Irresistibly Exotic Men

Irresistibly Exotic Men

Bed of Lies

Paula Roe

Falling for Dr Dimitriou

Anne Fraser

Her Little Spanish Secret

Laura Iding

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Bed of Lies

About the Author

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Epilogue

Falling for Dr Dimitriou

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

EPILOGUE

Her Little Spanish Secret

About the Author

Dedication

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EPILOGUE

Copyright

Bed of Lies

Paula Roe

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.

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.”