smiled suddenly. “I liked the Tarantula better.”
“The what?”
“You know, the ride that swoops up and down and in and out as it spins?”
Luke grinned. “Gotta say, I’ve never tried it.”
“Really? You do not know what you’re missing.”
“Tell me.”
Beth took one look at his serious expression, debated for half a second then continued.
“My mother used to take me to the annual Bathurst Show. The guy who operated the Tarantula always slowed it down in the middle of your ride and called out, ‘Do you wanna go faster?’ And of course, we all screamed, ‘Yes!’ and he’d yell back, ‘Let me see your hands!’ and then we’d wave our hands above our heads like crazy while he cranked it up, faster and faster.” She sighed. “We flew and it just stole your breath, like being out of control but in a good way …” She paused at his grin then added a little self-conscious one of her own. “Aaaand I’m rambling. Sorry.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It was.”
They remained that way, held only by their smiles, until Beth sensed something more, something … kind of dangerous and yet somehow comforting lying just below the surface.
She stared. A shot of desire hit the pit of her stomach and spread, heating her body. His gaze slowly slid down to the swell of her bottom lip and she was too late to steel herself. Her breath stuttered out. As he continued his slow scrutiny, her skin began to tingle, an irritating yet anticipatory buzz that spread up from her legs to her belly in seconds flat.
Arousal—hot, dark and unwanted—body-slammed her, stealing her breath, eliciting a small gasp of dismay.
She dragged her hands from his and leaned away, swallowing a murmur as the plane began to descend.
“We’re nearly there,” Luke said as he pulled his phone from his jacket and began scrolling. “You did well.”
“Thanks.”
An intimate, almost tangible silence fell as the plane swooped in for a landing. Beth refused to break it. She couldn’t bear to vocalize what had nearly passed between them.
Because there was no way she was going to succumb to the charms of Luke De Rossi, simple as that.
The landing was a gut-clenching, lip-biting affair, but she managed to make it through without completely losing it. A gray limousine—one of Surfers’ most common modes of transportation—was waiting for them as they disembarked.
At least it’d provide much-needed anonymity, space and distance from the roadblock in her life that was Luke De Rossi.
She settled in the soft leather seat, buckled up and prayed for the forty-minute drive to be over as quickly as possible.
“Drink?”
She glanced up and he nodded to the bar fridge laid into the dash. “Mineral water, juice, Coke …”
“Tequila?”
He didn’t bat an eye. “Sure.”
She smiled humorlessly. “Mineral water’s fine.”
She waited until he’d finished playing host, until he handed her the drink, poured himself a Scotch on the rocks then settled back.
She pointedly turned to the window and drew the icy glass across her cheek with a sigh.
First those cameras, the frenzied questions, everyone pushing and shoving. Then the scary, gut-wrenching flight that felt as if her stomach had been sucked out with a straw.
Yet she’d made it.
Triumph curved her lips in the tinted reflection. She’d done it. With Luke’s help, she’d taken that first step into the unknown and conquered some of her fears.
The victory lingered briefly, until the inevitable memories began to seep in. And slowly, she watched her mouth flatten and her eyes harden.
She’d been eighteen—just a kid. Too young to know better, too weak to hold on.
Frustration snaked its way under her skin, making everything achy, her breath like jagged pieces stabbing her throat on the way in. Those months after the crash had been mind-numbingly tough, her desperation for privacy tested by the public’s morbid fascination with every gory detail. On the very first anniversary she’d caved and given an interview, naively assuming the reporter would keep her personal details anonymous. In the ensuing press avalanche, she’d gone off the grid, working a dozen different cash-in-hand jobs, living in near squalor in Sydney’s far west before reinventing herself. All had been worth it to finally get through night college and earn her TAFE certificate in remedial massage.
She could’ve joined the other survivors in their class action suit but that would’ve involved too many questions, too much publicity. For so long the crash had been her first and last waking thought, consuming every hour, every day, every dream and horror-filled nightmare until she’d somehow managed to leave the past behind and focus on her future.
Stop. You can’t go back. Only forward.
Beth rubbed at her eye sockets until her face ached, until she managed to shove those memories away and her shoulders slowly relaxed.
When she softly exhaled, the window misted. She wiped it away. Now was not the time and place to lose it, not when she needed all her wits and strength to deal with the here and now.
Through the window’s reflection she glanced at Luke, but the melting ice in his drink had his rapt attention.
He handled millions, no, billions, on a daily basis, rubbed shoulders and dealt with clients who made ridiculous amounts of money. The sheer scale of the league she was now in blew her away.
“Do you still think I’m your uncle’s secret mistress?” she asked quietly, still staring out the window.
He paused, but when she turned to face him, he shook his head. “No.”
“Good.”
Another moment of silence passed as they studied each other like wary opponents unwilling to concede.
“I’m serious about my offer to buy you out,” he said suddenly. “I can make it worth your while. You can start over in a new place, something closer to Surfers—”
“Let me tell you something.” She shifted, crossed one leg over the other and gave him her full attention. “Imagine someone gives you a car—it’s old, it’s worn, there are a few bumps and scratches on it and a bit of rust. But still you can see the potential behind all that because up until now, all you’ve ever had were total lemons that weren’t even roadworthy. You spend years
