For one heartbeat, Beth wondered what it’d be like to have all that long-lashed, dark-eyed charm smiling only for her.

Don’t even think about it. Luke was definitely a love ‘em and leave ‘em guy. Unpredictable, career-driven and an attention magnet. Attention she had spent years avoiding. Getting involved with him—however superb the encounter promised to be—was the last thing she needed.

She looked away even as her skin began to tingle in the most annoying way. “What’s our next move?”

“You’re determined to stay, right? So if you’re not moving out and won’t consider my offer, it leaves me with only one option. I’m moving in.”

Luke De Rossi. In her home. In the bedroom next to hers.

Her stomach made a weird little lurch.

You sure your secrets are all you’re worried about?

Dear Reader,

You may not know this, but writers don’t miraculously become published overnight. (As much as we’d wish it so!) It takes, on average, ten years honing your craft before you have something saleable. Which means loads of writing—starting a new story, working on it, sticking it under the bed, then beginning a new one. And then you go back to those “under the bed” stories, dust them off and begin the process of editing, revising, tweaking. Sometimes it works and results in a sale. But sometimes they become your “learning curve” stories, never to see the light of day again.

And why am I telling you this? Beth and Luke’s story was one of those “under the bed” stories, originally written in the early nineties. Over twenty years later, the basic premise remained the same but pretty much everything else changed (including the technology!). Luke’s previous occupation, Beth’s six-year-old child and ex, her convoluted past as a US senator’s socialite daughter, plus Luke’s cousin’s shady embezzlement dealings and a slew of secondary characters—they all went. Boy, was there a LOT of work to do on that original story, including cutting twenty thousand words!

However, I still loved the original idea of my hero and heroine fighting over a house and, thankfully, my editor did, too. Even so far from the original concept, I’m thrilled with the way Beth and Luke’s story turned out. Which goes to show that sometimes there can be a diamond underneath all that rough.

Paula

About the Author

Despite wanting to be a vet, choreographer, card shark, hairdresser and an interior designer (although not simultaneously!), British-born, Aussie-bred PAULA ROE ended up as a personal assistant, office manager, software trainer and aerobics instructor for thirteen interesting years.

Paula lives in western New South Wales, Australia, with her family, two opinionated cats and a garden full of dependent native birds. She still retains a deep love of filing systems, stationery and traveling, even though the latter doesn’t happen nearly as often as she’d like. She loves to hear from her readers—you can visit her at her website, www.paularoe.com.

Bed of Lies
Paula Roe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To all those wonderful writers, contest judges and

editors who read my original version of Beth and

Luke’s story many, many (many!) years ago and gave

me the encouragement to keep writing: Meredith

Webber, Meredith Whitford, Desley and Michael

Ahern, Valerie Susan Hayward and Diane Dietz.

One

Trouble.

For a moment, Beth Jones had to steady herself against the kitchen sink, her heart pounding basketball-hard against her ribs as she stared out into her leafy front garden. Right into the impeccably dressed, clean-shaven face of trouble.

A man had eased from a sporty BMW parked in her driveway, his tall, broad figure radiating tension. The giveaway signs were as tangible as the lingering heat of the early-October evening—his stiff shoulders and neck, a frown knotting his forehead, the impatient way he slammed the car door.

She swallowed thickly, pushed away an errant curl and continued to stare.

He paused by her letter box, checking something on a piece of paper, a frown creasing behind those dark sunglasses. His hesitation gave her time to take in a top-to-toe view of an efficient haircut, broad chest encased in a sharply cut suit and long, long legs. And the nerve ticking away in his jaw.

He looked expensive and self-assured, one of those billion-dollar alpha males who automatically command respect.

So, not a reporter. Some business hotshot? A lawyer? Banker?

She sucked in a breath. Yes.

Amazingly, it looked like East Coast National Bank had graduated from phone calls to face-to-face intimidation.

A misplaced half a million dollars would do that.

Trouble always came in threes. And if she counted her flat tire this morning and her missing employee as numbers one and two, then the third looked as if he was about to come knocking on her front door.

Luke De Rossi had a whopper of a headache.

It had started up after he’d left the Brisbane solicitor’s office and drove south along the M1 toward the Gold Coast, the blasting air conditioner doing nothing to soothe his anger. He’d clicked through a dozen songs on his iPod before giving up, instead letting the thick silence fill the void.

He’d barely noticed when he took the turnoff to Runaway Bay, traffic thinning, the houses becoming bigger and properties more expansive. A couple of times he’d glanced in the rearview mirror, but the car that’d been tailing him had disappeared.

He should be happy about that. Instead, apprehension gnawed like a dog worrying a bone. He could just imagine the headlines now: Lucky Luke Cops House from Dead Gangster Uncle was a particular favourite. The press would put another knife in his back, his reputation would be screwed and he’d lose everything he’d worked for all his life.

He and Gino had never been close, but his uncle had known how much his career meant to him. So what the hell had he been thinking, bequeathing him a house that could effectively sabotage his career?

At the end of the cul-de-sac, sunset spread long-fingered shadows over the sprawling century-old colonial-style two-story, a long, partially hidden driveway and a white letter box emblazoned with the number thirteen. How apt.

The house was painted dark green and ochre, the colors blending into the surrounding trees, completely at odds with the modern grandiose Grecian creations he’d passed farther up. For one second, he expected to see a dog bounding away in the front yard and kids playing on the spacious porch. Instead, a comfy swing sat on the polished wooden boards, inviting him to come and take a load off.

