worry.”

“We better not go fast.”

“No, no, I will go very slow.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He steps into the shed and starts to bring the bike out. He’s back to looking like an Italian James Dean with the leather jacket, jeans, boots, white tee. I’m sure he’s about to slip on his shades and pop a cigarette in his mouth at any moment. “I will go slow with you,” he says. “If you want to go fast, I will go fast. I’m very good at taking directions from pretty girls.”

Is that sexual innuendo? I study him. He’s got a self-satisfied smirk going on, which I’ve been seeing a lot more of lately. It’s hard to tell. But hell . . . he just called me pretty. I’ll pretend my cheeks aren’t turning pink over that.

“Besides,” he says as he straightens the bike out. He brings a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and sticks it in his mouth, nodding at my head. “A helmet would hide that beautiful lion’s mane.”

I pat my hands on my head. “I guess I should probably tie this crazy thing back.” I reach into my pockets for a hair tie but he grabs my forearm, his grip soft but firm.

“No, don’t,” he says. “I love it when you have your hair down.”

My heart skips a beat. He loves it? “Oh. Well, you know, it has a mind of its own. It will probably obscure your vision and you’ll be riding blind.”

“I know what I’m getting into,” he says, still holding my arm. His eyes are glimmering teak and mahogany in the morning light.

I clear my throat. “Okay, I’ll leave it down.”

My hair has always been one of my defining features. So much so that my mother would often insist I wear it up so people would focus on me more than the hair. She also said it added too much weight to my face. I actually thought an abundance of hair made everything else look slimmer in comparison. Regardless, though, Derio likes it in all its wild, frizzy, curly glory. No, he loves it.

He smiles at me, looking so satisfied that I can’t help smiling back. Something is going on between us, the air thick with something other than sunshine and the heady promise of a hot day. It both thrills and terrifies me.

But not as much as the bike.

“Come on,” he says and pushes it up the short path. I run up and hold open the small gate so he can get through. He brings the bike around onto Via Tragara and gets on, starting it. The engine roars beneath him and the bike shudders to life. Luckily it’s not as deafening as a Harley but it’s still strong and powerful enough to make the air vibrate.

And he’s sitting on it like a prince on a steed. His entire body relaxes and conforms to it, yet remains completely confident and in control. This is where he belongs. I am hit with the feeling of disappointment that he had to give up racing. It seems like second nature to him.

“Get on,” he says with a pearly grin, cocking his head.

I take in a deep breath, preparing myself for all the awkward, and try to get on. I’m short, though, so the awkward comes quicker than I thought it would. I can’t seem to get my leg over the body.

He tilts the bike over to the side more so I don’t have to lift my leg so high and says, “Just grab on to me and pull yourself up. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

The look in his eyes is so sincere that I can’t help trusting him. I grab ahold of his arms and shoulders for dear life, like he’s a tree I’m trying to climb. He remains firm and unyielding under my monkey grasp and I somehow manage to swing my leg over and position myself until I’m sitting comfortably, my crotch pressed flush to his ass.