The Offer

Last but not least, Mr. MacKenzie and Mr. Bruce. I’m always on your team, thanks for being on mine.

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**Keep reading for an excerpt from Racing the Sun – available in July from Atria Books**

BLURB: It’s time for twenty-four-year-old Amber MacLean to face the music. After a frivolous six months of backpacking through New Zealand, Australia, and Southeast Asia, she finds herself broke on the Mediterranean without enough money for a plane ticket home to California. There are worse places to be stuck than the gorgeous coastline of southern Italy, but the only job she manages to secure involves teaching English to two of the brattiest children she’s ever met.

It doesn’t help that the children are under the care of their brooding older brother, Italian ex-motorcycle racer Desiderio Larosa. Darkly handsome and oh-so-mysterious, Derio tests Amber’s patience and will at every turn—not to mention her hormones.

But when her position as teacher turns into one as full-time na

RACING THE SUN

After I put the kids to bed, I gather some of the leftovers from di

“Derio, I have di

I wait a few seconds and then put the tray on the ground outside the door. I’m about to walk away when—lo and behold—it actually opens and he peers at me with a cocked brow.

“Buonasera,” he says, his voice sounding extra throaty tonight, which equals extra sexy—and he’s speaking in Italian to boot.

“Buonasera,” I tell him, trying to peek inside. “You’re not in your underwear again, are you?”

He gives me a lopsided smile. “I can be. Would you like to come in?”

“Are we going to drink scotch again? Because something tells me you’ve probably had enough.”

“Come.” He steps back, disappearing into the office. “Bring the food.”

I give him a look that says I’m not his servant 24/7 but bring the tray in anyway and set it on the desk. He goes to the door and closes it. “Would you like a drink?”

I should say no. I sigh. “Yes.”

“Buono,” he says. He goes and pours me a glass. He hands it to me, his eyes focused on mine the whole time, as if holding me in place. Because he’s drunk I can’t read them for the life of me. He seems to be in a playful mood again but I’m not putting stock in anything Derio-related anymore.

I stare down at the glass. “Did you drug this?”

He smiles. “No.”

I squint at him. “Why are you smiling then?”

“I like to smile at you,” he says.

I let out a dry laugh. “Right. No, Signor Larosa, you like to frown at me. Glower at me. Glare at me. Or just stare blankly at me like I’m not even there. But smiling at me? Not so much.”

The smile slides right off his face. I raise my glass at him. “See, right there. Back to Mr. Angry Face.”

“You really don’t think much of me, do you?” he asks. His voice is strained and a little rough around the edges.

I take a small sip and suck on my top lip for a moment as it burns. “Actually, I think a lot of you.”

“All bad.”

“Didn’t you say the bad things were the good things?” I ask him.

“Are you comparing me to a bad habit?”

I cock my head, considering that. “Maybe I am. But I happen to like a lot of my bad habits.”

“Like the drinking.”

“Yes.”

“The eating.”

“Yes.”

“The sex.”

A small shiver runs through me as my lips twist into a smile. Even the word sex sounds amazing coming from his mouth. “Especially the sex. It’s the best bad habit of all.”

He doesn’t smile at that—no surprise—but the intensity in his gaze deepens. His eyes burn me, and his look becomes smoldering. He’s making me feel like I’m standing in his office completely naked, not wearing the same billowy tank top and ski

“Stay right there,” he commands me in a hushed tone.

My heart does a few solid thuds in my throat. I swallow uneasily. “Okay.”

I know I’m staring at him with wide Bambi eyes, I can’t help it. I follow his every movement as he comes around the desk and walks toward me.

He stops in front of me, so tall and large. I can see his pulse tick along his throat and the dark danger in his eyes as they peer at me through black lashes.

I grip the glass of scotch hard, afraid of what’s going to happen next.

Because something has to happen; something is happening.

I’ve never been looked at this way before—stripped bare by a carnal gaze—and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

He places both hands on either side of my face and I feel so small, so conquered, so . . . coveted. His skin is hot and rough to the touch and alights my entire body until I’m buzzing with fiery anticipation.

“I need to kiss you,” he says, and it’s the smartest thing he’s said all day. “Please.”

I try and say “okay” but it catches in my throat. I saw this coming—a man can’t stare at a woman like that without kissing her—but it still unwinds me like a spool of thread.

He’s still staring at me, his brow furrowing, casting shadows down his perfect face. His lips are just out of reach. “I need to know if I can feel anything. I want to feel something.”

There’s a quiet desperation in his voice. It makes me ache for him.

Then he leans in and kisses me. His lips are soft, perhaps a little unsure as they press against mine, but then the pressure increases, our mouths yielding in unison and it feels like drinking and breathing and living. He tastes like the honey tones of scotch and of faded smoke and mint. It’s an elixir that flows down my throat and right between my legs, and his probing tongue stirs it further.

My tongue teases his back as it slides into my mouth, stoking the wildfires. Our kiss deepens and his hands find their way into my hair. He lets out a low moan that reverberates through me and I gasp in response, the glass almost slipping from my hands. I want to pull him into me, I want more of this, all the time. My free hand slips around his back and presses into his firm, hard muscles. I’m so incredibly turned on that I’m seconds from just throwing the scotch across the room and dropping to my knees. I want to take him in my mouth and make him moan again, I want to make him feel something. I want to make him feel me. I want to know what he looks like when he comes, if it brings him some kind of peace.

I want so much more than the hunger and desire he’s already giving me, our lips, tongue, mouth heating up, our kiss fueling our needs and our needs threatening to take over. I wonder if he’s afraid of this kiss because to me it feels a bit like drowning. But we’re not drowning alone. We’re clinging onto each other like a life raft.