He snorted as he got out of the car. Despite its exclusive island location, the place looked … low-key. Something his uncle was definitely not. So what was Gino doing with a perfect slice of suburbia in his possession when he had the pick of any mansion along Queensland’s elite Whitsunday Islands?

He’d left the solicitor’s office too fired up to hear any explanations. Yeah, he’d gone in already furious and, two sentences into the reading of Gino’s will, he’d turned around and stormed right out. He knew if he’d stayed a moment longer he would have done things, said things that weren’t his right to do or say.

Yet those words still burned in his brain: You need to hear this, Luke. You need to make peace with your family.

Privately, his board of directors had warned him away from the public-relations nightmare that was Gino Corelli. Publicly, they’d called his suspension a “temporary leave of absence due to family commitments.” Yet for some crazy reason, here he was.

You need to make it right.

He sucked in a breath. Gino had died because of him. He’d managed to shove the guilt aside for weeks, burying it under his insane workload and long hours until it had all exploded in Paluzanno and Partners’ shiny boardroom.

Make it right.

With a soft curse, he shook his head. A week would be enough time to check out the house and put it on the market. Then he’d return the money to his aunt Rosa and get back to his life and his upcoming promotion.

A week. Maybe ten days, tops. Then he was home free. Simple.

He took another step forward, ignored his ringing phone, then stilled when he spotted a red hatchback parked under the porch.

This house was designed to pass under the radar, yet by Sunset Island real estate values alone, it was worth a few million. His brain quickly ran through the possibilities until it landed on an unpleasant thought.

A love nest.

A sour taste lodged in his mouth, something bitter and dark. No. Gino had loved Aunt Rosa. They’d been happily married for over fifty years. There was no way he would …

Yet why hadn’t Gino willed the house to Rosa then? Why him, if not to keep Rosa in the dark?

He glanced at the house again, his mouth thinning in suspicion. Something was off … something he couldn’t put his finger on.

He slammed the car door, rechecked the address then stalked across the yard.

Only to pause at the front steps.

A thin band of worry tripped down his back, following the sweat plastering the shirt to his skin. He scratched the base of his neck and looked over his shoulder. The winding driveway and a dense hedge hid the house from the quiet street. A couple of well-tended lemon trees bent over the front porch like wizened sentries. The lawn was in need of a cut, but the flower beds were turned, indicating where the occupant’s priorities lay. And with the exception of the cicadas chirping their repertoire with monotonous regularity, silence reigned.

The remnants of adrenaline from his press encounter surged up a notch.

There were no caretaking arrangements in place. Either he was right about Gino or … His mind clicked, grasping for one other plausible explanation.

Some enterprising reporter was one step ahead.

Luke had always managed to draw the line between unwanted attention and good publicity when needed. Yes, he was the youngest board member of Jackson and Blair, Queensland’s most affluent merchant bank. Yes, he possessed an insane amount of power in the corporate world. But now all people saw was the nephew of alleged mob boss Gino Corelli.

They saw a criminal.

Luke stared at the key in his palm, regret stabbing in his chest. His cousin’s deadly accusation at Gino’s funeral still festered—Maybe if you’d done something, my father would still be alive.

If he only knew.

His hand closed around the key and squeezed. The sharp edges bit into his skin yet he welcomed the pain. Anything that took away, even briefly, from the nagging wound in his heart was a reprieve.

Luke glared at the front door of his legacy—solid, worn … and locked. And felt a frustration so deep it burned a hole behind his eyes.

Despite holding the key, he pounded on the door. Then waited.

Just as he was about to try again, the door opened and his mind went momentarily and uncharacteristically blank.

A human version of Bambi stood there, all mossy wide eyes and long limbs. She was barely dressed in a faded blue tank top and white denim shorts, the frayed cuffs ending midthigh and leaving a long expanse of leg bare. Legs starting at her armpits and running down to the tips of her pink-painted toenails. Legs curved in all the right places, tanned a light honey, with dimpled knees.

Lucio De Rossi was a leg man and he appreciated a quality vintage when he saw it.

He dropped his hand, tipped down his sunglasses and let his gaze run leisurely up her body until his eyes met hers—frosty green eyes that shot down all inappropriate thoughts in flames.

Beth took a step back. The look stamped on this stranger’s arrogant features did not bode well. And those dark, dark eyes edged in thick, almost feminine lashes backed up that thought. As he shoved his glasses up and studied her with the intensity and thoroughness of an interrogator, he ran a long-fingered hand over his jaw.

“I take it you’re here about Ben Foster?” Beth asked coolly, reining in her churning thoughts.

“Who?”

He glanced past her shoulder and unease flared. She snapped her mouth shut, suddenly realizing the downside in offering too much information.

His eyes returned to her and narrowed. “What are you doing in this house?”

Beth’s gut flipped at his barely hidden animosity, but she refused to be cowed. “What are you doing?”

He gave her a dark look, brushed past her and strode down the hallway.

Openmouthed, Beth stared after his retreating back. Panic kicked in, hitching her breath and lending speed to her steps.

When she finally caught up, he’d reached the lounge room, pulled the curtains wide and was scanning the shadowed backyard.

“What do you think you’re—”

“You people never give up, do you?” He spun, eyes shining with battle. “The tail, the ambush at my apartment—now this little trick. So what’s the plan? Bat your green eyes, flash your legs and ask me nicely for an exclusive?” He ran that dark gaze over her so thoroughly Beth might well have been naked. “Those shorts are a good touch, by the way. Distraction by attraction, right?”

