Rob Delgado would do
anything to keep his siblings safe, even if it meant removing them
from their upscale lives as the children of one of Chicago's most
influential mafia families. After a deadly encounter with a hitman,
he's convinced them to enter the witness protection program,
uprooting them from the lap of luxury, thrusting them into the
mediocre life of middle class Americans.
Fourth grade teacher,
Adri Wilson is concerned about her newest student, prompting her to
speak to his oldest brother and guardian. Meeting Rob ignites
feelings that she know are dangerous, yet she can't seem to stop
herself from wanting to become involves with the sexy, mysterious
man.
Outside the Lines
has a sluggish start as Lisa Desrochers is setting up her new series.
There are a host of characters to meet, an explanation of why the
Delgado's fled their previous life, and an introduction of their new
home in Florida. I found some of the details to be tedious, but once
the action started rolling and the romance was falling into place,
the tempo of the book picked up and had me wanting more.
Rob
was sexy and I thought it was very convenient of him to find a job
that he was so qualified for. Adri is a sweetheart and I really
liked her. There was a sizzling passion between them that singed the
pages. Both of them also made a few TSTL (to stupid to live)
dissensions that had me shaking my head.
I
really like the Delgado family and can't wait to read more of their
stories. I want to know why Lee keeps checking on their rival
family's heir, did Uli leave someone behind in New York, what is
going on with Grant... I liked Chuck and his co-workers at Spencer
Security. I hope to see more of them in the future books of this
series.
Adri's
dad was completely over-the-top with his protectiveness, I found
myself rolling my eyes at the cliched way he was portrayed. I also
thought that it was odd that if the Delgado's entered witness
protection, and received all new birth certificates and pasts, why
would they only change their last name and not their first names,
especially since they were unique in the sense of how they were
named—after Civil War generals...though I'm kinda bummed that one
of them wasn't names Stonewall, okay, I'm just kidding about that.
All
and all, I enjoyed the writing and will be reading the next book in
Lisa Desrochers's On the Run
series.
From the author of the USA Today bestselling A Little Too Far series, the first in an edgy new contemporary romance series that follows a family on the run...
As the oldest son of a Chicago crime
lord, Robert Delgado always knew how dangerous life could be. With
his mother dead and his father in prison, he’s taking charge of his
family’s safety—putting himself and his siblings in witness
protection to hide out in a backwater Florida town.
Fourth grade teacher Adri Wilson is
worried about the new boy in her class. Sherm is quiet and evasive,
especially when he’s around his even cagier older brother. Adri
can’t help her attraction to Rob, or the urge to help them both in
whatever way she can.
But the Delgados have enemies on two
sides of the mob—their father’s former crew and the rival family
he helped take down. It’s only a matter of time before someone
finds them. And if Rob isn’t careful, Adri could end up in the
crossfire...
AMAZON: http://amzn.to/1GTTrYH
BARNES & NOBLE:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/outside-the-lines-lisa-desrochers/1122676504?ean=9780698409538
EXCERPT
Adri
“Is
this straight?” Dad asks, peering in the mirror across from the
front door and messing with the badge on the breast pocket of his
blue shirt.
There
is almost no crime on our little island because Dad is legendary for
taking down drug rings and poachers, but when it comes to the little
things, like pinning his badge on straight, he still needs help.
That’s
why I’m here.
When
Mom died last spring, I came back from Jacksonville so I could live
at home and help Dad. He and Mom were high school sweethearts and
married not long after graduation. He’s always been taken care of.
I don’t want him to be alone.
I
move to where he is and turn him, unpinning the badge and
straightening it. I smooth his salt and pepper hair off his forehead
and stretch up on my toes to kiss the smooth patch of cheek above the
line of his beard. “I seriously doubt they’re going to send the
Chief of Police home for a dress code infraction.”
“We’ll
see,” he chuckles, giving my blond ponytail a gentle tug. “You
ready for your first day influencing the youth of Port St. Mary?”
I
was over the moon when I got the call three days ago that Mrs. Martin
had had surgery and they needed a long-term sub for her class. Not
that I’m happy they hacked out her gallbladder or anything, but her
loss is my gain, so to speak.
I
come from a long line of educators. Mom was my first grade teacher.
Both of her sisters, her father, and her grandfather taught as well.
You could say it’s in my DNA. I resisted it for a while, thought I
wanted to go into finance, but by my junior year at Clemson I had to
finally admit to myself teaching was what I really wanted to do. I
changed my major to Education and finished my credential just before
Mom died.
