Irresistibly Exotic Men. Laura Iding

went into the kitchen and watched Luke through the window as he made a few phone calls.

      Oh, how she desperately wanted to demand he get a lawyer and she’d see him in court. But that would be supremely stupid, not to mention inflammatory.

      Remember who he is and what he could do.

      Luke De Rossi. In her home. In the bedroom next to hers.

      Letting him in was a mistake. Luke was a very smart man, not to mention determinedly single-minded—and she had so much to lose, so many secrets to guard.

      She watched him pace her front yard, phone still attached to his ear as the sun glared down, bathing him from shiny head to toe.

      Her stomach made a weird little lurch.

       You sure your secrets are all you’re worried about?

      With a snort she yanked open her cupboard. He could deny it all he wanted—Luke was a white knight. He obviously believed they would sort everything out, the bad guys would be caught and justice would prevail.

      She did not.

      It would be better to think of him as a self-absorbed, perfectionist career junkie instead of the truth—that beneath the tough exterior was a man who wanted to spare his family further heartache, no matter how tainted Gino Corelli’s reputation had become. Who held her hand to distract her during that interminable flight.

      Who wanted to make her lasagna.

      She banged a cup on the countertop with a satisfying crack.

      How long since a man had touched her? Wanted her? And he felt so good, smelled like a gift straight from heaven. Celibacy did that to you, made you forget what it was like to need someone.

      Oh, boy.

      Yanking open the fridge, she pulled out a carton of juice.

      Why now, after all those years of denial, all those years spent carving out a life, did she have to start thinking of sex? And with someone like Luke De Rossi, a man whose mere presence could ruin everything?

      Because you’ve got a good-looking guy up close, and you know that abstinence has been too much.

      Beth poured the juice with an unsteady hand. She didn’t even like him.

      She glanced out the window just in time to see Luke bending down to take an overnight bag the driver had retrieved from the trunk. His pants stretched tight, outlining a set of perfectly formed buttocks, and she groaned, turning away.

      She would just have to focus on the problem at hand and not on that smooth-talking, dark-eyed, divine-smelling, soft-lipped … distraction about to settle in the guest room so unnervingly close to hers!

      As Luke walked in, she downed the rest of her juice, muttered, “I’ll make up the spare room,” and left.

      The room that served as her office was a mess. Aromatic oil bottles and bags of fragrant leaves littered every available space on the windowsill and bookcase. She grabbed up a box and stashed them in the wardrobe. Then she put the scattered accounts folders back on the shelves, drew the curtains, returned a pair of sneakers to her room. Even as she pulled out the sofa bed and started to make it, she still couldn’t get that flight out of her head. The soft caress of Luke’s fingers, the feel of his breath, the burn of want in his eyes. And his pure male smell, all warmth and promise. It took her breath away.

      As if on cue, Luke appeared in the doorway. “Need a hand?”

      “No.” She fluffed up the last pillow and tucked in the sheets. When she looked up, she caught the tail end of his scrutiny … and a sudden undeniable flame of heat flickering in those dark depths. But the second he realized she was looking, it was gone.

      Beth straightened. “Look. I know I’m … I’ve been a bit—”

      “Overzealous? Unbending?”

      “Defensive. I like to be self-sufficient. And, well …” She shrugged. “You’re obviously a take-charge guy.”

      The corners of his mouth kicked up. “In many things. Not all.”

      If he sought to embarrass her, he was hitting the right notes. Picking up an empty cup from the desk, she turned to leave. He crowded the doorway—nasty habit of his—so she had to make a good impression of ignoring that broad chest as she brushed past. Especially ignoring those nerve endings that let up a cheer at his proximity.

      “I’m going for a run,” she muttered. “Make yourself at home.”

      Ten minutes later she descended the stairs dressed in a T-shirt and running shorts, her curls tucked under a worn blue cap.

      With arms crossed, Luke watched her charge down the hall and slam out the front door.

      Just what are you playing at, mate? First that thing in the plane, then the flirting. Now you’ve moved in. Next, you’ll be kissing, and you know where that’ll lead.

      He swiped back his hair with a quick jerk. No. She had told him loud and clear she wasn’t interested. Except … he found himself wanting to believe that the surprised desire in those expressive eyes wasn’t just his imagination.

      He thought about her mouth, how soft it had looked. How her skin felt, as smooth and unlined as the downy softness of a newborn. And how those mossy-green eyes had tugged at his common sense, dragging him under like a floundering swimmer at the beach.

      Luke shoved those thoughts away and went to the foot of the stairs. Work and career had always been his prime objective, even before this mess. Even before he’d entertained the thought that he might make VP one day.

      Before Gabrielle?

      The faint twinge twisted low before he forced it away. Yeah, even before then. His brief disastrous marriage just proved his theory: you couldn’t have a demanding career and keep a relationship alive. One always had to suffer.

      No, he liked his life just the way it was. And if he needed sex, he could always rely on a few willing female colleagues who were just as focused on their careers.

      No-strings sex. Yep. Nothing like it.

      If Luke had been looking in the mirror at the bottom of the stairs, he would’ve been surprised to see a dark scowl blooming across his face.

      Now he stood in the middle of the living room, casting an eye over the spread and cataloguing the details. There were two entrances: one from the short hallway and one via the kitchen. The faint aroma of coffee lingered, mingling with some fresh lemony, floral fragrance. Sunshine streamed through the huge bay window ahead, illuminating sunflower-yellow walls, two overstuffed couches and a coffee table in the center of the room. A small TV, open fireplace, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and an exposed-beam ceiling completed the comfy look, with colorful rugs spread on polished wooden floors.

      This place held nothing of Gino and everything of Beth, which made his mistress theory an even longer stretch.

      Luke went over to the photos he’d noticed on a bookcase yesterday. Beth and another female grinning outside a storefront. A shot with beach scenery. And an old black-and-white studio portrait of an icy blonde with a come-hither smile.

      In thoughtful silence he picked up an unusually shaped candle in a blue glass holder and sniffed. Beth. Quickly, he replaced it.

      He’d left his high-rise Brisbane apartment—a three-bedroom homage to every technological advancement—for this. Despite his perfectly decorated rooms, the massive plasma-TV screen and the appliance-ridden kitchen he only used for entertaining clients, there’d been no soul to the place. No warmth, no garden, and now, thanks to the reporters camped on the block, no privacy.

      And for the second time in his life he was in a house Uncle Gino had provided.

      But you’re not fifteen anymore. Not an angry, sullen teenager torn apart by the fury of his parents’ pointless struggle and the guilt of hating them for it.