She sucked in a sharp indignant breath. “What gives you the right to—”

“Lady, I’ve had one crappy day and I don’t need this. I’ve blown your cover, but you obviously need the story. So here’s the deal—you leave now and I won’t charge you with trespass.” Stunned, Beth watched him turn back to the window. “Where’s your camera crew? Your mikes? Behind the bushes?”

She sucked in a sharp furious breath. “Just who do you think you are?”

That got his attention. He spun with catlike agility, angry and bristling. A formidable sight with the height and arrogance to back it up. But as his silent scrutiny lengthened, her heart quickened, pounding in heavy thuds against her ribs. She nervously eyed the distance to the kitchen. Sharp knives … a phone …

“Are you trying to be obtuse?” he demanded.

Before she could answer that, he reached into his back pocket, pulled out an expensive leather wallet and thrust his driver’s license under her nose. “Luke De Rossi, Miss …?”

“Jones. Beth Jones.”

Thin fingers of suspicion spiked through Luke’s gut as he watched her reposition herself at the hall entrance. Her eyes, startled green and fringed in long sandy lashes that darted over to the kitchen, finally got him. She rocked on the balls of her toes, poised and ready for flight. Suspicion tightened the muscles in her face. Hell, he could practically smell her distress.

A reporter she definitely wasn’t. And squatters didn’t live this well. She sounded like a tough nut, looked like a divine gift and wore her defensiveness like a cloak. She was as confused as he was.

So—a mistress, then.

Normally he relied on his immaculate composure to radiate authority, but, along with his seemingly infallible instinct, all three had flown right out the window.

He took a step back, regrouped. “Look, Miss Jones. Maybe we’d better start again. I’m—”

“I know exactly who you are.”

Luke exhaled heavily and felt the determined throb of a headache coming on. “I suppose you have some proof this is your house?” he said shortly.

She narrowed her eyes. “Proof? Why?”

“Lady, I’d appreciate a little help here.”

“I’ve lived here for the past three years and—”

“Owner or tenant?”

“What?”

“Do you own it or do you rent?” he enunciated clearly.

Beth bit back a rude comment as anger still simmered. “Rent, but—”

“Work with me, Miss Jones.” She watched his jaw tighten. “Who rented you the place?”

“A real estate agency.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t see—”

“The name, please.”

Silently, defiantly, she crossed her arms.

He ran a hand through his hair again, the short strands peaking in the wake of his long fingers. The incongruous action made him seem … oddly vulnerable. Beth nearly laughed at the absurd observation. Vulnerable? Right. Like a black panther waiting to catch his lunch is vulnerable.

Vaguely, she recalled an old Sun-Herald feature on Australia’s leading financial corporations. “Lucky Luke” De Rossi was just one of Jackson and Blair’s gifted talent—off-the-charts IQ, Harvard educated. As a corporate suit with the multibillion-dollar merchant bank, he had a perfect employment record, a perfect trust-me-with-your-millions attitude and perfect integrity. Hell, she’d actually admired his professionalism and commitment even if she hadn’t agreed with his workaholic drive.

His unwavering gaze held hers in silent stalemate. Then, with a sudden grimace, he rolled his shoulder and rubbed the base of his neck.

Trapezius, she automatically thought. Tight deltoids. Possible back pain. Definite headache.

She blinked, confused. Weariness practically oozed from this man’s pores, his features etched in frustration. And try as he might to hide it, she could make out the lines of pain bracketing his mouth.

As quickly as her sympathy rose, she tried banishing it.

And still he continued to massage his neck, almost as if it was a subconscious tic. Maybe, she thought grudgingly, high stress levels could send someone temporarily insane.

“So you’re renting this place,” he finally said.

She held his gaze. “Yes.”

The cynicism in his eyes didn’t intimidate her one bit. If anything, it spurred her irritation.

“So who’s the agency? You have an address? A phone number?”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Look, I’m trying to get to the bottom of this and you’re not helping.”

He was so obviously used to asking the questions, to having ultimate control, that Beth couldn’t contain a humourless laugh. She’d dealt with his kind all too often. “How’s about you help me and get out of my house?”

“What?”

“You heard.”

“Your house?” He narrowed his eyes. “Last time I checked, this place was my uncle’s.” His dark expression grew thunderous. “Were you and he involved?”

Her breath choked off for one second, then came rushing back in a hiss, face flaming. “First you barge into my house then accuse me of sleeping with your uncle. Are you crazy?”

Luke gritted his teeth, the headache pounding in earnest now. Jeez, this lady isn’t Bambi, she’s Godzilla! “Look, we’re not going to achieve anything by yelling at each other.”

“That’s right.” She marched down the hall, leaving him no choice but to follow. “I live here, Mr. De Rossi. If you’re telling the truth, then come back with proof.”

Exhaustion tugged at his legs, desperate to drag him down. All he wanted was a shower and a decent night’s sleep—he’d be willing to commit a felony to get it just about now.

So maybe he could reason with her soft side. If she had one.

Time to change tactics. He took a step toward her, a conciliatory smile teasing the corners of his mouth, palms turned up in supplication.

“I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.” Rewarded by her startled look, he continued. “You know who I am, so you know I’m good for—”

“Good for what?” Her calm response had him flashing a real full-on smile, one he knew could melt a few hearts and strong wills when he chose. “And what kind of arrangement did you have in mind?”

As they stood there with the warm evening breeze drifting through the doorway, Luke happened to glance down. Her tank top gaped at the neck, displaying a gentle swell of cleavage. Bloody hell. Quickly he dragged his eyes up, but a sheen of sweat dotting her smooth honey throat diverted his attention.

