Romancing The Teacher

Romancing The Teacher
Marie Ferrarella

Schoolteacher Lisa Kittridge had sworn off men for a while, but when she met Ian Malone, her gorgeous, if exasperating, new volunteer, that promise went out the window! She'd vowed never to get involved with another man, yet she couldn't control her urges to crack the mystery he was hiding behind. Who was the real Ian Malone? Ian knew that working as a volunteer for a lovely teacher at a homeless shelter wasn't exactly a prison sentence.But he had an identity he was loathe to reveal and secrets to keep–and the beautiful Lisa was too dangerous to be around. Loose lips, and all that…

Romancing the

Teacher

Marie

Ferrarella

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

To Rocky,

for twelve years of

love and loyalty and

a bunch of sleepless nights.

Contents

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 One

When he realized that the darkness was of his own making because his eyes were shut, Ian Malone struggled to pry them open.

The world was a blur.

Inch by inch, he became aware that the darkness that he now saw was the natural kind. It was the warm, cocooning darkness of night, not the hazy dark world of unconsciousness he had tumbled into what seemed like only a moment ago.

Not the netherworld either.

Damn.

His surroundings came into focus in almost comic slow motion. Snippets gradually telegraphed themselves through his brain. His fingers were no longer wrapped around the steering wheel of his car. In fact, he wasn’t in his car at all.

Somewhere in the distance was the ever-annoying sound of crickets looking for one another. Looking to mate. Looking for a family.

Good luck with that, he thought sarcastically.

Ian groaned as he tried to raise his head. He felt as if an anvil weighed it down, like what you saw in Saturday morning cartoons.

Did they still have Saturday morning cartoons? He’d stopped watching when he was ten. When he stopped being a kid.

His head was too heavy. He let it drop back down. It made contact with something damp. He was too out of it to care.

He became aware that someone was standing over him. Someone wide enough to block out what light was coming from the moon, breathing as if the smog was battling for possession of his windpipe—and winning. Whoever it was sounded a little like Darth Vader.

Or was that the grim reaper hovering over him, checking for signs of life? Finally there to collect his debt.

God, he hoped so.

“I’m not dead yet, am I?” Ian’s mouth felt like baked cotton as he formed the question. The traces of regret in his voice were punctuated with another groan.

The face glaring down at him was craggy and appeared worn. And annoyed. The man wore a uniform of some sort.

Black.

No, dark blue.

Of course, the police. It was a police uniform. Sooner or later, the police always came to the scene of an accident or a disaster, didn’t they? Sometimes they came too late, he thought. Like the other time.

The anvil shifted from his head to his chest, pressing down. But nothing was there.

The policeman leaning over him frowned in disgust as he shook his head. “No, you’re not dead yet. Better luck next time, buddy.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Ian said, biting back another groan. He continued to lay there. His head felt as if it would split in two. For all he knew, his body already had.