Bed of Lies
Authors: Paula Roe
Her darkest secret…Revealed
Banker Luke De Rossi must sell the Australian beach house he inherited from his mobster uncle, fast. But then he runs up against Beth Jones. Is she the rightful tenant? A reporter out for a scoop? His uncle’s lover? Luke wants answers—almost as much as he wants Beth.
The last thing Beth needs is this hunky magnet for media attention breathing down her neck. She has a lot to hide. And falling hard for Luke as he gets closer—and tries to evict her!—isn’t helping things.
Separately, they have each made their bed. Now they’ll lie in it…together.
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 himâhowever superb the encounter promised to beâwas 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?
* * *
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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 salable. 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 ’90s. Over 20 years later, the basic premise remained the same but pretty much everything else changed (including the technology!). Luke’s previous occupation, Beth’s 6-year-old child and ex, her convoluted past as a U.S. 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 20,000 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
Paula Roe
Bed of Lies
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PAULA ROE
Despite wanting to be a vet, choreographer, card shark, hairdresser and an interior designer (although not simul-taneously!), British-born, Aussie-bred Paula 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.
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
T
rouble.
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.