“Just give me a break, Ms. Jones.” He swallowed and finally managed to focus on the doorjamb behind her left ear. “I drove down from Brisbane and dodged reporters to get here.”

“Not in the car that’s being jacked, I hope.”

His reaction couldn’t have been more perfect. As Luke whirled, Beth put her hand firmly in the small of his back and shoved with all the pent-up anger and frustration bubbling inside.

Luke stumbled through the doorway. By the time he’d regained his balance, she’d locked the security screen.

“Possession is nine-tenths the law. Have a nice night!”

Then she slammed the door in his stunned face.

Two

Tuesday morning rolled in on brilliant beams of spring sunshine, streaking across the cloudless sky and encouraging more than one worker to call in sick.

Luke sat in his parked car and stared across the yard and into the kitchen. Beth moved with purpose—firm, precise and direct. The very thought of tangling with her cranked his warning system up to maximum volume.

Most men would have taken the hint and let the local cops sort this mess out.

He wasn’t most men.

He’d called Gino’s lawyer and been put on hold for ten minutes. When he’d rung back, the receptionist apologized profusely then proceeded to put him on hold again. With a curse he’d finally hung up.

He should’ve gone with his first thought and refused the bequest. Except …

Gino always knew exactly what he was doing when it came to his business interests. There was a reason Luke had been named beneficiary and by God, he was going to find out. Even if it meant dealing with a possible mistress.

So, two options—call in the cops or deal with the situation himself.

He sighed. No-brainer. Option one meant publicity, something he neither wanted nor needed. With option two, he’d at least be in control. Which meant he needed more information about Beth Jones.

His neck twinged and he stretched, the muscles pulling painfully taut. As the blinding sun hit his face, he flipped down the visor.

It didn’t take a degree in psychology to work out the woman didn’t trust easily, especially following his performance last night. He cringed inwardly. He’d suffered an uncharacteristic loss of control, one that wouldn’t happen again.

His mouth twitched. Damn, if she hadn’t surprised the hell out of him. She was stronger than she looked.

Luke swung open the car door and got out. Lemons. That’s what she smelled like. Fresh, citrus and edible. Like the old-fashioned lemonade his aunt Rosa made on hot Sunday afternoons … sharp on the surface yet oh, so sweet when you got down to the sugar pooled in the bottom of the glass.

He scowled. She might smell great and look even better, but he had a job to do. And her guarded suspicion definitely meant there was something she wasn’t telling him. He’d bet his upcoming promotion on it.

“Thank you for calling Crown Real Estate,” came the tinny message on the other end of Beth’s line. “Our office hours are from—” Beth gripped the phone with a tight sigh then hung up. The phone rang almost immediately. She grabbed it. “Yes?”

“Don’t hang up. It’s Luke De Rossi.”

She frowned. “How’d you get this number?”

“It’s on the deed. Look outside.”

She spun and stared at the long-legged figure in her front yard. “How long have you been there?”

“A few hours.” What did he think she was going to do—burn the place down? Do a runner? “We need to talk.”

She stiffened, waiting for the catch. Luke maintained steady eye contact. Finally, she said, “I’ll come out.”

With a coolness belying her thumping heart, she released the blinds. They clattered down with sharp finality.

A burst of nervous energy sent her pacing across the kitchen.

She didn’t want to talk. Hell, she’d spent the last ten years keeping her mouth shut. Her idyllic existence was based on a bunch of lies and talking would only leave her wide-open to the past, to what she’d left behind.

Not to mention possible criminal charges for identity theft.

Icy fear skimmed her skin, forcing goose bumps to the surface. The Australian press had a fascination with morbid grand-scale tragedy, especially on the eve of the ten-year anniversary. She rarely read the news but the past few months she’d managed to avoid everything—papers, TV, radio. She’d become adept at sidestepping when her clients brought up current affairs. But her memories couldn’t be so easily avoided.

She went over to the counter and poured a cup of coffee from the pot, swallowing the faint acrid taste of panic. No one in her new life knew who she’d been, what she’d done. Yet Luke’s appearance brought back all those old fears like the Ghost of Christmas Past.

She quickly slammed the door on her thoughts and focused on the present. Luke De Rossi.

Like an old motor starting up, her heart quickened. In a normal situation, she’d be itching to help this man who practically smoldered with shredded nerves. In a normal situation … But this could hardly be less normal.

Good-looking men always had hidden agendas. Like that reporter she’d trusted when she was eighteen. Like a couple of rich, smooth business types—both married and single—who used her massage services then tried to chat her up.

Like Ben, her missing bookkeeper.

She’d more than learned her lesson about trust.

After she made a quick call to Laura and asked her to open the store today, she went to the front door, cup in hand. With an efficient smoothing of hair and squaring of shoulders, she took a deep breath. Getting all panicky will do no good. The agency couldn’t give her answers, so maybe he could. And, she realized, Luke De Rossi, Mr. Rich-and-Powerful, could make her life very difficult if she kicked up a fuss.

On that last thought, she opened the kitchen door and stepped outside.

Luke sat on the railing, looking seriously dangerous in the morning light. Even with creased shirt and rumpled hair, everything about him screamed authority and confidence—from the tanned skin revealed by the one loose collar button and strong biceps beneath rolled-up sleeves, to the way he watched her with those darker-than-midnight eyes.

He needs to get rid of that tension bunching up his neck. A few sessions and she could have those muscles massaged into relaxation.

