Tempting Little Tease

  Tempting Little Tease

  Tempting Little Tease

  Copyright © 2018 Kendall Ryan

  Content Editing by

  Elaine York

  Copy Editing and Formatting by

  Pam Berehulke

  Cover Design by

  Okay Creations

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  About the Book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Up Next

  Acknowledgments

  Follow Kendall

  About the Author

  Other Books by Kendall Ryan

  About the Book

  She’s the tutor I hired to teach me Italian.

  She’s way too young for me, but she’s also gorgeous, bright, and filled with a curiosity about life that I find incredibly refreshing.

  It’s fucking adorable.

  I’m old enough to know better, but this pretty young thing tempts me beyond belief. And for the first time in my life, I can see myself falling.

  • • •

  Is this what it’s like to be pursued by an older man? The complete confidence, the lack of expectations, the sincerity?

  My God, it’s exhilarating.

  Quinn Kingsley is totally unexpected. I’m moving to Italy in three weeks to teach English, and while I never expected something so real to develop between us so quickly, our chemistry is undeniable.

  There’s something so sexy about this back-and-forth he and I share. Flirting with this man is like playing with fire, and I’m bound to get burned.

  Io sono attratto da te. I’m attracted to you, he tells me.

  But is our attraction enough to get us through the complications of a massive age gap and an international love affair? Only one way to find out…

  Chapter One

  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 wea
sel 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.

  Who the hell has a tutor come at dinnertime? I already have this dude pegged: old, crotchety, and single as hell. Quinn Kingsley clearly doesn’t have a wife or a family if he’s scheduling tutoring sessions during dinnertime.

  These are the thoughts that keep me occupied from the station to the building. I reach the steps and glance up from the maps app for the first time. And then up. . .up. . .up. The building climbs to high-freaking-heaven. KINGSLEY TOWER is engraved in bold letters across the gorgeous dark stone.

  Kingsley.

  I’m tutoring the owner of Kingsley Tower?

  Deep breaths. What do I know about Kingsley Tower? Nothing. Well, not nothing. Money. Lots and lots of money. The interior of the elevator says it all with its pristine interior.

  I catch my reflection and could cry at the sight. My cheeks are flushed and my hair is windblown. Either I spent the last fifteen minutes in a mad dash, or I just had the best sex of my life. Regardless, this ketchup stain definitely doesn’t speak of lots and lots of money. I quickly roll up the sleeves of my cardigan to conceal it.

  The doors ding and slide open.

  “Hello.” A dark-haired receptionist greets me with a tight-lipped smile. “Hi, there,” I say before clearing my throat. “Hi. I’m here to—well, I’m here to replace Sal this evening. The tutor? He—he had a heart attack and has been hospitalized. It was unexpected. So, here I am. For Mr. Kingsley.”

  Her smile never falters. “I’ll tell Mr. Kingsley he has a guest,” she says unflinchingly, as if an old man having a heart attack is old news. She disappears through the massive wooden door behind her desk.

  Thank God. I have a moment to breathe.

  I lean on the edge of her desk. Maybe it is old news. Maybe Mr. Kingsley already knows and wasn’t expecting anyone to show up tonight in Sal’s place. Maybe he’d prefer to reschedule. Why didn’t I think of that before trekking all the way here? A cool sensation of calm washes over me, even as my heart still pounds in my ears.

  The doors reopen.

  “Mr. Kingsley is ready to see you.”

  Damn.

  “Excellent,” I hear myself saying.

  “Right this way,” she says, already opening the door.

  “Thank you so much.” I’ve always been polite, if not brave, during a crisis.

  The door clicks behind me as I enter the most beautiful office arrangement I have ever seen. Honestly, it doesn’t look like an office much at all. It’s almost like a penthouse suite, with gorgeous lounge chairs, bookshelves, and the faint smell of leather floating in the air. The windows overlooking the city are enormous, not obscured by an obnoxious CEO desk or “boss man” chair. The city is completely open, spread out before my eyes.

  Mesmerized, I walk toward the windows.

  “Do you like the view?”

  I turn my head. In the corner of the room sits a man behind a desk. I completely missed him as I walked in. The muted shade of his gray three-piece suit is a pleasant contrast with the simple black leather of his recliner.

  Most pleasant of all, however, is that this man is the flesh-and-blood embodiment of every Tall, Dark, Shut-Up-So-Handsome magazine cutout on my vision board.

  “Originally, the desk was there,” he says, removing a pair of metal-framed glasses, “but I prefer to look out a window rather than block the view.” He stands, offering me his hand. “Quinn Kingsley.”

  I walk to him with a smile, extending my own hand. His grasp is firm and soft, and maybe a little demanding. I accept with hidden excitement that Quinn Kingsley is most definitely not old or crotchety. And from the lack of a ring on his finger, he may very well be single as hell.

