Bed of Lies. Paula Roe
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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.