The thought of getting her hands on all that pent-up energy sent an unfamiliar sensation down her spine. What was wrong with her? Sure, she’d seen great bodies before. Pummeled, manipulated and eased any manner of muscular aches and pains. Yet this stranger had a look about him, one that said even though he was fired up about something, he could handle it. He was in control. Too in control?

He surprised her by handing her a bunch of letters. “Your mail.” As she took them, he nodded toward her porch swing and added, “Those are for you.”

Beth’s eyes widened. Carnations covered the seat, a burst of vivid yellow, white and pink. Their distinctive fragrance teased her nose, courtesy of a warm easterly.

She glanced from the swing back to him. His expression was subdued, even a little uncomfortable.

“I was out of line last night,” he said brusquely. “I don’t normally jump to conclusions. I apologize.”

“Okay.” Her gaze skittered back to the flowers.

“I got them from the garden at the end of the street. I left a note and twenty bucks.”

A reluctant smile kicked the corner of her mouth up. “You stole Crabby Craig’s prized flowers?”

“Ah.” His confident expression fell. “With a name like that, he will mind.”

She surprised herself by grinning. “He may come looking for you. Apparently, the man’s a big-shot doctor.”

“Then I’ll have to tell him it was a life-or-death situation.” When he answered her grin with one of his own, her thoughts mockingly returned. He was gorgeous without all that anger—all Italian muscle, aquiline nose and a set of hypnotic eyes.

An awkward silence descended until she remembered the cup she still held. “Here.” She saw him hesitate and added drily, “It’s not poisoned. Milk, no sugar.”

“Good guess.” Luke took the cup gratefully. “Why the sudden kindness? I thought you wanted me gone.”

“And I thought you’d have a cop with you this morning.”

“There are other ways to deal with this.”

“Then I should credit you with more self-control than I initially thought.”

“Enough for both of us, it seems.” Was he teasing her from behind the coffee mug? After that lame attempt to sweet-talk her last night, she didn’t doubt it.

His soft, almost seductive tone made her heart thump. Annoyed, she swallowed a sharp retort. Instead, she gave him an abbreviated version of what little she’d discovered that morning.

He took it all in in silence, with no overt display of emotion except a faint tightening of the jaw, a flash of his dark eyes. Finally, he dragged a long-fingered hand through his hair and rose.

“And what’s the real estate agency called?” He fixed her with such a piercing look, she felt the danger tingle down to the roots of her hair.

“Crown. I have a rental agreement … well, it’s more like a caretaking agreement—the owners are permanently overseas and I pay minimum rent to keep their house.”

“And you’ve been here three years.”

“Yes.”

“And before that?”

A myriad of emotions tightened her gut. “A bunch of cheap rentals. Nothing like this.”

She’d put so much time and effort into making this house her home. Fixed and replanted the sad garden. Painted the walls. Retiled the bathroom. Put up shelves. All with her own sweat and time and with many a muttered curse. And in a few months, finances willing, she’d even planned to make an offer on it.

It was her sanctuary from the world and no one was going to take that from her without a fight.

“What do you do for work?” he continued.

“I’m a masseuse. I have a store in Surfers …” She glanced at her watch. “One that opens at ten.”

He paused and took a sip of coffee, his expression unreadable. “Do you have the agency’s address?”

“Highway end of Surfers Mall.” She frowned. “What are you going to do?”

“Who’s Ben?”

“What?” Beth blinked.

“Boyfriend? Ex-husband?”

“No!”

“You thought I was here about Ben yesterday.”

She hated how the seeds of insecurity had blossomed into a full-blown tree of doubt in the last half hour. She didn’t want to give in to that. Because if she did, it meant all her efforts to carve out a normal life these last ten years had failed. She didn’t want to be suspicious, didn’t want to automatically doubt every person she met. But right now, faced with this bizarre situation, she had a strange feeling she should believe him. He just gave off that kind of aura.

“Ben’s got nothing to do with this,” she eventually said.

“How do you know that? He could’ve been partners with the agency, operating a real estate scam.”

“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

“Oh, and what we have here is normal?”

She plunked herself on the porch railing. They stayed like that for a few moments, Luke in anticipatory silence, she with her lips pressed tight. He gave her that look again, that firm, what-are-you-hiding-from-me look. It unnerved her.

“He was my bookkeeper,” she conceded tightly, cheeks warming. “When my bank accidentally deposited someone else’s money into my business account, he took it and ran.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred thousand dollars.”

He gave a low whistle, and embarrassment flamed her face. She’d trusted Ben—someone she thought she’d known—and he’d gone and screwed her over.

“I take it you’ve filed a police report?”

“Not yet.” His look only compounded her shame. “The bank gives you twenty-eight days to return the money. It’s only the second.”

“You think he’s going to bring it back?” At her silence, he added more softly, “So. We have a scam and a missing person.”

“We don’t. My problems are none of your business.”

“And I can see you’re handling them just fine.”

She shot to her feet, irritated beyond words. He was right. But cops meant an inquiry, one she couldn’t afford to have.

“Were you and Foster in a sexual relationship?” he said suddenly.

Beth flushed. “What is it with you and sex? No! He’s nineteen, barely out of his teens. A math geek. His mother was a client and he… I…” She faltered at his expression then conceded, “We met twice after work, but it was always about business.”

“Did he know that?”

“Of course!” She swallowed as a small sliver of doubt crept in. “Of course,” she repeated with less conviction. “Why would he steal from me? And something that’s not even mine?”

“Greed’s a basic human desire. It’s not a matter of need, it’s about want. You focus on a victim, build trust and then …”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

Luke took in her tight expression and felt a rush of sympathy. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No.” As if he’d insulted her, she straightened her back and crossed her arms.

