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This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design: Jade Twilight

An Officer and an Italian © 2008 Dakota Trace

eXcessica publishing

All rights reserved

An Officer and an Italian

By Dakota Trace

Chapter One

Sergio Rambaudi tried to hold his sigh of impatience in check. It was a hot summer day and due to the intense heat, he wanted nothing more than to go to his brother Nicola's house, strip down to his bare skin and take advantage of his private beach. The woman in front of him was moseying along but due to the road construction he couldn't pass her. It made him wonder what'd ever possessed him to drive out of his way to give his sister, Amina, the package which had just arrived from Italy. The promise of a tray of warm dolce di fichi had convinced him to deliver said package. The combination of the soft chewy fig and crisp cookie was his downfall and Amina knew it'd be a sure enticement. He shouldn't be bitching about doing the errand. He loved his little sister and she was more than generous with the dolce di fichi. It was amazing he didn't weigh over two hundred and fifty pounds. It wasn't as if he couldn't pull off such a weight with his height of over six foot five inches. But he wasn't about to stop exercising, so his weight was well under two hundred pounds on a tall lean frame.
He sighed in relief when he saw his exit come into view. Flipping his turn signal on, he entered the on ramp. Moments later the flash of blue and red lights in his rear view mirror had him wanting to hit something or someone. He cursed under his breath, and slowly pulled off onto the shoulder. He leaned over and reached inside the glove box for his registration. His bad day had just taken a turn for the worse. With his obvious Italian ancestry, name and accent, he was often given the suspicious eye by the authorities even though he had been in America for almost ten years. As he pulled back, he knocked the plate of cookies Amina had given him onto the floor.
"Damn it!" He contorted his tall body into a pretzel, then cursed some more when he tried to rescue his precious "loot" from the floorboard on the other side of the car.
"Straighten up slowly and let me see your hands, sir," a firm woman's voice instructed him. Shocked, he straightened up too quickly and hit his head on the rear view mirror
"Son of a bitch!" He placed his head over the injured area on the back of his head.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"Yeah. Just peachy," he muttered while he continued to rub the back of his head.
"I need to see your driver's license, registration, and proof of insurance." Her tone was brisk and no nonsense.

He reached over and picked up the items she asked for and handed them to her. If he hadn't been nursing a sore head, he would've noticed the young woman's beauty. Even in a cop's uniform, she was definitely cute, at barely over five feet tall and warm chestnut hair that she kept pulled back in a tight French braid due to the heat. He was still rubbing his head as she took the requested information back to her cruiser.

* * * *

Rachel Arnsworth walked quickly back to her cruiser. Slipping inside she kept her eyes on the suspect as she tapped his name into the laptop mounted in the middle of her cruiser. She hummed while she waited for the requested information to come up. She wasn't expecting much more than a traffic violation to pop up. Given the man's attire and the car he was driving, she was shocked when she saw an old charge --one that was nearly a decade old. How it was still on his records surprised her - since anything older than seven years was normally dropped. ‘Public Indecency’. She tried to picture the uptight man in the car, streaking. She shook her head, before grabbing her citation book and heading back to Mr Rambaudi's car.
"Mr. Rambaudi, do you know why I pulled you over?" Rachel asked him.
"No. I don't believe I was speeding," he protested.
"Your brake lights and turn signals aren't working correctly, Mr. Rambaudi. I suggest you have your mechanic look into the problem and get if fixed right away. I'd hate to be called to an accident because some idiot tailgating you didn't realize you were slowing down." She finished writing his ticket before handing it to him.
"What's this?" he asked, looking at a different type of citation.
"It's a "fix it" ticket. Get the repairs done and take the receipt to the courthouse where they'll verify you've fixed the problems listed on the citation. Once you do that, there are no fines or penalties. Or simply pay the fine and hope that I or another cop won't catch you again. Because I won't be so lenient on you next time. Have a good day, Mr. Rambaudi." She turned and headed back to her car.
"Brutta birbona! The Italian phrase rolled off his tongue with ease.

Rachel stilled as memories washed over her. She hadn't heard that phrase in years. Her nanny was the last one to chastise her with that saying, and it had been years since Smerelda had said it to her. The phrase reminded her she needed to visit her beloved nanny. It'd been several weeks since she had spoken with the elderly lady who'd truly raised her. She should call him on his utterance but she decided to let him was going to let him go.

She'd just entered her car when there was a squeal of tires and the loud sound of a semi 'jake braking'. She looked up and paled as she realized there was a semi-truck barreling down the on-ramp in the wrong direction. She could see a man wearing some kind of institutional clothing at the wheel. She cursed when she saw that the huge rig was headed straight for her squad car. She quickly strapped her seat belt on and braced herself for impact. She fingered the radio attached to her shoulder.
"Headquarters this is unit 385. I have a 480 in progress."
"Location, unit 385?" dispatch asked as the semi hit the side of her car and forced her through the guardrail. She braced her head as the squad car teetered on the edge before falling into the steep gully next to the off ramp. She screamed as the ground raced up to meet her. She prayed dispatch got her location and for some reason Sergio Rambaudi's face was the last thing she focused on before the blackness overwhelmed her.

* * * *

Sergio stared in horror as the eighteen-wheeler roared by him and hit the cop car behind him. He fumbled frantically for his seat belt then shoved the door open. The eighteen-wheeler stopped for a brief moment. He memorized the plate number before he realized the lunatic driving it was backing up. He jumped back in his car just in time. He winced as his driver's side door was ripped off its’ hinges.

"Son of bitch!"

This car was a lease. He would never get his deposit back now! He frantically grabbed his cell phone and punched in 911. He waited for the operator to come on. He quickly gave the operator his location and told her about the license plate number for the truck before explaining the cop car had been pushed through the guardrail – down into the gully.

"Sir, can you see the unit number on the car?" was the operator's first question.
"Just a sec." He got out of his car on unsteady legs and walked to the twisted metal which framed the gap in the guardrail. He peered down into the gully. He squinted trying to see the white number painted on the trunk of the cruiser.

"I think its 38...shit, I can't see the last number. The car is on its’ side. I can't make out the number. Wait a minute. I think the officer's name is on the ticket she gave me."
"Ticket, sir?"
"Yeah, my tail lights aren't working apparently," Sergio sheepishly told her as he grabbed the ticket off the seat. "Officer Rachel Arnsword...no Arnsworth." It was hard to read Rachel's scribbled signature.
"Stay on the line, sir." He dropped the ticket back on the seat and headed back over to the opening. "Rachel, can you hear me?" he called down to the car. He strained to see if there was any movement inside of the cruiser.
"Unit 385, this is dispatch, respond please."

He stilled as he heard the tinny voice of the police radio.
"I can hear you calling the officer," he told the woman on the phone. "I think she might be unconscious. She was plowed pretty hard by that semi."

"Affirmative dispatch, this unit 385." Rachel's weak voice echoed through the connection in his ear.
"She's alive!" Sergio felt intense relief flood his system.
"Status, unit 385?" A long silence followed.
"Sir, can you see the officer?" the dispatcher asked.
"No. But give me a minute. I'm going down there."

Sergio slipped his cell phone into his suit pocket before grabbing one mangled edge of the guardrail. He slid down the bank and came to rest against the side of the car. Peering inside the vehicle through the shattered glass of the car’s left window, he tried to make out Rachel. She was slumped over in the seat, her seat belt holding her body in place