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