He flipped out his phone and dialed. “Dylan. It’s Luke. I need a favor. Information on a Ben Foster. Lives …?”

He paused for an interminably long moment, until Beth grudgingly reeled off an address.

As he gave details, he pointedly ignored Beth’s impatient snort. But when she attempted to interrupt, he held up a hand, silencing her. A complex play of emotions flitted across her face—annoyance, indignation—along with a scowl. Obviously she wasn’t used to being silenced. Fascinated, he watched her wrestle with the anger banking in her eyes. For a second he wasn’t sure control would win out.

“Gotcha,” Dylan said. “When do you want this info?”

“Yesterday.”

Dylan laughed. “Right. I’m off to Cairns for a court appearance this afternoon, then I’m booked solid until Friday. I could hand it over to one of my guys—”

“No. I’d much rather you handle it.”

“Okay. So it’ll have to wait until Sunday.”

Four days? Luke frowned. “Sure.” Then he hung up.

Beth rounded on him. “I didn’t ask for your help!” Her eyes narrowed, her expression tight. “Or is poking about in people’s lives just something that comes naturally?”

He slowly crossed his arms. “Dylan’s a P.I. and can find your runaway a lot quicker than the bank or the cops. I’m not interested in your secrets, Beth,” he lied smoothly.

“Just make sure it stays that way.” The fire retreated as she darted her gaze away to a point past his shoulder. “My private life stays private.”

Luke swallowed the unspoken question teetering on the tip of his tongue. Somehow he didn’t think voicing his opinion on her trust issues would bode well for their tentative truce.

“White-collar crime is more common than you think.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so much better.”

He ignored her sarcasm and started dialing Gino’s solicitor again. “And we need to prove I’m telling the truth.”

Luck was definitely not with him. After a few minutes of the busy signal, he clicked off with a foul curse. “I need to see your lease.”

Her eyes narrowed then zeroed in on his hand where he’d begun to rub his neck.

“Wait here.” But when he stood, she took a step back. “What?”

“Wouldn’t have any more coffee, would you?”

She paused. “In the kitchen.” Then, reluctantly, “Fine. Come in.”

Beth was acutely aware of his presence as she gathered up the carnations then walked into the kitchen. She got an empty vase from the cupboard, filled it with water then arranged the flowers, all the while trying to ignore the whirl of confusing reactions circling inside.

“Mind if I have some toast?” he asked when she finally finished.

She sighed. What’s one more oddity in a day like today? “Help yourself,” she muttered and walked out of the kitchen.

When Beth returned, she paused in the doorway, watching as Luke stood at the counter eating Vegemite-smothered toast.

I’ll bet relax is not in his vocabulary. Yet despite that small flaw, he was a perfect specimen. He had shoulders broader than a man had any right to have. His Mediterranean skin was a healthy tan and from what she could see, not one ounce of fat insulted that perfect physique. It was a functional, red-blooded, well-kept body … and looked far too warm and touchable for her liking. Despite herself she wanted to touch him, wanted to ease out the tension furrowing his brow, trail her hands down those beautiful forearms, over his chest, feel the heat radiating there, maybe even—

Annoyance chased away the threads of attraction. After her past mistakes, she’d vowed never to let anyone get that close again.

And now Luke was making himself at home in her kitchen. He’d even mastered her temperamental toaster, because just as the offending appliance flung a piece of toast high into the air, Luke caught it as skillfully as a Brisbane Broncos halfback.

She’d never been able to judge the trajectory on that stupid thing.

She laid her papers on the kitchen table. “Here’s everything. You should also know I have a legally binding tenancy agreement.”

She savored the small bittersweet triumph, even as he grabbed the documents and scanned them with a black scowl.

But as she watched him read, that feeling of victory slowly leeched away. Three months. Only a blink away. If he was telling the truth, could he actually sell her home from under her feet regardless of that bit of paper?

This house meant more to her than a roof. It was a home, a sanctuary. It was her home. After so many years of not belonging, it was a symbol of how far she’d come and everything she’d struggled for. And there was no way some high-priced banker with a sinful smile would force her out.

She needed expert legal advice—except she couldn’t afford it.

She eyeballed Luke still studying her papers, his shirt tight across his shoulders as he leaned over the table. Amazing how such a large piece of clothing provided so little cover.

With awareness prickling her skin, she reached for the coffeepot and poured herself a cup. Gently blowing the steam off, she lifted her eyes, only to find his intent on the rim of her cup.

On her lips.

She swallowed, lowered the cup and waved to her papers. “Does that prove I’m not lying?”

“It looks legitimate.” He pointed to a signature. “The agency has a management agreement, acting on behalf of the owners.”

“That’s right.”

“So you have no idea who the real owners are?”

“No.” From the look on his face he obviously didn’t like her answer. “So our next move is …?”

“I’m going to see Gino’s lawyers.”

“You mean, we’re going.” She put her cup in the sink, the coffee now a tart taste in her mouth.

He flexed his back and grimaced but said nothing.

She scowled. “I’m going to be frank with you, Mr. De Rossi. I am not impressed with you—not by your power or your wealth. I know people like you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Really.”

“Yes. Men dedicated to their jobs, their own needs. They think that with one killer smile, anyone can be swayed into changing a decision. They have to be in control twenty-four hours a day.”

“All that just by looking at me, hey?”

“I’ve had a lot of practice. And just so you know, don’t even think about trying to charm me. I’m immune.”

