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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.
