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 him—however superb the encounter promised to be—was 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?
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 saleable. 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 nineties. Over twenty years later, the basic premise remained the same but pretty much everything else changed (including the technology!). Luke’s previous occupation, Beth’s six-year-old child and ex, her convoluted past as a US 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 twenty thousand 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
About the Author
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.
Bed of Lies
Paula Roe
MILLS & BOON
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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