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
