TWO
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.
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
