Racing the Sun(49)

This playful side of him is new but I like it. It just proves that there’s more to this man than distance and moodiness. I wonder what other sides I will uncover in time.

And then I realize I don’t really have that much time left. A month has passed already. Suddenly, the last thing I want to do is leave. I feel like I’ve only just gotten started here, just gotten past the first barriers with Derio and the children. I can’t imagine having to go in a month, back home to the mundane, where no one thinks I’m worth anything.

There has to be a way to stay without risking deportation, but I don’t know what it is.

As if sensing my mood change, Derio stops and looks at me curiously. “What is it?”

I blink my eyes a few times, trying to snap out of it. “Nothing.”

He frowns and motions for me to come join him. He’s heading toward a lookout where a few tourists are standing, snapping pictures of the bright blue sea.

I stand beside him, ever cautious about the railing of the lookout. I stand back and try to peer over without committing myself. The drop doesn’t seem too steep, and I can see that the mountainside is terraced with thick tree canopies. The view is stupendous.

“Let me take a photo of you,” he says. He holds out his hand and wiggles his fingers, gesturing for my phone. “I haven’t seen you take many aside from selfies with the kids.”

He’s right. It’s been all selfies, all the time. I even tried to get Alfonso to take a few pics but he didn’t know the first thing about flattering angles. As I hand my phone over to Derio, I wonder if he’ll do the same thing.

“Smile,” he says and I do. “No, no,” he says, even though he’s still taking pictures. “That is not a real smile. I’ve seen your real smile.”

“You have not,” I tell him, even though I do feel that real smile creeping across my face now.

“That is better,” he says, coming forward with such intense focus that he reminds me of the paparazzi. “But not quite there. Think of something funny. Perhaps me, in my underwear, being attacked by a cat.”

And now I am thinking about him in his underwear. But not being attacked by my cat, although I can think of a few double entendres about pussy to throw back at him.

“Ah, the tomato face,” he says. “Bellissima.”

I roll my eyes and try to hide my face behind my hair. “All right, that’s enough, give me my camera.”

“One more,” he says, bringing out his phone now. “For me.”

And then he snaps a photo just as I’m making a face . . . I don’t know what face I’m making. I feel put on the spot, annoyed but also sincerely flattered that he wants a photo of me on his phone. He nods at my hair. “With the sun behind you like so, you look like an angel.”

“Not a lion?”

“You are definitely both, la mia angelo e la mia leonessa.”

Now I’m really smiling, like a damn schoolgirl.

Another one of those heady moments passes between us and his eyes crinkle at the corners, softening. It could be from the glare of the sun but maybe it’s something else.

He clears his throat and looks unsure of himself for a moment. Then he says, “Would you like to get a drink somewhere? At a bar?”

I nod, feeling absolutely parched. Lubrication is needed pronto, though definitely not between my legs. I don’t think I’ve stopped being turned on by him yet.

“I know just the place.”





CHAPTER ELEVEN


Fifteen minutes later, Derio pulls the motorbike up to the side of the Irish bar where Shay works. It’s one in the afternoon so she should be on duty, or at least I hope she is. I’ve been wanting her to meet Derio so she can get to know him and see how handsome he is. I want her to look past all the terrible things that Lenora said about him. Even though I know now that some of those things are true, she didn’t know the circumstances.

“You’ve been here before?” Derio asks as we stand outside of the building.

“You haven’t?” He gives me a look that says I should know he does most of his drinking at home.

Inside the bar, it’s delightfully cool and dark and a bit busier than the last time I was here. The tourists—particularly the day-trippers from the mainland—are flocking in droves to Capri each day. Shay is behind the bar pouring wine for a pair of fleshy, pale women with sun visors and nylon vests but it doesn’t take her long to spot me. She waves enthusiastically, indicating that she’ll be over in a minute.

“Do you know her?” he asks me as we sit down in a booth by the door.

“Yeah, her name’s Shay. She’s from New York. She and her boyfriend are like the only Americans on this island.”