  “Alessandra. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  His dark eyes assess me with an air of flirtation. I can tell by the way one eyebrow lifts as he studies my face, and my cheeks flush. Oh boy.

  “You’re from the agency. Where is Sal?”

  “I apologize that no one informed you sooner. I’ll be replacing Sal for the coming weeks.”

  He frowns. “I’ve only ever worked with Sal.” He furrows his dark brows, clearly displeased with the prospect of learning from me. This bothers me more than I care to admit.

  “I’m afraid he isn’t in any state to teach right now,” I reply coolly. “He suffered a heart attack and is recovering in the hospital.”

  This puts my new client in his place, but I immediately feel guilty. A flush of concern flits across his features before settling into an expression I can’t decipher, and he releases my hand.

  How long have we been connected? My fingers tingle at the loss of contact, and I swallow.

  “I’d be happy to pick up where Sal left with you. I’m completely fluent,” I say with the confidence of someone ten years my elder. If I’m to be fired before even getting a chance, at least no one can say I wasn’t assertive enough.

  “I don’t doubt that,” he says softly.

  It eases my anxiety the slightest bit. My gaze wanders to the window, and the skyscrapers and winding highways beyond. "This is the most beautiful view," I say.

  "I couldn't agree more." But rather than looking at the horizon, his gaze is locked on mine, and there's a hint of a smile on his full lips. A warm shiver races down my spine.

  He gestures to the far side of the window, where two sofa chairs face each other. “Let’s sit.”

  I turn and walk before him, acutely aware of my lack of formal dress. My skin tingles with awareness of his gaze on my exposed neck where my hair is swept hurriedly over one shoulder. But when I turn to meet his eyes again, he’s looking at the small book laying on the coffee table.

  “An Advanced Student’s Guide to Italian,” I read aloud. “Is this the text Sal has you working from?”

  “No.” He leans back in one chair as I sit in the other. “That’s more of a prop. Tricks clientele into asking about my interests, makes it more personal.”

  When he smirks at the word personal, I find myself smirking back.

  “So, what text does Sal have you working from?”

  “None, actually. We mostly just talk. In the language. So, shall we talk?”

  That look, the one plastered on his face. All subtle eye crinkles and sexy secret smile. That look has me crossing my legs and curling my toes. This is a challenge.

  Okay, Mr. Kingsley. Let’s talk.

  “What do you like to talk about?” I ask in English. A good tutor knows not to overwhelm a student on the first day.

  “Libri, musica, vita,” he says. Books, music, life. “Mostly vita.” He smiles, owning the cuteness of his English and Italian coupling.

  “Soprattutto della vita,” I say with a forgiving nod. Above all, life. “Parlami della tua vita.” Tell me about your life, I say in Italian, then continue in English, “so I can understand where you are in your lessons.” And understand you, I want to add.


  And so, in his deliciously rich baritone Italian, Quinn Kingsley tells me about himself. He’s thirty-eight, older than I imagined. Not a strand of silver in his dark hair, although I imagine a little salt and pepper would only make him more attractive.

  Focus, Alessandra.

  He co-owns a dating service with his two brothers. He doesn’t know much of his family history or heritage, but he’s Italian and wanted to learn the language. The language of love, he calls it without a drop of sarcasm.

  I smile. He’s a romantic. A romantic with some gender confusion with his nouns and shaky pronunciation, but a romantic nonetheless.

  I realize he’s stopped speaking, waiting for my response. My thoughts finally catch up.

  “Scusa?” I ask. Sorry?

  He’s quiet for a moment, his dark eyes penetrating mine. “Io sono attratto da te,” he repeats, and the words linger in the air between us. I’m attracted to you.

  What do you say to that?

  “You’re uncomfortable.” He’s speaking in English now, genuinely concerned. “Why? Surely, men tell you this every day.”

  Is this what it’s like to be flirted with by an older man? The complete confidence, the lack of expectation of compliment in return, the sincerity?

  My God, it’s exhilarating.

  “No,” I manage to say, also in English. “Honestly, you’re the first. . .this week.”

  We both chuckle at my blatant exaggeration.

  “Certainly,” he responds, and there isn’t a drop of condescension in his voice.

  I like that he allows my fib. There’s something so sexy about this back and forth. It’s like playing with fire, letting the oil spit a little before settling in the pan. I uncross my legs, hoping to alleviate the tension building there.

  “You’re very forward, Mr. Kingsley. I don’t experience that often,” I say, my tone suggesting something more than observation. I think I’m flirting.

  But I’m also being honest. I hardly have a social life these days, and don’t meet many men. Certainly none as dashingly handsome and confident as the man seated before me.