Luke studied her blankly, her stubborn chin tilted up, lips pressed tightly together, hands on hips.

Classic defensive stance.

His sudden smile threw her. “So, apart from my job, my looks and my mere presence, you like me, right?”

A gentle morning breeze took that moment to sweep through the window, curling through the flowers on the windowsill and ruffling her wheat-blond curls. It wrapped around them until Luke wasn’t sure if the perfume came from her or the flowers.

Either way, she smelled damn good.

Yeah, hold on there, mate. You need to focus on getting Gino’s stuff out of your life, not be swayed by a pair of wide Bambi eyes. She could make things awkward. You still don’t know what her part is and you need Beth Jones onside.

Judging by the hostile vibe of her crossed arms and her closed expression, he had his work cut out.

“Surely there must be one tiny thing you like about me, right? Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here.”

She tilted her head with a curious expression. “Why is it so important I like you?”

“Because then you can start to trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

Luke watched her grab a cloth and wipe the table in swift, jerky movements.

He could read people pretty well, yet Beth Jones was an enigma. In direct contrast to yesterday, she was armored up in a green shirt and jeans, her hair efficiently pulled back low on her neck. Defensive, yes. Self-sufficient, definitely. Yet he couldn’t quite get a handle on the rest … and loose cannons made him nervous.

Despite her desperation to get rid of him and the mess she was now in, she hadn’t mentioned cops or lawyers again. He’d expected tears or anger, not this cool, calm logic. She’d even dug in her heels and dared him to prove his story, which meant she was confident with hers.

His initial hunch was correct—she was hiding something.

He crossed his arms and tested his theory. “We do this my way or we hand it all over to our lawyers. And I’m pretty sure you won’t like the alternative.”

She narrowed her eyes, her smile tight. “So I guess we’re about to find out who’s trustworthy, aren’t we?”

Three

They got into Luke’s car and set off in silence.

Instead of thinking about those long fingers changing gears a hairbreadth away, she tried to focus on the things she didn’t like—his arrogant attitude, the way he took control. Those all-seeing, all-knowing eyes. The tension in his shoulders … hard, firm shoulders … That kissable mouth …

As he changed into third gear, she jumped again, the warmth of his knuckles sending a tingle up her leg. She stole a glance at him. He was looking straight ahead and didn’t appear to be having a problem keeping his hormones in check.

“So,” he finally said, absently running a finger around his rolled-up shirtsleeve and working the material, bringing Beth’s attention to the tanned forearm underneath. “We’ll make a stop at the real estate agent’s first then head to Brisbane.”

“What makes you think they’ll tell you anything?”

“Because I can be very persuasive.”

Oh, I’m sure you can.

“So how did you find them?” he asked.

“They’re local, a few of my clients use them and they had what I was after.” She glanced sideways, taking in his expression. “Look, they’re a legitimate business with an office, a receptionist and a bunch of listings. It’s not like I threw my money at any old bum in the street.”

“I’ve no doubt their operation is professional,” Luke said.

“And I have all the right papers, as you saw.”

“I also saw you have three months left on your lease.” She clamped her mouth shut. She wouldn’t have to suffer his presence much longer. Before day’s end this would all be cleared up.

She focused back on the road, staring out the window as they moved along Pacific Highway, passing Australia Fair shopping complex before driving over the Nerang River.

Soon, Aphrodite’s appeared on the left, all towering glass and concave walls. A replica of the Venus de Milo standing proudly atop seemed subdued in the daylight, almost grave in her state of undress. But at night, when all the lights of the casino came on, reflecting on the lake below like a never-ending fireworks display, she glowed with inner beauty. A magnificent spectacle that was still a regular Gold Coast draw twenty years on.

A familiar line of hotels, shops and restaurants flanked busy Surfers Paradise Boulevard as they crawled along with the rest of the traffic, the pungent smell of exhaust fumes mingling with the familiar saltiness of the Pacific Ocean a few hundred feet away.

She chanced another glance at Luke—deep in thought—and set her mouth in a grim line.

“Why are you getting involved in this, anyway? Don’t you have an army of lawyers to do all the legwork?”

The unspoken mistrust hovered, warm and cloying, until he pulled into a parking space across from Cavill Mall.

He switched off the engine and turned to face her.

“For whatever reason, Gino Corelli gave me that house. So—”

“Wait, what? Gino Corelli? He’s your uncle?” Shock slammed into Beth, choking her breath. She tried to swallow but failed. “The owner of Aphrodite’s? The one who’s just been under investigation from the gaming commission?”

“Yeah, so?”

At his confused expression, she slumped back in her seat and stared blankly ahead. “Gino Corelli,” she repeated slowly. “So you’re … he’s … My God! You … you … You were in my home … using my toaster!”

His black frown loomed like storm-filled clouds. “I thought you knew who I was!”

“You, yes. Not who your uncle is … was. I …” The words caught in her throat as his expression iced over.

“The press are wrong. The commission didn’t have enough evidence to bring to the Director of Public Prosecutions,” he returned tightly.

Beth scrambled out of the car, desperate to dislodge the sour taste in her mouth. What on earth was she in the middle of?

Luke rounded the hood and came toward her.

“You just keep your distance!” she ordered. The brief newsflashes she’d been unable to avoid burst in her mind, robbing her of coherent thought. “Corelli’s a crime boss who laundered money and was bribing the cops and …” She scrambled for further details but it was futile. All that stood out was something about insider trading—and Luke worked for one of the largest merchant banks in Australia.