Since
her death, it’s felt even more urgent to me to teach—like maybe
following in her footsteps will somehow keep her spirit alive. But
Port St. Mary and the surrounding communities are small, and teaching
jobs are pretty scarce. I was afraid I was going to have to try
elsewhere come fall. This was a prayer answered…which makes me a
little afraid I might have had something to do with poor Mrs.
Martin’s gallbladder flaring up. And now it’s starting to feel
like one of those “be careful what you wish for” scenarios.
I
rub my sweaty palms down my slacks. “What happens if they hate me?”
Dad
wraps me in his arms and squeezes me in a bear hug, crushing the air
out of my lungs. “They’re going to love you, punkin. Your mom
would be so proud of you right now,” he says, a catch in his voice.
“I hope you know that.”
I
swallow back the lump in my throat and look up at him. I can’t even
remember the last time he’s brought her up out of the blue like
this. “I know, Dad, but thanks for saying so.” He lets me go and
I shoulder my messenger bag. “Time to face the music.”
We
step out the back door to
where my old electric blue Chevy Lumina is parked in the driveway,
next to Dad’s only slightly less conspicuous cruiser. Dad watches
as I slide in and turn the key. The engine chugs but doesn’t turn
over.
I
blow out a breath and pop the hood. By the time I grab the monkey
wrench on the floor of the passenger side and get out of the car, Dad
already has the hood propped up and is looking over the engine
compartment.
“Don’t
mess with Frank, Dad.” I point my finger in a circle at the guts of
my poor Frankencar. Me and my best friend Chuck rebuilt most of the
insides from junkyard parts when we took auto shop our senior year in
high school. “It’s a delicate balance.”
He
grins and steps back, his hands in the air. “Wouldn’t dream of
it.”
I
will always love Frank—he was my first—but I know I need a new
car. Dad’s offered me Mom’s T-Bird, but I’m twenty-three. I’m
supposed to be responsible for myself at this point. And besides, I’d
rather he sold Mom’s car and put the money towards his retirement.
Even though Port St. Mary is pretty sleepy most of the time, everyday
he goes to work, I worry.
I
reach between the radiator and the engine and give the alternator a
sharp rap with the wrench, then slip back into the driver’s seat.
When I turn the key, Frank chugs twice, same as always, then rumbles
to life.
Dad
ducks into the cruiser and gives me a little salute as I pull out.
Port
St. Mary Elementary is only about two miles from home. It takes a
grand total of eight minutes to drive there. Technically, it’s a
one-room schoolhouse. The tiny twelve-space parking lot butts up
against an octagonal building, which, in fact, is just one big room
inside. In the exact center of the building are the bathrooms and
storage closets, and from there, folding accordion partitions section
off each wedge of the octagon. Each wedge is a grade level, kinder
through sixth, and a multipurpose room. To the right of the parking
lot is a doublewide “portable” that houses the school offices and
small staff room. Behind that, children are already gathering in the
playground, which is really just a weed-infested lot with a slide and
jungle gym that has been there since before I started kindergarten
here.
When
I walk around the octagon to the door marked with a big yellow four
and step inside, it’s like deja vu all over again. Mrs. Martin (she
told me to call her Pam when we talked on the phone about the lesson
plan yesterday, but I can’t bring myself to) has had the same
posters on the walls since the dawn of time. The presidential chart
ends with Reagan. She had already been teaching fourth grade in this
same classroom for, like, twenty years when I had her.
I
move to her desk, to the right of the door, and set my bag on it. And
that’s when I see the note from Principal Richmond.
A
new student.
I
brush my palms down my slacks again, a fresh jolt of nerves twisting
my insides into knots. I was already going to be way over my head
with a classroom full of nine-year-olds fresh off Christmas vacation
and all sugared up on candy canes.
I
look over the instructions. Sherman William Davidson needs his
reading comprehension assessment, writing and grammar evaluation, and
his math skills worksheet completed by the end of the week.
I
blow a wisp of hair off my forehead and unpack my toothpaste and
toothbrush, my journal, and a few of my favorite colored pens into
Mrs. Martin’s desk, careful not to displace her things too much.
I’m just pulling the assessments for the new kid from the file
cabinet when the classroom door opens. I hear Principal Richmond’s
gravel voice before I turn around. “…and his classroom is here.
We just got word a few days ago that our regular fourth grade teacher
is out on medical leave, but Sherman will be in good hands with Ms.
Wilson. She’s a very capable substitute.”
I
take a deep breath as I turn and hope he’s not lying.
I
substituted five times during fall semester. For the most part,
everything went great until I subbed for Mrs. Yetz’s eighth grade
class the week before winter break. Somehow, what started out as a
math lab on probability devolved into a liar’s dice tournament,
complete with money changing hands. I wasn’t sure they’d call me
back after that.
