Tempting Little Tease (Forbidden Desires #4)

Alessandra

“Is it done yet?”

Big brown eyes peek over the edge of the kitchen island. The little she-devil is hungry. Her workaholic mother still isn’t home, almost an hour late.

“Abbi pazienza, Erica,” I respond with a wink, and she rolls her eyes. Where the hell did she learn that?

“Speak English, Alessandra!” she says with a moan.

Reflexively, I roll my eyes. Oh. That’s where.

I’m Erica’s full-time nanny. While her mother is at work, I care for this six-year-old firecracker and her tiny baby brother, Ben. Breakfast, book time, playtime, lunch, nap, activity, snack break, and sometimes dinner. This is my life from seven in the morning until the familiar creak of the door at five when Lorraine comes home.

But this is my life from seven to five for only three more weeks.

Tonight isn’t the first night Lorraine has been late, and there’s certainly no Mr. Riley to fill the gap. That would be where I come in—Alessandra, nanny extraordinaire. Twenty-two years old, fresh out of college, with a degree in the study of classics and very vague career goals.

“I don’t want macroncheese,” Erica whines, appearing at my elbow.

“Macaroni and cheese,” I say, correcting her. She sulks off, bored with my response.

I do have to agree with her, however, as I squeeze the artificial cheese into a pot of steaming macaroni. This isn’t my idea of fine European dining, but I’m not in Italy. Yet.

As I muscle the paste through the pasta, I can’t help but think of my plans to leave all this behind. Not that I hate being a nanny. I adore these squirmy little brats. But taking care of children isn’t what I love. What I love is on the vision board mounted on my bedroom wall. Maps and magazine cutouts, pictures of café lights and cobblestone streets, the country’s culture and life, all encircling the very best part of all—a plane ticket to Italy. One way.

I can feel myself drifting away as steam from the pasta rises to meet my rosy cheeks. I’m dreaming of filling my belly with zesty Italian pasta while losing myself in the eyes of an even zestier dark-haired man with long, olive-toned fingers perfect for—

The soft jangle of keys snaps me out of my reverie. The front door creaks open.

“I’m home! God, I’m home, Jesus Christ,” comes the yell from the narrow hallway.

“Mommy!” Erica runs into her mom, throwing her little arms around her mom’s waist, nearly taking her down and her bundle of paperwork with her.

Lorraine is a powerhouse of a woman, but the bags under her eyes look almost as heavy as the messenger bag slung across her petite frame. Personal budgeting, I’ve gathered, is her line of work. It must be if she can manage to cover the expenses of two small children and pay me to watch them five days a week.

“How late am I?” she asks, kicking off her heels.

“Don’t worry about it, Lorraine, really,” I reply.

“You won’t believe the clients I had today. . .”

Clients. The word makes my heart slam inside my chest. Lorraine’s voice fades into the distance.

Clients…. Why does that word give me so much anxiety?

I open my phone, trying to remember. It must have to do with my new job. I’ll be tutoring English overseas while putting my fluency in Italian to good use. More nervous now than ever, I locate my email in-box with quick fingers.

“Substitute Needed” is the title of the email I didn’t get a chance to read before Erica nearly broke her neck on the monkey bars earlier this afternoon. It’s amazing how a couple of crocodile tears can wipe all other priorities away…priorities like very important emails.

I open the message with a tight swallow.

Alessandra,

One of our beloved tutors, Sal Rinaldo, has suffered a severe heart attack. Upon his recent hospitalization, we are dividing up his current clientele among our other employees until further notice…

Sal is in the hospital? Sal is the dear professor who got me the tutoring job in Italy, bless him. The news hits me like the rush of unfamiliar spices, making unexpected tears spring into my eyes.

Please arrive at 48 N. Broad St. at 6:00 p.m. to tutor—

Wait. Six p.m. As in, tonight? Here, in Boston? I’m not ready to tutor anyone tonight. This isn’t what I signed up for. In fact, it’s the exact opposite.

“You okay, hon?”

I hear Lorraine like she’s in a bubble, far away.

“Yes, yes,” I manage to say. “I just forgot I have another obligation tonight.”

A downtown location means it’s in an office building. I don’t have to look at the clock to know that I definitely don’t have enough time to go home and change into something more appropriate. Jeans and a cardigan with a big old ketchup stain on the sleeve will have to do. First impressions be damned.

“The new job?” Lorraine whispers. I’ve given her my notice, but the little ones don’t know yet.

Nodding, I throw my things into my purse, abandoning the macaroni on the stove. Maybe I can weasel out of this. Too short notice. Didn’t see the email. Down with the flu. I knock excuses off the list one by one.

But this is my very first client. If I get this wrong, the program could withhold my position in Italy. Would they do that? I don’t want to find out.

I’m mapping out my route and grabbing my coat before Lorraine offers no more than “Good luck, sweetie!”

“Ciao, Erica! Ciao, Ben!” I yell up the stairs.

“You mean ’bye’?” a small voice retorts from her sprawl across the top stair.

I give her my best Nanny Monster growl. Erica yelps and runs up the stairs with renewed giggles.

The clicks of my boots on the pavement are in time with my racing heart as I make my way to the train station. Fortunately, it’s just around the corner. Unfortunately, I have ten minutes to get to a location twenty minutes away.

The train rushes to meet me on the platform and the doors slide open. I step in, grab the nearest seat, and immediately open my phone. How can I salvage this?

Please arrive at 6:00 p.m. to tutor his usual Thursday night client, Quinn Kingsley, in intermediate Italian.