He hasn’t left the island? Is this turning into an episode of Lost?
“The accident? You mean, when the parents . . .”
She shakes her head. “No, not that accident.”
Not that accident? What the fuck is going on in this crazy house?
She looks over my shoulder and straightens her spine. I turn my head to look and see the tall brooding man standing by the back door. He doesn’t look too happy. I wonder if he overheard what we’ve been talking about. I try not to look sheepish.
He raises a finger at Felisa, and without saying a word, walks back into the house.
I look at her for an explanation.
She gets out of her chair. “Come, come, he wants to meet with you now.”
I swallow hard. At my last job the interview process had been conducted by my supervisor—Larry Groberman—who wore a too-tight tie, never smiled once, and made me feel ashamed for even being alive. I survived that one and got the job after all, but I don’t think I’m going to survive this one. As I follow Felisa up the brick steps to the back door, I feel like my legs are going to give out. Holy hell, I’m nervous.
Being inside the house doesn’t help either. I’m overwhelmed as we step into a hallway that opens onto several different rooms, including a giant chef’s kitchen, living area, dining room, and eating nook—plus I can see other doors lingering in the background leading to who knows where. The bedrooms are upstairs, accessible by a giant staircase. The walls are white; the chandeliers are brass and crystal; and the floors are shiny ivory tile, sometimes with splashes of yellow and blue, sometimes with black. The sun streams in through large radius windows, with thick gold curtains drawn back with velvet rope, but even though it’s all very bright, it’s also a bit sterile. The decor should be warm but it comes off as cold, for some reason. This definitely doesn’t seem like a house for two small children. I can’t detect any signs that children even live here.
“This way,” Felisa says, taking me to the left and past the dining room to a brown wood door that looks weathered and worn. She knocks then clasps her hands at her waist. Considering Signor Larosa had walked into the house moments before, you’d think he would have left the door open or something, expecting us.
“Entri,” a commanding voice says from the other side. I take in a deep breath as Felisa opens the door. I remind myself it’s just a job, and a crazy-sounding one at that. If it doesn’t work out it’s probably for the best. And then some.
I step into a room that takes my breath away. If the rest of the house doesn’t have a soul, surely one resides in here. We’re in a library of sorts, a room of light and dark, a delicate balance between glass and wood. There are dark mahogany bookcases upon bookcases, all packed with books, broken up by floor-to-ceiling windows through which the light streams in, as well as a set of French doors that lead to the patio overlooking the pool and the sea. Another wall contains French doors that look out over a dry fountain in the middle of a small, overgrown courtyard, complete with iron chairs and table. In the middle of the room is a giant teak desk, stacked with papers, file folders, and overflowing trays. A laptop rests among the chaos. This is where Signor Larosa is sitting, ramrod straight in a leather chair.
I’m so taken with the room—it must stretch the length of a whole side of the house—that I almost dismiss Signor Larosa. I say almost because once my eyes do settle on him, they bulge right out of my head.
Signor Desiderio Larosa looks like he just rolled off the model runway in Milan and then hitchhiked his way here. I don’t even know where to begin, how to take him in. He’s handsome as hell, for one thing. He’s a got a face that makes you stare, maybe do a few double takes. His eyes are a golden brown, really clear, framed by perfectly arched black eyebrows and long eyelashes. His nose is very Italian and strong, but it suits his features. His cheekbones are high and razor sharp, his lips full and smooth, and his chin has a slight dimple in it. He’s got a ten-o’clock shadow running along his jaw, which just adds to his aura of masculinity.
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.