But
when I see Principal Richmond waddle his round frame through the
door, I straighten the scarf I tied over my favorite teal sweater and
try to look as confident in what he said as he does.
“Ms.
Wilson,” he says, waving me over. “This is your new student,
Sherman.”
Sherman
is a wiry little thing with unruly brown hair and clothes that hang
off him a little. He looks as if he’d vanish into himself if given
the chance.
“He
goes by Sherm,” the man standing next to him says.
I
look up into some of the most amazing eyes I’ve ever seen. Heavy
dark brows curve over irises the color of honey with burgundy flecks
through them. Thick brown waves are loose around a strong face with
angled cheekbones, and a square jaw covered in two-day stubble. Set
in flawless olive skin are lips so firm and red they make me forget
the frown that’s turning them down slightly at the corners. He’s
just so…gorgeous, like something out of a magazine or a movie. And
he’s tall—well over six feet of broad shoulders tapering to
narrow hips under his blue button-down shirt. The tails are loose
over pressed jeans that fit him just so. Everything about him is
tailored and cultured and nothing like any of the year-rounders who
live on this bumpkin island. But it’s not just the way he looks. A
blend of confidence and something else I can’t identify but makes
him feel a little intimidating wafts off him with the spicy cologne I
keep catching hints of. He’s nothing like anyone I’ve ever met,
even at Clemson.
I
feel my jaw dangling and snap it closed, pulling myself together long
enough to extend an arm. “I’m Adri.”
Principal
Richmond clears his throat, and when I flick a glance his direction,
I know my ogling didn’t go unnoticed. His brow is deeply furrowed
and his frown curves so low it makes him look like one of those
marionettes, where their chin is a whole different piece of wood than
the rest of their face.
My
eyes bulge and I shift my outstretched hand to Sherm. “I mean, Miss
Wilson. Welcome to Port St. Mary, Sherm.”
The
boy just looks at me with sad eyes the color of his…father’s?
My
gaze gravitates back to the guy towering over me. Could he be Sherm’s
dad? He looks way too young to have a nine-year-old. He also looks
all business. There’s nothing soft or nurturing in his cold, sharp
gaze as it flicks around the classroom, silently assessing.
“What’s
on the other side of those partitions?” he asks Principal Richmond.
“The
third and fifth grade classrooms,” he answers.
The
guy’s eyes continue to scan the room. “He’ll spend all day in
here?”
The
principal nods. “Except when he’s on the playground.”
“Is
there security on campus?”
Principal
Richmond looks momentarily perplexed, rubbing his round stomach as if
he’s thinking with it. “Not as such. We have yard monitors during
recess and lunch, and the teachers are responsible for the children
when they’re here in class.”
“What
about lunch?”
“He
can bring his own lunch, or buy a bag lunch from Nutritional Services
for three dollars. Either way, if it’s nice weather, the children
eat outside at the picnic tables. On rainy days, we open the
partitions and they eat inside as a group.”
The
guy reaches into his pocket, but Principal Richmond holds up his hand
to stop him when he comes out with a thick wad of cash. “We don’t
allow students to carry money on campus. When we’re done here, I’ll
take you to the office and have you purchase a scan card for
Nutritional Services.”
The
guy nods, then moves to the door and jiggles the knob. “The
exterior doors are left unlocked?”
“During
school hours, yes.” Principal Richmond answers, moving to my desk
and shuffling through the papers I pulled for Sherm.
The
guy’s full lips narrow into a tight line and he scowls at the door.
He spins and starts toward the door in the back of the room, leaving
no stone unturned.
I
wipe my hands down my slacks again and decide just to ask. “So,
you’re Sherm’s father?”
His
feet stall on the chipped linoleum and he seems to finally notice I
exist. “Brother,” he answers, and that one word seems to carry
the weight of the world with it as it falls from his mouth.
His
eyes make a slow sweep of my face, and as they trail down my neck,
the front of my sweater, over my hips and down my legs, I’m frozen
in place, paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze.
Principal
Richmond shoves some papers in my face, breaking the spell. “You
still have fifteen minutes until the bell. Maybe you can get Sherman
started on these.”
“Um…”
I grab the papers out of his hand as Big Brother blinks, some of the
thickest lashes I’ve ever seen hiding those incredible eyes. “Yeah.
We’ll do that...”
Principal
Richmond guides Big Brother to the door. “Let’s get out of their
way and let them get started. I’m sure Sherman will have a positive
experience here. Children his age tend to adjust quickly,” he’s
saying as the door swings closed behind them.
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