“Allegedly bribing the cops. Allegedly laundering money.” His eyes went stony, his expression grim. A wall of self-protection to hide the blow she’d unthinkingly dealt him. “One disgruntled employee with an ax to grind, and the mighty press finishes the job. And for the record, Ms. Jones, the case was eventually thrown out and I was never formally named. They didn’t splash that on the front page though, did they?” He spun on his heel and strode across the road.

His words struck Beth like a slap. A wave of shame immediately followed, burning her cheeks as surely as if he’d landed the blow.

She had hurt him. She’d never willingly hurt anyone, yet she’d blurted out those accusations without a thought as to Luke’s innocence.

A small groan of dismay escaped as she recalled the scant details. More important, she remembered the overwhelming rush of sympathy she’d felt for Luke De Rossi right before she’d clicked off the TV in frustration. She had avoided the news since then and frankly, the absence of hearsay, rumor and half-truths was wonderfully liberating.

So why was she so willing to believe in Luke’s guilt now?

That thought propelled her into action. She dashed across the street to where Luke was impatiently waiting, his eyes hidden by sunglasses.

“Look, I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I overreacted. I …” She shrugged, at a loss for words. “It’s not exactly been a normal day for me, okay?”

He sighed, as if suddenly tired of arguing. “Yeah. Me neither. So let’s just focus on clearing up this mess.”

Then he turned and Beth followed in silence as he stalked down the mall.

By the time they’d made it through the gradually thickening crowd of tourists and office workers, avoided a persistent busker and his jovial crowd then a group of teenagers with surfboards, Beth was slightly out of breath. Luke’s purposeful strides left her in the dust. The determined set to his jaw and shoulders screamed “get out of my way.” No wonder people stopped to stare as he breezed by, their whispers and odd looks quickly masked as she stabbed them with a glare.

As they approached Crown Real Estate, they both noticed the closed sign and the locked glass doors.

“Open at ten,” Luke muttered, glaring at the sign. Still, he tried the handle, then shielded his eyes and peered in. Suddenly he pulled back with a soft curse, a moment too late.

A key rattled and the door opened an inch. A business-suited man, his tie askew, smiled out at them.

“Sorry. Office opens in half an hour.”

“Is Jay around?” Beth asked.

“She’s doing a bunch of showings until twelve. Hang on.” He disappeared for a second then returned with a business card. “Call her mobile.” His gaze flicked over to Luke and lingered. “Hey, I know you. You’re—”

“No one important. Thanks.” Luke turned and took Beth’s arm, steering her away.

Beth extracted herself from Luke’s grip moments later.

“Well, that was a bust,” he muttered.

“Not entirely.” Beth took out her phone and punched in the number on the card as they walked back to the car.

“Message bank.” She left a brief message then clicked off. “Great. So what now?”

Luke shoved his hands deep in his pockets and tightened his jaw. “We’re going to Brisbane.”

Two hours later, after meeting with Gino’s lawyer, they rode the elevator down to the basement parking lot in silence.

Beth punched the button again, barely sparing him a glance. She glared at the tiny red numbers, her plunging stomach having little to do with their descent.

“So that’s it, then. You win.”

He glanced up from his phone, still scrolling. “It’s not about me winning.”

“Isn’t it?” She crossed her arms, refusing to look at him.

“No. Probate will take a few months then the estate has to be wound up. That’ll take years.”

Years. “What about my tenancy agreement?”

“Your lease expires the same time the agency’s management agreement does.” Luke frowned then tapped the screen.

“I was in that meeting too.” She scowled at him. “Both are legally binding—”

He held up a hand and put the phone to his ear. “It’s Luke De Rossi.”

Man, that was really beginning to bug her! Beth waited in simmering silence until he hung up.

“I’ll buy the house from you,” she said suddenly. “How much?”

One eyebrow lifted. “I need to get it properly assessed.”

“Ballpark, then.”

He studied her in total silence before saying slowly, “It’ll be way out of your price range.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “How would you know?”

“You do know a Sunset Island price tag starts at a million? What would you use as collateral?”

“My business. And when I get this thing with the bank sorted—”

“What if you don’t?”

“I will. And anyway, I’m there until my lease is up, which gives me time.”

“No.”

“You’re going to keep it?” she asked, surprised.

“Look, it’s not personal.”

At her blatant skepticism, his expression twisted in annoyance. “Gino’s investments took a big hit in the financial crisis, the casino’s been hemorrhaging cash and the gaming commission probe scared a lot of people off. I need to sell quickly and quietly so I can get back to my job. Now, unless you have a spare couple of million hanging around, that rules you out.”

Her initial surprise quickly transformed into irritation. “So nothing matters except protecting your reputation?”

“Do not—” he narrowed his eyes “—presume to judge me, Beth. We still don’t know why you’re involved here.”

“Well, it’s obviously just a massive coincidence.”

His silence and flat expression told her what he thought of that. “I can offer you a good price for your lease.”

She blinked. He wanted her gone that badly he was willing to buy her out? “I don’t want to leave. I want my house.”

The elevator doors opened then and he walked out without a word.

Wow. Talk about shutting her down. She watched his long legs eat up the distance, taking him farther away with each stride until he paused and turned.

“Coming?”

His voice echoed in the great concrete cavern. A thousand different retorts, all considered then discarded, formed as she stalked toward him.

Her phone rang then, but he suddenly grabbed her arm.

She hissed, twisting in his warm grip. “What do you—”

“Shh. Something’s not right.”

“But—”

“Move. Now.”

Her eyes went in the direction of his nod, to the fire stairs nestled in a concrete alcove, then widened.

And all hell broke loose.

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