Chapter 4

Chapter Four

Four months ago …

Marco sat in his office, tapping his pen against the surface. His mind was anywhere but on his job. He hadn't seen Roselia in two days. Where was she? When she hadn't shown up yesterday, he'd driven by her apartment. She hadn't been home. Worse, her car had been in the parking lot. He'd sat in his truck, waiting for over an hour for her to return, finally giving up and going to his own lonely, dismal apartment.

He'd thought perhaps she'd had car trouble again. The last time her car hadn't started, he'd discovered the battery was dead and replaced it for her. He'd told her it was a two-dollar spark plug and not to worry about it. He'd also given her his phone number and told her to call him next time she needed a ride.

Roselia never missed work. She was rarely sick, but even if she had a fever or a cold, she came to work and masked it. She couldn't afford to not get paid. He suspected finances were tough since her mother had died. They'd needed both incomes.

Damn, that woman was under his skin. When she hadn't shown up again today, he'd grown nervous, and now he couldn't focus. Where is she? He wanted to take a long lunch and drive to her apartment again. He didn't have her number. He'd given her his on a piece of paper, but he hadn't been so bold as to ask for hers. Now, he wished he had.

To be honest, he wasn't even sure she had a phone. He doubted she had a cell phone because he'd never seen one. But did she have a landline?

Marco ran a hand down his face, groaning inside.

Roselia was too young, too sweet, and too innocent for the likes of him. He knew this. He often reminded himself of that fact, but it didn't keep him from thinking about her a dozen times a day. It didn't keep his cock from getting hard when he thought about her or saw her. It didn't keep him from jerking off while he visualized her at night.

Marco had known Roselia for three years. She'd first started working for Santo when she'd turned eighteen. The first time he'd seen her, Marco had nearly swallowed his tongue. She made his heart stop. It wasn't that she was a runway model. It was something else entirely.

Roselia was smart with wide, hopeful brown eyes, the most beautiful hair he'd ever seen, and dimples that would make a man's knees weak. She was also shy, quiet, and studious. He'd seen her reading something nonfiction on more than one occasion. He wondered why she hadn't gone to community college after she'd graduated, but he hadn't asked. Most likely, she hadn't been able to afford it.

Marco had kept his distance from her as much as he could for three years, telling himself no man in his forties should be ogling a teenager. For some reason, when she turned twenty-one, he'd given himself the green light to at least flirt with her.

He hadn't touched her. Not at first. Not until the day in the stairwell when he'd let their fingers graze. God, he would never forget that moment. An electrical pulse had jump-started his body and brought it fully back to life.

Marco hadn't looked at women or dated one in years. He'd been focused on one thing and one thing only.

Roselia's appearance in his life was a distraction he hadn't needed and couldn't afford. And yet, she mesmerized him. After their encounter in the stairwell—the longest conversation they'd ever had—he'd been unable to stop thinking about her.

Closing his eyes as he nearly broke his pencil in half between his fingers, he let his mind go back to that night. The night he'd driven her home, seen her frugal apartment, and stepped into her space, he'd almost told her to pack her belongings and come home with him.

The woman lived with less than the basics. She'd been reluctant to let him walk her to her door and even more hesitant about letting him inside. Once he'd entered, he'd known she'd been embarrassed.

Instead of commenting on the state of her living arrangement, he'd focused on her books. They were the one thing she'd had in abundance—dozens of books—so many that the small bookcase had been full, and the books had spilled onto the floor, been stacked on top of the shelf, and were also scattered around the rest of the room.

Books about history, school textbooks, and English language studies. Roselia spoke perfect English. He had to believe those books had belonged to her mother. Either that or Roselia was interested in teaching English.

Without invitation, he'd wandered closer, looked at several titles, and picked one up. "You sure love to read."

She'd stood behind him near the door, wringing her hands together, looking far too nervous. "Yeah."

He'd set the book down, turned to face her, and forced himself to address the reason he'd been there. "I'll have your car towed in the morning so we can see what's wrong with it."

She'd shifted her weight. "You don't have to do that. I, uh, I can't afford to fix it." Her cheeks had turned red. Fuck, but he'd wanted to bundle her up and take her home.

"I'll take care of it, sweetheart. You need a car. I'll pick you up in the morning for work, too."

She'd shaken her head. "I can take the bus."

"It's too far to the bus stop from here, Rose." He knew there was no bus stop within a mile. "And you'd be walking alone in the dark. I can't let you do that. Please accept my help, sweetheart."

She'd swallowed hard and nodded. "Thank you."

Marco had needed to get out of there before he made her any more nervous than she'd already been, but as soon as he'd reached for the doorknob, he'd turned and cupped her face, unable to resist making contact with her.

She'd stared up at him with wide brown eyes he hadn't been able to read. When she'd licked her lips, he'd nearly groaned.

"If I was twenty years younger…" he'd whispered before releasing her, turning away, and leaving as fast as he could.

That night, he'd paced and worried and longed for her. Even a long shower in which he'd taken himself in hand hadn't helped him purge his system of his crazy lust for the girl who was now a woman.

It changed nothing. She was still too young for him, and he was still in no position to let himself get involved with a woman.

Where are you, Rose?